Chapter 1: Stranger Between My Thighs
The last thing I remember is the sagging middle cushion of our beige sofa, the dry crunch of a Cheeto in my mouth, and Andrea’s voice, tinny through my headphones as I respawned for the tenth time. “Justin, did you call the guy about the gutter?” The pixelated battlefield on my screen blurred for a second.I mumbled something about doing it tomorrow. Then, a pressure, not in my head, but everywhere, a crushing, silent pop, and everything went ink-black and void.I didn’t wake up.I crashed into existence.
A gasp ripped through me, raw and sharp, my lungs searing. A crushing weight pinned me down. My eyes flew open to a kaleidoscope of blurred ceiling, golden light, and the shadow of a head above me. A deep, rhythmic grunt filled my ears, syncopated with a wet, slapping sound. My body—this body—was moving, jolting with each impact.
“Oh, fuck, Sabrina,” a man’s voice groaned, rough and close.My hands, moving on a panic of their own, flew to my chest. And found… fullness.Soft, impossibly heavy, living warmth. They bounced and swayed with every jarring thrust, a strange, physics-defying jiggle that travelled through my whole torso. My fingers sank into the yielding flesh.Breasts.These were breasts.Large ones. A detached, analytical part of my brain, the IT part, noted the weight distribution, the pull on my shoulders.The thrusts intensified. A coil of sensation, alien and terrifying, was tightening low in my belly, a place that felt… different.Hollow and yet intensely present. A strange, slick friction with every inward drive. My hips were moving on their own, meeting his, a deep, involuntary rhythm. I tried to scream “Stop!” but what came out was a high, breathy moan, a sound that belonged in a movie, not in my throat.The coil snapped.
White fire erupted from that new, foreign center. It wasn’t like my own orgasms, a focused, localized burst.This was a tidal wave, a systemic meltdown. My back arched off the lavender sheets, my toes curled violently. The strange, slick channel around him clenched in rapid, fluttering pulses I could not control.My vision starred. A long, shuddering cry—that high, feminine voice—was torn from my lips.
He kept moving, driving through my quaking.“Yeah, just like that,” he panted. With a final, grinding thrust, he pulled out.The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cool gape. Before I could process it, a warm splatter hit my cheek, my neck, my chest. I flinched, the liquid trickling over the sensitive slope of breast, onto the sheets.The weight lifted. The man—Ben, his name surfaced from a foggy part of this brain that wasn’t mine—collapsed beside me with a contented sigh.“Hell yeah,” he muttered, his breathing slowing.
I lay utterly still, staring at the ceiling fan turning in lazy circles. The scent of sex—sweat, citrus perfume, something musky—was overwhelming. My body thrummed with leftover electricity, a hum in veins that weren’t mine.Every sensation was magnified, alien. The brush of the twisted sheets against my thighs, which felt smooth, unreal. The heavy, spent ache in my breasts.The cool air on the wet trails on my torso and face.
This was not my bed.Not my room.Not my body.Andrea.
Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the post-orgasmic haze.My wife. I had to get to my wife.
I pushed myself up on elbows that felt too slender, my new, long blonde hair falling like a curtain around my face.I looked down.The sight was surreal. A woman’s torso, glistening, marked.A flat, rail-thin stomach, a delicate navel. And below, a thatch of blonde hair, everything arranged… differently. I snapped my eyes shut, but the image was burned inside my eyelids.
“You’re gonna make me late for my next client,” Ben said, slapping my ass—a sharp, familiar sting that made me yelp. The sound was a mouse-like squeak.I scrambled off the bed, my legs almost buckling. They were shorter.My center of gravity was off, higher.I felt top-heavy, unstable. The floor was farther away.I stumbled, catching myself on the dresser. A stranger’s face stared back from the mirror.Sabrina.
Wide, blue-green eyes, lashes thick with smudged mascara.High cheekbones, plump, parted lips swollen from kissing. It was a beautiful face, a face I’d seen bring groceries in, wave from her porch. It was now frozen in a mask of pure, unadulterated horror.My horror.
I touched the mirror.She touched it.I opened my mouth.She opened hers.
“What the fuck?” I whispered.Her voice.My voice.High, melodic, edged with panic.
Behind me, Ben chuckled, pulling on his jeans.“You alright over there? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I had.I was the ghost. Justin Zygurski, 36, IT technician, husband of Andrea, was currently a haunting inside Sabrina Mooers, 26, trust-fund baby, my neighbor.I had to get home.I had to see Andrea. I had to see me.
My stomach, or Sabrina’s stomach, dropped. This was so much worse than I could have imagined.