I never believed in fate or destiny or any of that cosmic bullshit. Life was just a series of random fucks—some literal, some metaphorical—that either left you hard and wanting more or soft and regretting everything. At 20, I was knee-deep in the college grind: half-assed classes, shitty part-time job at a campus coffee shop, and a revolving door of crushes on girls who barely knew I existed. I shared a cramped off-campus apartment with two roommates—Jake, a loudmouthed engineering major who thought he was God's gift to sorority girls, and Sarah, his girlfriend who crashed with us more nights than not because her dorm was "too noisy." Sarah was the kind of girl who turned heads without trying: long legs, a laugh that could melt butter, and these perky B-cups that strained against her tank tops like they were begging for attention.
I noticed her. A lot. Jerked off thinking about her more times than I cared to admit, especially on nights when I could hear her and Jake going at it through the thin walls. The moans, the bed creaking—it was torture. But I kept it to myself. Played the good roommate. Until the night everything changed.
It started ordinary enough. I'd bombed a psych midterm that afternoon, drowned my sorrows in cheap beer and pizza, and crashed early, around midnight. My dreams were the usual fragmented mess: flashes of Sarah bending over to pick up laundry, her shorts riding up just enough to show the curve of her ass. Nothing new. But then the dream shifted. It felt... heavier. Like I was floating, then sinking into something warm and unfamiliar.
I woke up—or thought I did—in a bed that wasn't mine. The sheets were softer, smelled like lavender body wash instead of my stale sweat. My body felt wrong: lighter, curvier, with this weird sway when I shifted. I reached up to rub my eyes and froze. My hands brushed against something soft and full on my chest. Tits. Actual, honest-to-God tits.
I bolted upright, heart slamming like a jackhammer. The room spun into focus: Jake's room, with his engineering textbooks piled on the desk and Sarah's pink hoodie draped over the chair. I looked down. Pale skin, smooth stomach, and yeah—those breasts I'd fantasized about, now heaving with my panicked breaths under a thin sleep shirt. No bra. Nipples poking through like they were as surprised as I was. I cupped them instinctively, feeling the weight, the give. They were warm, sensitive in a way that sent a jolt straight between my legs—except there was no dick there. Just this slick, aching warmth that made me gasp in Sarah's voice.
Holy shit. I was her. Inside her. Possessing her? It sounded insane even in my head, but it felt too real to be a dream. My fingers—her fingers—trembled as I explored further. Slid down her flat belly, under the waistband of her panties. Smooth-shaven, warm folds that parted easily. I dipped in once, just a tentative touch, and her body arched like it'd been waiting for it. Wet. So fucking wet. I bit her lip to stifle a moan, tasting her chapstick.
Panic mixed with this dirty thrill. What the hell was happening? I glanced at Jake, snoring beside me, oblivious. His arm was slung over where Sarah's body had been, now empty because I was up and pacing. I snuck to the bathroom mirror, flipping on the light. Sarah stared back: wide eyes, flushed cheeks, hair tousled from sleep. I stuck out her tongue. Wiggled her hips. It was me controlling it all.
I had to test this. Prove it wasn't some beer-induced hallucination. I crept back to the bedroom, careful not to wake Jake, and slipped out into the hall. My room was next door. I cracked it open and there I was—my body, sprawled face-down on the bed, chest rising and falling in deep sleep. I shook my own shoulder. Nothing. Pinched my arm—hard. Still nothing. My real body was out cold, like a puppet with cut strings.
Okay, not a dream. This was real. Some kind of astral projection? Body-swapping? I didn't know, but the possibilities hit me like a freight train. I could be anyone. Do anything. And no one would know.
I forced myself back to Jake's bed, sliding in beside him. He mumbled something and rolled over, his hand brushing Sarah's thigh—my thigh. I tensed, but he settled back to sleep. I closed her eyes and willed myself out. Back to me. And just like that, the drift came again. I woke up in my own body, morning light filtering through the blinds, sporting the hardest morning wood I'd ever had.
Sarah complained at breakfast about feeling "weird" and unrested. Jake teased her about hogging the covers. I just smiled and poured coffee, my mind racing.
That was the start. Night one of figuring out the rules.
The night after that first accidental possession of Sarah, I couldn't sleep for shit. My brain was a live wire: every time I closed my eyes I felt the ghost of her body again—the soft weight of her breasts, the slick heat between her thighs, the way her voice cracked when she came. I told myself I was just testing. Scientific. Controlled. Bullshit. I was hooked.
I started small. That same week, Jake came home trashed from a house party around 2 a.m. He crashed face-first into his pillow without even brushing his teeth. Sarah was already out cold beside him, curled up like a comma. I lay in my room, lights off, staring at the ceiling crack, and focused.
Not on Sarah this time. On Jake.
The drift hit faster than before, like muscle memory. One second I was me, the next I was him—six-foot-one, 190 pounds of gym-rat muscle, hairy chest, morning wood already half-hard even though it was the middle of the fucking night. The dick felt alien: thick, heavy, swinging between my legs when I rolled out of bed. I stood up and almost fell—his center of gravity was higher, shoulders broader, everything felt… bulkier.
I walked to the full-length mirror in his closet. Jake's reflection stared back: messy blond hair, stubble I could feel rasping against my palm when I touched my face, abs that actually showed even relaxed. I flexed. Jesus, the power in it. I curled one arm, watched the bicep peak, then dropped into a push-up on the carpet. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. The burn came quick and familiar, but deeper—his bigger muscle groups carried more load. By forty my arms were shaking. I collapsed onto my back, chest heaving, and laughed in his low, gravelly voice. Quiet, but real.
