I Woke Up as Her and Didn’t Want to Leave

I didn’t know the exact moment when my admiration for Valeria Cruz turned into an obsession that stole my sleep. I had followed her for years: every interview, every live performance, every video the group posted. She was the central figure in a female pop project that was dominating the charts, and there was something about her that kept me anchored to the screen longer than I could justify. I watched how her hips marked each beat with almost mathematical precision, how sweat clung her hair to the nape of her neck at the end of shows, how her chest rose and fell between songs with a hypnotic rhythm. It wasn’t just physical attraction. It was an absurd, shapeless desire to be close to her, to know her from the inside, for there to be no distance between us.

That’s how I ended up looking for the ritual. I found it on a dark forum that no longer exists, in an old thread that spoke of joining souls through pure concentration and genuine desire. It didn’t promise anything supernatural; they described it as a deep visualization, almost meditative. I convinced myself it was harmless. I prepared it one night in my room: I printed a high-resolution photo of her—the one in the silver outfit from the last concert, with the cropped top leaving her abdomen exposed and her hair loose, falling over her shoulders. I placed it in the center of the floor, lit a red candle, and surrounded the image with the dried petals I found at home. The conditions were ridiculous. I sat down anyway.

I closed my eyes. I breathed deeply several times until my pulse settled. I thought about her with all the intensity I could gather: her laugh during live streams, the way she said «thank you» in a voice that sounded genuinely grateful, the warmth I imagined I’d feel if I could ever hug her after a show. I repeated silently, like a mantra: I want to be inside you. I want to be part of you. I want there to be nothing between us. Nothing happened for several minutes. Only the silence of the room, the crackle of the candle, and my breathing slowly, gradually calming.

Then came the dizziness. Gentle at first, as if the floor tilted several degrees without warning. I tried to open my eyes and everything was blurry, like seeing underwater. A sharp tug in the center of my chest bent me forward, as if someone had hooked something inside me and was yanking hard. My stomach clenched into a knot. An electric chill ran from my feet to the nape of my neck, making the hairs on my arms and at the base of my skull stand up. The buzzing in my ears swelled until it became deafening. I tried to scream. Nothing came out. Darkness closed in like a trap with no way out.

When I came back to consciousness, I wasn’t on the floor of my room.

I was standing.

The air was warmer, heavier, with a perfume I didn’t recognize right away: intense flowers, vanilla, something sweet that could have been an expensive lotion. Colored lights were blinking around me. My legs felt strange—longer, lighter, but with my center of gravity shifted to another point—and when I tried to take a step I noticed something lifting me at the heels: high heels forcing me to redistribute my weight in a way I’d never needed to before.

—Where am I? —I murmured.

The voice that came out wasn’t mine. It was soft, feminine, with a timbre I had heard hundreds of times in videos and interviews. I froze, the echo of that sound reverberating through the space around me. I coughed to clear my throat. The same thing: that voice. Panic climbed another level all at once.

I looked around: a vanity scattered with makeup, mascara, lipsticks in different shades, brushes carefully lined up. A small sofa in one corner. Hangers with clothes on them. A closed door with a sign that read «Dressing Room.» I could hear the muffled murmur of people outside, the last echoes of music dying away. It was a backstage area, exactly like the ones I’d seen in the group’s documentaries. But what was I doing here? How had I gotten here?

I lowered my gaze slowly.

The impact was physical. There were big, round tits pushing against a shiny top that felt stretched to its limit. With every breath they rose and fell, a constant motion that threw every other thought off balance. The fabric brushed against skin that had never been mine, and I felt the nipples respond to the friction, hardening like stones, with an electric sensation that ran straight down to the cunt. It was new, disorienting, as if thousands of nerve endings were suddenly firing in places that had never existed in my body before.

I limped over to the mirror in the heels. I stood in front of it.

The reflection looked back at me.

Big eyes with smoky makeup. Lips painted bright red. Long hair plastered to the nape of the neck by the sweat from the show. The silver top. A short, tight dress that marked every curve with precision.

It was Valeria Cruz.

I touched the glass with trembling fingers. The reflection repeated the gesture: thin fingers, nails painted dark red. I touched my face: soft skin, warm cheeks. I moved a lock of hair aside and felt its silky texture, long, brushing against my sensitive neck.

—This isn’t real —I whispered with her voice.

I pinched my arm hard. It hurt. I slapped my cheek. It burned and my eyes filled with tears. I bit my lower lip until I tasted metal. Blood, real. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them. Still there. It was real. Everything was completely real.

Someone knocked on the door. A woman asked in a calm tone if I was ready, that they were leaving for the hotel in fifteen minutes.

