I sit on the edge of the bed for a long time after the Core Memory Package finishes settling.
The knowledge sits in my head like it has always been there. I know she lives alone. I know she is a graduate student. I even know the general shape of her week. But knowing facts is different from understanding the life those facts belong to.
Eventually I stand up.
My legs still feel wrong under me, too light, too smooth, the balance slightly off. The sheet falls away from my body and the cool air of the apartment brushes over my bare skin. My nipples tighten at once. A tiny, involuntary sound escapes me.
“Nnh…”
I turn toward the full-length mirror.
For a moment I just stare.
The girl looking back at me is completely naked. Smooth, pale skin with no body hair anywhere except the soft hair on her head. No stubble. No trail down her stomach. Nothing between her legs except a soft, bare mound and the delicate slit beneath it. The absence is so total it makes my stomach twist.
I take a step closer.
My eyes move slowly downward.
Small, perky breasts sit high on my chest, the nipples already tight from the cool air. I lift one hand and cup the left one, feeling the soft weight settle into my palm. I brush my thumb across the nipple and watch it stiffen further in the mirror. A quiet breath leaves me.
I let my hand trail lower, over the flat plane of my stomach, then to the flare of my hips. The skin is soft and unmarked. When I turn slightly sideways I can see the gentle curve of my ass, smooth and round.
I reach back and run both hands over it, squeezing lightly, watching the flesh give under my fingers.
“Fuck…”
I stay like that for a moment, just watching. Then, almost without deciding to, I bend forward at the waist, still facing the mirror at an angle so I can see everything. I reach back again, this time using both hands to spread myself open.
The cool air of the room hits the wet, exposed heat between my legs. The sight in the mirror is filthy, completely open, pink and glistening, every part of me on display. The feeling of being spread like that is intoxicating. A soft, shaky moan leaves my throat.
I close my eyes for a few seconds, just feeling it. The stretch. The exposure. The way the air moves over places that are usually hidden. My fingers dig a little deeper into the soft flesh of my ass, pulling myself even wider, and the simple act of holding myself open makes another pulse of heat roll through me.
I start moving my hands in slow, massaging circles, still keeping myself spread. Each time I squeeze and release, I open myself again, watching the way everything shifts and glistens in the mirror. Soft, continuous sounds keep slipping out of me as I do it. The more I look, the wetter I get. The more I stretch myself, the more the empty ache inside me grows.
I stay bent over like that longer than I mean to, lost in the erotic sight of my own body completely exposed and the dizzying feeling of holding myself open.
Eventually I force my hands to let go.
I straighten up slowly, legs a little unsteady, and turn back around to face the mirror fully.
The girl looking back at me is flushed, nipples tight, the soft bare mound between her legs still visibly wet. I take a step closer. My eyes move slowly downward again.
The bare mound looks almost unreal. I spread my feet a little and use two fingers to gently part the soft folds once more. Pink, already a little wetter than before, the small swollen clit visible at the top. The sight alone makes heat pulse through me.
I keep staring while I slowly stroke one finger up and down the slickness, never quite touching the clit directly. My other hand returns to my breast, pinching and rolling the nipple in time with the movement. Soft, shaky sounds start leaving my mouth as I watch myself do it.
The body in the mirror looks completely open. Completely female. Completely mine for the moment.
I can’t look away.
I pinch harder. Stroke slower. The combination of the visual and the sensation makes my knees weaken. A thin line of wetness gathers and threatens to drip. I spread myself a little wider with my fingers, exposing everything to the mirror, and the simple act of being so open while I watch makes another soft moan slip out.
“Ah…”
I stay like that for a long time, touching, watching, breathing harder, until the heat between my legs becomes too insistent to ignore and I finally force my hands away.
I already came twice in the past hour.
I have to control myself.
I have to figure out how to go back.
I have to…
“Ugh… I can’t come again, no, no…”
My fingers don’t listen. They keep moving, slower and deeper, spreading myself open while I watch every detail in the mirror. The sight of my own wet, swollen folds and the way my nipples tighten under my other hand is too much. The pleasure is already coiling hard and low, and the moment it starts building I know I’m not going to stop it.
