I Woke Up Inside Her Body That Night

For almost two years, I had followed Renata Villanueva’s every move on social media, in videos of her concerts, in interviews she gave to music magazines. I knew her dog’s name, the coffee she ordered backstage, the song she hummed when she thought no one was recording. I wasn’t just some admirer: I was someone who had built an obsession so detailed that sometimes I wasn’t sure where she ended and my own imagination began. I had jerked off while looking at her pictures so many times that I no longer remembered when the first time had been.

What disturbed me wasn’t only her body, although that was part of it. It was the combination: the way her hips marked every beat when she danced onstage, the way her voice broke right on the highest notes as if she were struggling to contain herself, the smile that appeared only in spontaneous moments, when a musician made a mistake or someone in the audience shouted something funny at her. Those details that no one else seemed to notice. I did.

I found the ritual in an old forum, buried beneath layers of spam and deleted messages. Someone had posted it years earlier under the title “Union of Souls Through Genuine Desire.” It didn’t sound sinister. It sounded exactly like what I needed: a symbolic way to draw closer to someone unreachable, a poetic gesture that might help me let go of the obsession or, at best, make me feel, even for an instant, that we existed in the same space.

I prepared it that same night. I printed out a picture of her, from her latest concert, wearing the black sequined dress that outlined every curve and with her loose hair stuck to her neck from the heat of the stage. I placed it in the center of my bedroom floor, surrounded by a red candle I’d bought at a neighborhood pharmacy and dried rose petals I found at the bottom of a drawer. I sat cross-legged. I closed my eyes.

I thought of her with all the concentration I could muster. Not only sexually, although my cock was already swelling inside my pants. I thought about her nervous laugh during live interviews, the way she bit the inside of her lip before a difficult note, the warmth of imagining simply being in the same room as her. I repeated the ritual’s words in a low voice, without theatrics.

For several minutes, nothing.

Then the dizziness came.

It was subtle at first, as if the floor had tilted a couple of degrees. I thought it was accumulated exhaustion. Then came the tug: something in the center of my chest, like an invisible hook pulling inward with force. My stomach churned. An electric chill ran up my spine to the nape of my neck, raising the hairs on my forearms. I tried to open my eyes, but darkness had already covered everything.

The buzzing in my ears grew until it became deafening.

Then, total silence.

And I woke up standing.

***

The air was different. Warmer, with a smell I took a moment to identify: floral perfume mixed with something sweet, body lotion, and fresh sweat from recent exertion. Pink and white neon lights blinked on the walls around me. The floor beneath my feet was smooth, cold white linoleum. My legs felt different: longer, lighter, but with my center of gravity shifted completely. I tried to take a step and nearly fell.

High heels.

—Hello? —I said aloud, and the sound paralyzed me.

It wasn’t my voice. It was soft, feminine, slightly husky, with the particular rasp of someone who had just spent hours singing.

I looked around: a vanity covered with scattered lipsticks and brushes, a leather sofa in one corner, a clothing rack. A closed door with a sign that read Dressing Room A-3. Backstage. Exactly like the ones I had seen in the tour documentaries.

Then I felt the weight on my chest.

I slowly lowered my gaze.

Boobs. Big, heavy, pushing against the sequined dress top, moving with every breath. A narrow waist. Hips widening beneath the fabric. Long legs in black heels. The dress from the picture.

This can’t be happening.

I pinched my arm hard: it hurt, and the skin reddened. I slapped my cheek: it burned, and my eyes filled with tears. I bit my lower lip until I tasted the metallic flavor of blood. I closed my eyes, counted to fifty, and tried to imagine my room, my bed, my real body. I opened my eyes.

I was still there.

My knees gave way. I fell onto the cold floor, bracing myself on my wrists so I wouldn’t hit my face. The impact was precise and real: pain in my kneecaps, in my splayed palms. My boobs moved with the impact, heavy and alien, answering every movement with a constant presence I couldn’t ignore.

***

I found a full-length mirror in the corner of the dressing room.

