Cathy

The suit lies across your desk like a shed skin, except it isn’t shed—it’s new, impossibly new, the fabric warm and faintly pulsing under your fingertips. You reach out and touch it. The surface is exactly like touching your own arm after a hot shower, soft and pliant and alive. It has weight. It has temperature. It smells like nothing you can name, or maybe like everything—a neutral, skin-like scent with a faint undertone of ozone and something floral you can’t place.

You lift the upper half. The face stares up at you, slack and hollow-eyed, yet perfectly, unmistakably Cathy. Her dark hair spills over the edge of the desk, strands catching the lamplight. The suit is wearing her team’s jersey—white with black trim, the number 2 printed large on the back, a handful of sponsor logos stamped across the chest in that cheap, shiny vinyl athletic gear always has. The shorts are tight black leggings, the kind that end high enough on the thigh to show off every muscle. You selected this photo from the team’s Instagram because it’s your favorite. You’ve stared at it more times than you can count, thumb hovering over the save button before you ever had the nerve to press it. The way those leggings hug the curve of her ass, the confident twist of her hips in the pose, the tiny smile that says she has no idea how devastating she looks—that photo has ruined you for other women.

And now it’s here. Not a photo. A suit. A second skin.

Your hands are shaking as you peel the suit open at the back. The inside is slick and cool, lined with something that glistens faintly in the low light. You step into it, one leg first, and the sensation is immediate and startling. The material clings to your calf, then your thigh, then your hip—not like clothing, but like liquid that knows exactly where it belongs. It’s warmer than the air in the room. It moves with you, shrinking to fit, adjusting to every contour of the body you’re wearing.

The second leg goes in. The suit rises, climbing past your waist, and you feel a strange, painless compression around your midsection, a redistribution of weight you can’t quite track. Your hips widen. Your waist narrows. The bones themselves seem to shift, to rearrange themselves under the skin, though there’s no pain, no cracking, just a deep, settling pressure like your body is being re-kneaded from the inside.

Then you slide your arms into the sleeves. Your shoulders narrow. Your fingers, when they emerge from the suit’s wrists, are slimmer, the nails shaped into short, neat ovals with a faint polish catching the light. You flex them, and they obey, but the tendons are different, the pattern of veins across the back of the hand unfamiliar. Her hand. You turn it over, palm up, and stare at the lifeline, at the small callus at the base of each finger from gripping barbells and pull-up bars.

The suit includes the jersey and leggings. You feel the fabric settle over your new body like it’s always been there, the jersey loose in the shoulders, taut across the chest, the leggings clinging to thighs that are thicker than yours, stronger. The number 2 sits between your shoulder blades, a weight you can feel in your posture.

Last, the head. You guide your face through the neck opening, and the suit’s face meets yours in a rush of sensation—cool silicone against your cheeks, your forehead, your chin. Your vision blurs, then clears, and the room looks subtly different: colors a little brighter, edges a little sharper, as if your eyes have been upgraded. You blink, and the suit’s eyelids blink with you. Your own hair is gone, replaced by long dark strands that brush against your neck and shoulders. You bring a hand up—Cathy’s hand—and touch your face. The jawline is sharp. The nose is different, narrower. The lips are fuller. The skin is smooth and even, with a faint flush across the cheeks.

You look down at your feet. The suit gave you shoes, the team’s white trainers with black accents, and socks—thin ankle socks with a little embroidered logo. You wiggle your toes inside them and feel the fabric move against actual toes, actual feet, smaller than yours, narrower, with a higher arch.

You stand up.

And wobble.

Your center of gravity is different. Lower. Your hips have width and weight they didn’t have before. Your shoulders are narrower, your arms lighter, your torso compact but strong. When you take a step, your thighs brush together, and the sensation—skin against skin under the leggings—is so foreign that you stop mid-stride, a dizzy little laugh escaping your lips. It comes out in Cathy’s voice. High and clear and warm. You slap a hand over your mouth, heart hammering.

People might hear. The thought is automatic, paranoid, and then you remember: you’re alone. Your flat is empty. The neighbor downstairs is watching television, the bass of a game show muffled through the floorboards. No one knows. No one can know.

You spend a moment just breathing. The air tastes different, filtered through Cathy’s nasal passages, her lungs. You put a hand to your chest and feel the firm, round weight of breasts under the jersey, the subtle bounce when you shift your weight. It’s not a costume. It’s not a mask. It’s a body, and it’s yours for as long as you wear it.

You walk to the mirror.

Your reflection stops you cold.

Cathy stares back. Not a photograph, not a video, not a fantasy. She’s real, standing in your cramped flat in her team gear, hair loose and slightly mussed from the removal of the suit’s packaging, dark eyes wide with something that looks like wonder. You raise a hand and she raises hers. You tilt your head and she tilts hers. The movement is perfectly synced, perfectly natural, and yet your brain keeps insisting that this is impossible, that you’re looking at another person, that you’re a ghost haunting someone else’s body.

Then the memories arrive.

They don’t hit you all at once. They seep in, like water soaking through cloth. First, the small things: her dorm room, the color of her sheets, the brand of toothpaste she uses, the name of her childhood dog—Rocky, a golden retriever with a warm, loping gait and a habit of sleeping at the foot of her bed. Then the bigger things: her classes, her training schedule, the way she feels about her body.

And what she feels about her body surprises you.