I can’t stop once I start.
The pleasure is just too intense.
It’s almost addicting.
Every time I tell myself to pull my hands away, the next stroke feels better than the last and my body answers with another soft, helpless sound.
“Nnh… ah… fuck…”
I pinch my nipple harder and rub tighter circles around my clit, still watching myself in the mirror. My thighs start to shake. The empty ache inside me pulses in time with every movement of my fingers. I’m so close I can barely breathe.
“No, I can’t… Aaaaahhhh….”
The orgasm hits hard and sudden. My back arches, a raw cry tearing out of my throat as I come for the third time, fingers still buried against my clit, eyes locked on the trembling, flushed girl in the mirror. Soft, broken moans keep spilling out of me while the waves roll through, longer and deeper than I wanted them to be.
When it finally eases I stay bent forward, forehead almost against the glass, breathing hard, fingers still weakly stroking through the aftershocks because stopping completely feels impossible.
Only when the last tremor fades do I manage to pull my hands away.
I ignore the rest of my reflection for now. I’m not ready to look at her face again.
I start with the closet.
The sliding door sticks a little when I open it. Inside, clothes hang in a neat but lived-in arrangement. I reach out and run my fingers along the fabrics. Soft t-shirts. A couple of hoodies. A pair of dark jeans folded over a hanger. I pull the jeans out and hold them up against my body. They’re high waisted, exactly like something you saw girls wearing as Ethan, you never really got the appeal though, you’re more of a low waist type of guy.
As a guy I never really liked jeans. Too stiff. Too restrictive. I always wanted something I could actually relax in. Soft fabric. Easy movement. The thought feels small and almost stupid in the middle of everything else, but it’s enough, like I have control of the situation. I put the jeans back on the hanger.
I push the rest of the hangers aside and find the other clothes.
A pale yellow sundress. A light blue one with thin straps. A white one with small flowers. I stare at them. The fabric is thin and soft, clearly meant to sit against bare shoulders and show legs. I can’t picture wearing any of them. The idea feels ridiculous, like putting on a costume that doesn’t belong to me.
“There’s no way I’m putting that on,” I mutter under my breath. “No fucking way.”
Lower down, on the floor of the closet, I find the shoes.
Sneakers. A pair of simple flats. And then, tucked toward the back, two pairs of high heels. One black, one beige. I pick up the black pair and turn it over in my hands. The heel is higher than it looks. I try to imagine walking in them and immediately feel a low wave of nausea mixed with something else I refuse to name.
I close the closet and move to the dresser.
The top drawer needs a stronger pull to open. As I tug it open the only thing I see is…
Underwear.
Neatly folded rows of it. Girly, simple cotton pairs on one side. On the other side, things that make my stomach tighten hard. Lacy black panties. A dark red pair with delicate edges. A few thongs folded into small triangles. I pick one up between two fingers like it might burn me. The material is soft and sheer. It feels wrong to even be holding it, like I’ve opened a drawer I was never supposed to see.
My fingers stroke the lace without meaning to. The texture is finer than anything I’ve ever touched. A soft, shaky breath leaves me.
“Fuck… these are so small. How does anyone wear this and not feel completely exposed?”
I drop the underwear back into the drawer and shut it harder than I meant to. The sound is too loud in the quiet apartment.
I leave the bedroom, scanning the room quickly to make sure I am really alone, and step into the small bathroom.
A single toothbrush. Face wash. Moisturizer. A razor. Then, under the sink, I find a box of tampons and a blister pack of birth control pills with several days already punched out.
I pick up the pack and stare at it.
The moment my fingers close around the plastic, a blue window materializes in the air beside the mirror.
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
Non-needed medication detected.
Succubi do not require such things.
I freeze.
Succubi?
The word sits in my head like a stone. I had seen it earlier, Succubus UI, but I hadn’t really processed it. I was too busy dealing with the body and the orgasm and the panic.