I looked in the wardrobe for something to cover myself more and found a hoodie. I put it on and pulled the hood down until it covered almost my entire face. I opened the door. The assistant looked at me with an expression that was equal parts surprise and concern.

—Are you okay? —she asked.

—Yes —I answered in Valeria’s voice—. Just very tired.

I asked her to take me with her, without the rest of the group. That I didn’t want to say hello to anyone that night. She nodded without arguing and led me straight to a black van waiting at the service exit.

During the ride I tried to convince myself it was a dream. That at some point I’d open my eyes and be back in my room with the candle out and the photo on the floor. But the leather of the seat felt real beneath my thighs. The cold air conditioning was real. The constant weight in my chest was real. We arrived at the hotel. I asked for my room without saying more and went upstairs alone. When I closed the door, I collapsed onto the bed, too exhausted to take off either the heels or the dress. Mental exhaustion crushed everything else.

***

I woke up with a start.

The digital clock read 4:12 in the afternoon. The curtains blocked out almost all the light. For a second I didn’t know where I was, and then the memories came crashing down all at once and without mercy: the ritual, the dressing room, the voice in the mirror, the cab, the bed.

I sat up slowly. The body protested with a diffuse, muscular pain, the specific kind of exhaustion dancers accumulate after a long show. The dress was still stuck to the skin, wrinkled and stiff, smelling of expensive perfume mixed with the sweat from the previous hours. The tits moved as I lifted myself—heavy, warm, reminding me with every rise and fall that nothing had changed. The fabric brushed the nipples with every breath, sending little shocks that ran down to the cunt without my asking.

I have to find a way out.

The thought occupied me for several minutes. I needed to tell someone, ask for help, find whoever had made the ritual. But who would I tell? The police, in Valeria Cruz’s voice, explaining that I was a fan trapped in her body? They’d lock me in a psychiatric ward. A doctor? The same. And if there was no way back, if this was permanent, it meant that she had disappeared from somewhere. That I had erased a person by accident, with a cheap candle and a printed photo. The tears came on their own. I hated myself for that. I hated myself for the obsession, for the ritual, for having believed it was harmless.

But the body wasn’t waiting for me to finish hating myself.

While I cried, the tension made the chest rise with every sob, and with it came that sensitivity I couldn’t turn off: the nipples rubbing against the fabric, a growing heat between the legs that settled in without asking anyone’s permission. It was as if this body had its own language, one I still didn’t understand but could hear anyway. I got up and walked back and forth across the room. The hips moved on their own with a natural grace I had never had, the tits bouncing slightly with each step, sending constant sparks to my stomach.

I stopped in front of the bedroom mirror. Valeria with red-rimmed eyes from crying, flushed cheeks, disheveled hair. And inside: me. It wasn’t the time. I knew it wasn’t the time. But something dark and curious began forcing its way through panic and guilt, slow and inevitable like a tide.

I went into the bathroom and locked the door.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror. The light was soft. I looked at myself for a long time without doing anything, feeling the moral argument raging on one side while curiosity pushed from the other with more and more force.

Just look. Just to understand what it feels like to be her.

I started with the dress. I pulled it down over my shoulders slowly, feeling the fabric peel away from the skin with a friction that left trails of electricity in its wake. It fell to the floor. The room’s air touched the exposed skin of my hips and thighs, and I trembled. All that was left was the top and underwear.

I touched the tits over the fabric: hot, firm, yielding under my palms with a softness I hadn’t expected. The nipples responded instantly, hardening more, sending waves of tingling down to the belly. I lowered the straps of the top slowly, letting the fabric come away centimeter by centimeter. First the upper curve. Then the pink areolas. Then the erect nipples exposed to the room’s cold air. The top fell to the floor.

I saw them directly for the first time, without any screen in between, without any distance. I grabbed them with trembling hands: soft but firm, heavy in my palms, filling my fingers and spilling out at the sides. I squeezed them and felt them sink and then return to shape. I pinched one nipple between thumb and forefinger, pulled carefully, and the lightning that ran through my whole chest made me gasp aloud. I repeated the gesture on the other one, harder this time, and my legs went weak. It wasn’t the pleasure I knew. It was more diffuse, broader, radiating out to the abdomen and legs in waves that didn’t end easily. I leaned forward and watched them hang from my chest, watched them sway with each breath, watched the nipples point toward the floor swollen and red from the abuse.