I glanced at Sarah. Still asleep, breathing slow. I could've done anything. Could've touched her. Could've fucked her while she slept and she'd never know it wasn't him. The thought made my borrowed cock twitch hard against my thigh. But I didn't. Not yet. I wasn't ready to cross that line sober. Instead I tested something else.
I walked to my own bedroom door, cracked it, and yelled—Jake's full-throated shout—"Yo, wake the fuck up!" Right at my sleeping face.
Nothing. Not a twitch. My real body just kept snoring softly, drooling on the pillow. I even slapped my own cheek—hard enough to leave a red mark on my stubble. Still nothing. Deep coma. Rule three confirmed.
I slipped back into Jake's bed, careful not to wake Sarah, and willed myself out. Woke up in my own skin with sore arms and a stupid grin. Next morning Jake groaned through breakfast, rubbing his biceps like he'd done a full chest day. "Fuck, I must've slept weird. Arms are killing me." Sarah laughed and rubbed his shoulder. I hid my smirk behind my coffee mug.
Next experiment: distance.
I waited for a Friday when everyone was out. Jake at a bar crawl, Sarah at some sorority thing. Apartment empty. I lay down at 11 p.m., focused first on the barista—cute brunette named Mia who worked the morning shift at the campus coffee cart. Three miles away, easy walk. I pictured her: freckles, tight apron, the way her tits pushed against her work shirt when she reached for cups.
Nothing. Just blackness. Woke up frustrated, dick soft.
Tried again an hour later. Same result.
Then I switched targets. The girl downstairs, Chloe. Always in those skin-tight yoga pants, bending over in the hallway to pick up packages, ass round and high. I'd jerked off to the mental image more than once. She lived directly below us. Vertical distance: maybe thirty feet.
I focused hard. Pictured her face (cute, heart-shaped, always smirking like she knew something you didn't), her body (thicker thighs, fuller hips, D-cups that bounced when she walked).
The drift came.
I opened Chloe's eyes in a darker room—string lights instead of overhead, posters of indie bands, lavender candle burned low. She slept alone. No boyfriend. Just her. I sat up slowly. The breasts were heavier than Sarah's—fuller, softer at the edges, swaying when I moved. I cupped them through her thin tank top. No bra. Nipples already stiff from the cool air. I pinched one lightly and her whole body jolted—sensitive as fuck.
I slid a hand down. Past the soft curve of her belly, under black cotton boyshorts. Trimmed but not shaved. Wet already, like her body knew what was coming. I circled her clit slow—her fingers were smaller, more precise—and built it deliberately. No rush. Watched in the mirror across the room as Chloe's face flushed, lips parting, eyes half-lidded. When she came it rolled through her like thunder—long, shuddering waves that made her thighs clamp together and her back arch off the mattress. I bit her lip to keep quiet, tasting blood.
After, panting, I cleaned up with a tissue from her nightstand. Wiped carefully. Then I tested the scream thing again—walked to my own door (easy, she had a key under the mat I'd seen her use), cracked it, and yelled in Chloe's higher voice right at my sleeping face.
Still nothing. I returned back in her home and let her sleep again until another time to enjoy more time in her body.
I mapped it that week. Pushed the radius. Could hit the guy two doors down (boring, just tested if I could make him get up and chug water—next day he complained about needing to piss at 3 a.m.). Couldn't reach the library TA who lived off-campus. Couldn't reach my mom back home, thirty miles away. So, rough circle: maybe two blocks, give or take.
One more test. The dangerous one. Sarah again. But this time intentional. Jake was asleep. Sarah was asleep. I focused.
Woke up as her, warm and familiar now. Jake's arm was slung over her waist—my waist. His hand rested just under her breast, thumb brushing the underside. I didn't move at first. Just felt it. The slow rise and fall of her breathing. The heat of his body pressed against her back.
Then I shifted—just a little. Pressed my ass back against his crotch. He was half-hard in his sleep, thickening against the cleft of her cheeks through thin boxers. I rocked once. Slow. Deliberate.
He groaned, low in his throat. Hand slid up, cupped her breast fully, squeezed. I let her body respond—nipples peaking, thighs pressing together. Wetness bloomed fast.
I could've stopped. Should've.
Instead I reached back, guided his hand lower, under her panties. His fingers found her clit—clumsy at first, then knowing. I bit her lip, rocked against his palm. He woke up slow, hazy, thinking it was just her being horny in the middle of the night.
"Fuck, babe," he mumbled, voice thick. "You're soaked."
I didn't answer. Just arched into his touch. He slid two fingers inside her—my borrowed pussy clenching around them—and curled. I came fast, shaking, muffling her moan against the pillow.
He rolled her over then, spread her legs, pushed inside. No condom—lazy college sex. Thick, stretching, filling. I wrapped her legs around his waist, nails digging into his back, riding the rhythm he set. He fucked her hard, grunting, chasing his own release. When he came I felt it—hot pulses deep inside—and clenched around him, milking every drop, chasing a second orgasm that hit like a freight train.
"Are you ready?" Jake asked me. "For what?" I looked back into his eyes."For the test you told me about," panic quickly overwhelmed me. "I think so, but who knows," I leaned closer to him and we continued kissing.
After, he kissed her forehead, rolled off, and passed out again. I lay there in her body, dripping, chest heaving, guilt and triumph warring in my head. Then I slipped back to myself.
Next morning Sarah was quiet at breakfast. Walked funny. Blushed when Jake teased her about being "insatiable last night." I just sipped my coffee and watched her try to hide the limp.
I told myself that was the last time. I lied.
The experiments kept coming. Each one dirtier. Each one teaching me exactly how far I could push—how far I could take someone else's body before the guilt stopped mattering.
And every time I came back to myself, the hunger grew. Until Gina. Until revenge stopped being a game and started being the only thing that mattered.