“What the hell does that mean?” I say out loud. My new voice sounds too light in the small bathroom. “I’m a succubus now? What does that even mean? Hey, explain it!”
I raise my voice at the window.
“Tell me what you did to me!”
The window doesn’t respond. It simply fades out, leaving me standing there holding a pack of birth control pills that the System has just declared unnecessary.
Succubus.
What the fuck does that mean for this body?
For me?
No answer comes.
I put the pills back slowly and leave the bathroom, heart beating faster than before. Every step makes the soft weight on my chest shift. My thighs brush together. The bare skin between my legs is still sensitive from earlier, and the movement sends a faint, unwanted spark upward. A quiet sound slips out before I can catch it.
“Ah…”
I keep walking through the apartment, trying to map it with my new senses. The living room. The small kitchen. The way the light falls across the floor. Every time I move, the body reminds me it isn’t mine, the bounce of my breasts, the unfamiliar sway of my hips, the soft brush of skin against skin where my thighs meet.
In the living area I pick up her phone again. The passcode works this time. I open her messages.
Most of the recent conversations are with someone named Jessi.
I scroll.
Jessi is clearly her closest friend. Their texts are frequent, casual, and full of the kind of shorthand that only exists between people who know each other well.
One of the more recent messages from Jessi is a mirror selfie, her in a tight black dress, clearly getting ready for a date, asking Ana how she looks. Jessi is very attractive. Long hair, good makeup, confident posture. I stare at the photo longer than necessary before forcing myself to keep scrolling.
“Damn… she’s hot,” I hear myself whisper. The words feel strange in my mouth.
Further up I find Jessi venting about boy problems, mixed signals, someone who didn’t text back, the usual mess. Ana’s replies are supportive and a little dry. I notice something strange and strangely comforting: Ana’s texting style is similar to mine. Short sentences. The same kind of humor. At least that part won’t be difficult to imitate.
From the Core Memory Package I already know Ana recently broke up with a long-distance boyfriend. Seeing the lack of recent messages from any romantic partner confirms it. There’s no one currently in her life in that way. One less complication… and somehow one more empty space.
I switch to the gallery.
The recent photos are what you’d expect. Campus shots. Coffee cups. A few pictures of the pool. One of Ana and Jessi in swimsuits, hair wet, standing on the deck after lane swimming. Another taken in what is clearly a sauna, foggy, dim, both of them flushed and smiling weakly at the camera.
I keep scrolling backward.
Then the tone of the photos changes.
Older images. Mirror selfies Ana clearly took for someone else. In several of them she is in lingerie, or wearing only an open shirt, or lying on the same bed I just woke up in with her hand between her legs. The kind of pictures meant for a boyfriend. Meant for her ex.
I swallow hard.
A little further down I find pictures of him. Nothing full-face. Cropped shots. A torso. A hand. A few that are more explicit. I linger on them a couple of seconds too long before I realize what I’m doing.
A low warmth stirs in my belly. My free hand drifts without permission and rests against the soft skin of my lower stomach. The heat between my legs flares again, sudden and sharp.
“Oh fuck…”
The quiet moan slips out of me before I can stop it. My thighs press together. The slickness is still there from earlier, and the pressure only makes it worse. I can feel how wet I already am just from looking at pictures that don’t even belong to me.
I lock the phone quickly and set it face-down on the table, breathing hard.
The apartment is quiet again. Her clothes are in the closet. Her underwear is in the drawer. Her pills are in the bathroom. Her best friend is named Jessi, and they go swimming together. Her ex is gone, but the pictures of him are still on her phone… and my body had reacted to them.
I sit down on the couch, elbows on my knees, and stare at the floor. The soft weight of my breasts shifts with every breath. My nipples are still tight. Between my legs I can feel everything, too much, too new, too sensitive. The earlier orgasms still linger in my muscles like a low, pleasant ache.
I know more about her now.
And every new piece of information only makes it clearer that I am living inside a complete, complicated life that was never mine.
Outside, the light continues to shift.
I am alone in her apartment.
But I am not alone in her life.