I stood in front of it and took several seconds to process what I was seeing: large, dark eyes with traces of smoky makeup running down the cheeks. Full lips painted dark red, the lower lip marked by a tiny spot where I had bitten it. Long, tousled hair, strands stuck to the nape of the neck. The top, the dress, the sequins.

It was her.

And inside, looking through her eyes, was me.

I touched the mirror with trembling fingers. The hand in the reflection was slender, its nails painted. I touched my own face: smooth skin, without its usual roughness. I moved my hair away from my face and felt its silky texture brush my nape, sending an unexpected shiver through me.

—This isn’t real —I whispered, and the voice echoed through the empty room.

I sat on the floor. I instinctively closed my legs when I felt the cool air brush the skin of my thighs, a new and uncomfortable vulnerability. The tears came on their own, wetting the makeup and drawing black lines down my cheeks. I stayed there for nearly an hour, trying to understand what I had done, where she had gone, whether there was any way to undo it.

The answer came on its own, inevitable: the ritual. I had asked to be inside her, and something in the universe had taken me seriously.

Where was she now?

The thought crushed me. Sobs that sounded ridiculous in that soft voice. I had taken her body from her. Her night, her concert, her entire life. The weight of it was unbearable.

There was a knock at the door.

—Renata? We’re leaving for the hotel in ten minutes —a woman’s voice said from the other side.

I remained paralyzed for several seconds. Then I answered, with the firmest voice I could manage:

—All right. I’m coming out.

I grabbed a hooded sweatshirt from the rack, put it on, and covered my head. I left without looking at anyone.

***

The hotel was luxurious. A spacious suite, a huge bed, curtains blocking out the city lights. I asked for the key in monosyllables, rode the elevator up alone, locked the door, and threw myself onto the bed with the sweatshirt still on.

I tried to sleep. I couldn’t. I tried to wake up as if it were a dream. Nothing happened.

When the clock struck four in the morning, something inside me gave in.

Not the guilt, which was still there intact. The denial. For hours I had been telling myself that I was going to wake up, that there had to be a solution, that this was temporary. But the body surrounding me was completely real: the weight of my boobs when I shifted position in bed, the texture of the sheets against my legs, the scent of perfume soaked into the hair spread across the pillow. It wasn’t a dream, and there was no going back, at least not that night.

I got up. I took off the sweatshirt. I looked at my hands beneath the soft lamplight: small, smooth, their long nails painted dark red. I slowly turned them over, studying them as if they belonged to someone else, which in a way they did.

I walked toward the bathroom, and my hips swayed on their own, without me doing anything to provoke it. It was the body’s mechanics, its weight distributed differently, its muscles adjusted to an equilibrium completely unlike mine. My boobs moved with my steps, reminding me with every stride of the reality of what I had done. Between my thighs, I could already feel a dampness I hadn’t noticed before, a slippery rubbing each time my legs crossed as I walked.

I entered the bathroom. I locked the door. I turned on the light.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror.

This time, not in panic. This time, with something that took me a moment to name: curiosity.

***

The guilt didn’t disappear. It remained there like a cold stone, telling me what I had done, what I had taken from her. But curiosity surrounded it, contained it, and in that moment won.

Just touch a little. Just understand what it feels like to have this pussy.

I started with the dress. I slipped it over my shoulders and let it fall onto the marble floor with a whisper of fabric. I was left in the tight top and underwear. My nipples stood hard beneath the surface, two points the fabric barely managed to conceal. I touched them through the fabric first: I felt the heat beneath it, the firmness yielding under my open palms. My nipples responded instantly, hardening even more and sending a direct signal toward my lower belly that stole my breath. A low moan escaped my throat —her throat— without my being able to stop it.

It was a completely new sensation. Not localized the way it was when my cock got hard, but diffuse, spreading from my chest in every direction, filling my body with a heat unlike anything I had ever felt before. I could feel my pussy throbbing between my legs, tightening and relaxing on its own, growing wetter with every brush of my fingers over my nipples.