I lowered my hands to my underwear. The fabric was soaked, stuck to the cunt, and when I peeled it away with two fingers I felt a sticky thread stretching between the cloth and the lips. I slid it down my hips slowly, feeling it separate from the skin with gentle resistance. It fell to my ankles. I lifted it with my foot, took it in one hand, and brought it up to my face. The smell hit me full force: pure sex, sweet and sour at the same time, a smell I had never smelled in my own body and that was now coming out of this one by the liter. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply with the fabric pressed to my nose. My cunt contracted on its own, clenching around an emptiness that was starting to ache.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Everything exposed. Valeria’s tits hanging heavy, nipples stiff, flat stomach, shaved cunt showing pink lips swollen and glossy with moisture. The impact left me breathless for several seconds. I opened my legs a little in front of the mirror and saw everything: the inner lips peeking out, the clitoris visible under the hood, a thread of slick hanging from the cunt to the inner thigh. It was the cunt I had looked at in a thousand photos and videos, now open for me, mine to touch.

I raised a trembling finger and barely brushed the outer lips. Hot, slippery, yielding at the lightest pressure. I slid my finger upward and found the clit almost without looking for it—small, firm, like a point of pure tension—and the pleasure was so unexpected and electric that I had to brace myself against the wall with my other hand so I wouldn’t fall. I circled it with my fingertip, slowly, and each turn ignited something new. It wasn’t localized in any one spot. It spread through the abdomen, the legs, the chest, all the way to the tips of the nipples, all at once, as if the entire body were one single circuit I had just closed.

I sped up my hand. The cunt lips swelled even more, soaked, and each stroke drew a wet sound that filled the bathroom. With my other hand I grabbed a tit and pinched the nipple while I kept rubbing the clit with my middle finger. My breathing broke into short moans that came out in Valeria’s voice, the same voice I had heard sing hundreds of times and that was now panting because of me, for me, in the mirror.

—Oh, fuck —I murmured in her voice, and hearing her say that sent another wave of heat up between my legs—. Oh, that feels so good. So fucking good.

I lowered my hand and used my middle finger to feel the entrance of the cunt. It was open, throbbing, leaking onto my fingers. I pressed slowly and the finger went all the way in in one motion, swallowed by the inside. Tight, warm, soft walls yielding and contracting around it with a life of their own. I pulled it out and pushed it back in, slowly, learning the texture, the pressure, the rhythm this body seemed to want. I added a second finger. The sensation of fullness made me bend forward, resting my forehead against the mirror, leaving fog marks on the glass with every exhale.

I fingerfucked myself with two fingers while my thumb searched for the clit above. The sound was obscene: constant splashing, my knuckles going in and out sticky, my palm smacking against the outer lips with every thrust. The pressure rose in layers, deep and inevitable, completely unlike any orgasm I had experienced before. In my other body, pleasure concentrated in one point and exploded quickly; here it was a long, cavernous accumulation, growing from the bottom of my belly and branching out everywhere.

I pushed in a third finger. Valeria’s cunt swallowed it too, clenching around it, and I let out a long moan against the mirror. I started curving my fingers forward, searching inside for that rough patch I’d read about a thousand times, and when I touched it, my whole body jolted. There. Exactly there. I repeated the movement—push deep, curl forward, press—and each stroke tore a sharper gasp from me. The thumb kept circling the clit, faster and faster, tighter and tighter.

—I’m gonna come —I said out loud, hearing Valeria say it with my intention—. I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, oh, fuck.

The orgasm hit with no warning.

Violent contractions around my fingers, squeezing them with a force I had never felt from the other side. The cunt throbbing, milking, pouring. The clit burning under my thumb. Waves that surged from the belly to the chest, hardening the nipples even more, and down the legs to the curled toes inside the heels I still hadn’t taken off. A long, ragged cry that came out in Valeria’s voice and bounced off the bathroom tiles. The legs gave out. My fingers slipped from the cunt with a wet smack and I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the cold floor, legs spread, panting, fingers dripping wet over my thigh.

I looked at my shining hand under the light. I brought it to my mouth. I stuck out my tongue and tasted—sweet, salty, with a metallic edge—and the taste only made the cunt contract again, still sensitive. I sucked the three clean fingers one by one, eyes fixed on my own reflection sprawled on the bathroom floor. Valeria Cruz licking her own fingers after coming. The image left me breathless again.

I stayed like that for a long while, chest rising and falling, the echoes of pleasure slowly fading, feeling how the slick kept running between my ass cheeks to the floor. I slid a hand between my legs and touched myself lightly, without urgency, checking that it was all still there, that it hadn’t been a mirage. The cunt was swollen, hot, still throbbing in tiny aftershocks. The moral debate was still there, somewhere in the back of my head. But farther away now. Much farther away.

I looked at my hands. Soft, with painted nails, gleaming with moisture. I turned them under the bathroom light as if seeing them for the first time, studying every detail.

I didn’t want to think about what would happen tomorrow. About how to explain what I’d done. About whether there was a way back or if this was permanent. The only thing I knew for sure was that the body I now inhabited had too many things left to discover. And the night was still very long.