She isn’t proud of it. Not in the way you expected. When she looks in the mirror, she doesn’t see what you see—the lean muscle, the perfect curve of her ass, the perky B-cups that sit high on her chest. She sees the freckle on her shoulder that she hates. She sees the slight roundness of her stomach when she’s bloated. She sees the way her thighs have gotten thicker from all the sprinting, and she wonders if they’re too thick, if people notice, if Matt notices. She knows she’s attractive in an abstract sense—she’s been told enough times—but she doesn’t feel it. The attention is a burden. Sometimes she wishes she could just disappear, blend into the background, exist without being looked at. She envies people who can walk down a street without eyes following them. She envies you. And she doesn’t even really know you.

The thought lands in your chest like a stone.

You’re still standing in front of the mirror, still wearing her body, still staring at her face. You force yourself to move. Slowly, deliberately, you toe off the trainers, then peel the socks down your—her—calves. The feet underneath are small and neatly kept, nails trimmed, a faint tan line across the top where her running shoes end. You’ve never cared about feet, never understood the appeal, but hers are undeniably prettier than yours—the arch higher, the toes straighter, the skin softer. You flex them against the floor, feel the cool laminate under your soles, and shiver.

Next, the jersey.

You pull it over your head slowly, feeling the fabric graze your ribs, your shoulders, the sensitive underside of your arms. The sports bra underneath is plain, dark gray, no logo, just a simple racerback with a wide band. It’s damp from the warmth of the suit, and when you peel it off, your breasts drop a fraction of an inch, settling against your chest with a weight that is new and strange. You cup them without thinking—an automatic gesture, as if your hands need to confirm they’re real. They are. They’re warm, soft, with a firmness that surprises you, and when you brush your thumbs over the nipples, a bright, electric sensation shoots straight down your spine.

Oh.

Cathy’s nipples are sensitive. Very sensitive. The memory surfaces immediately: Matt’s mouth on them, his teeth grazing, her back arching off the bed. You let go, face flaming, and reach for the leggings.

They’re harder to get off than the jersey, tight as they are, and you have to peel them down your hips, over the swell of your ass, inch by inch. The skin underneath is warm and damp, and when the waistband finally clears your thighs, you feel the cooler air of the room brush against the front of your panties. They’re plain black cotton, briefs, functional. But the shape of what’s underneath them is impossible to ignore. You slide them down—slowly, carefully, holding your breath—and then you’re naked.

Fully, completely naked, in a body that isn’t yours.

You look at yourself in the mirror.

This is the first time you’ve ever seen a naked woman in person. Not a photo, not a screen, not your imagination. The real thing, three feet away, close enough to touch.

She’s beautiful. You knew she would be, but knowing and seeing are different. The muscles in her thighs and stomach are defined but not bulky, the kind of strength that comes from running, from sprinting, from refusing to quit. Her skin is smooth and even, with a faint tan line across her hips and shoulders. The breasts you just touched are perky and round, with dark pink nipples that stiffen as the cool air hits them. Her waist nips in sharply above wide, honest hips. And between her legs—a neat triangle of dark hair, a hint of pink flesh beneath it, folds you’ve only ever seen in anatomy textbooks and grainy online videos.

Your hands shake as you raise them. You touch your collarbone first, then your sternum, then the soft swell of your stomach. Every spot feels different, wired into a nervous system that reacts at a different speed, with a different intensity. You graze your fingers over your ribs, and it tickles. You press your palm flat against your belly, and it soothes.

Then you cup your breasts again, and this time you don’t flinch. You squeeze, gently, and the pressure sends a pleasant warmth radiating through your chest. You tease the nipples, rolling them between thumb and forefinger, and the warmth sharpens into something needier, a tug that goes straight down to the space between your legs.

Cathy’s memories tell you she wasn’t always like this. She was shy as a teenager. She didn’t date much. She didn’t touch herself much either—not because she thought it was wrong, but because she never felt the urge strongly enough to bother. Her body was for running, for competing, for pushing to the limit. Sex was something that happened with Matt, and only with Matt. He was her first, and after him, there’s been no one else. When they’re together, she’s adventurous. Experimental. She’ll try anything at least once, and she’s learned to trust him, to let go, to let him find the spots she didn’t know she had. He knows her body better than she does. He’s spent years learning it, mapping it, memorizing the rhythm of her breath when she’s close, the way her hips tilt when she wants him deeper. There’s a memory of a weekend away, a hotel room with a bathtub big enough for two, and what they did in it. There’s another of a lazy Sunday morning, her legs over his shoulders, her fingers in his hair. There’s a third of a night when they tried something new—something she blushed about afterward, something she still thinks about when she’s alone.

You stand in front of the mirror and look at her. At you. Every inch of the body that has haunted your fantasies for months, and for the first time, you’re not looking at a picture. You’re inside it. You can feel the floor under her feet, the air on her skin, the faint ache in her calves from yesterday’s sprint drills.

The bed is behind you. The sheets are unmade, a tangle of gray cotton and one stray sock. The lamp on the nightstand casts a warm circle of light across the pillows. You take a step back, then another, until the edge of the mattress catches the back of your thighs. You sit down slowly, feeling the mattress dip under a weight that’s lighter than your own, and then you lie back, Cathy’s dark hair spreading across the pillowcase.

The ceiling stares back at you. Blank. Familiar.

Your hand drifts down your stomach, past your navel, and stops just above the triangle of hair. The skin there is warm, almost feverish. You can feel your pulse in your fingertips, or maybe that’s just her heartbeat, faster and stronger than yours.

You close your eyes.