I slowly slipped the straps down over my shoulders. The fabric descended, grazing the sensitive skin along my sides. My boobs were exposed to the bathroom light: large, softly curved, with small pink areolas and erect nipples pointing toward the mirror. I watched them for a long moment without touching them, processing the image. They were the boobs I had looked at in hundreds of pictures, the ones I had imagined naked a thousand times while jerking off in my room. Now they were mine. Now they hung from my own chest.

I touched them with open palms and squeezed them. The heat was immediate. Firmness and softness at the same time, my skin responding to the contact with a sensitivity that left me speechless. I weighed them in my hands, lifted them, felt the real weight of each one filling my palms. I pinched one nipple between my thumb and forefinger, gently at first, then more firmly, until a bolt of pleasure shot through me from my chest to my crotch. I lowered my head and took one of my nipples into my mouth —I was surprised by how flexible my neck was, and by how much breast folded inward to reach it— and sucked it, licked it, played with my tongue around the wrinkled areola.

—Fuck —I moaned in her husky voice against my own skin—. Fuck, fuck.

The pleasure was electric and blinding, running straight between my legs, where I already felt a new, insistent pulse demanding attention. I could feel wetness running down the inside of my thigh. My pussy was dripping.

Stop. This is wrong. It’s her body, not yours.

But my hands didn’t stop. On the contrary: one traveled down my flat stomach, passed over my hipbone, and slipped beneath the elastic of my underwear. My fingers found soft, closely trimmed hair, and beneath it the slippery, swollen, hot flesh.

—Ah —I gasped, and my legs opened on their own.

With my other hand, I pulled my underwear down over my hips, feeling it peel away from my damp skin with a sticky snap. It fell to my ankles. I kicked it off. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror.

It was the first time I had ever had a real pussy this close. Not on a screen, not in a porn video, but on my own borrowed body. The outer lips were pinkish and glistening with my own fluids, slightly parted to reveal the darker inner lips peeking out between them. A delicate, hungry architecture looked back at me from the mirror through her dark eyes. Above, hidden among the folds, a swollen little button poked out, asking to be touched.

I spread my legs a little wider in front of the mirror, gripping the sink counter with one hand so I wouldn’t fall in my heels. With the other, I reached down again. With a trembling finger, I touched the outer lips, slid inward along the slit, and felt the wet heat embrace my finger. I brushed upward over my clitoris, almost accidentally, and the pleasure was so brutal, so sharp, that I gripped the sink with both hands to keep from swaying. An involuntary sound escaped in that voice in the silence of the bathroom, high-pitched and filthy.

—Shit —I whispered—. Shit, how does this feel so good?

I continued. With more intention this time.

***

I began rubbing my clitoris with two fingers in small circles, just as I had read a thousand times in forums, just as I had watched in videos I consumed secretly in the early hours of the morning. Only now I was on the other side. Now it was my own little button that responded, that swelled more with every stroke, sending waves of pleasure expanding through my hips, my belly, my boobs still pressed against my chest.

With my other hand, I grabbed one breast and squeezed it, played with the nipple, pinched it. The double stimulation tore a long moan from me that bounced off the marble. I looked in the mirror: Renata Villanueva’s face flushed, her mouth open, her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, her eyes bright and narrowed with pleasure. It was such an obscene, intimate image that I nearly came right there just from looking at it.

I lowered one finger farther, to the entrance of my pussy, and pushed it inside. It slipped in easily, sliding all the way in because I was so wet. I closed my eyes and gasped. It was hot and tight, wet velvet closing around my own finger. I pulled it out, looked at it shining and sticky beneath the bathroom light, then pushed it back in. I added another. I curled them upward, searching for that spongy spot I had read so much about. I found it, and the moan that came from her throat was so loud that I covered my mouth with my free hand.

—Shhh —I whispered to myself in her husky voice—. Quiet.

But I couldn’t stop. I began pumping both fingers in and out, rubbing my clitoris with my thumb at the same time, and the pleasure accumulated in layers, every thrust adding tension to my belly, every stroke of my thumb pulling harder on that invisible cord that was bending me over the sink. My thighs trembled. My boobs bounced with every movement of my arm. The face reflected in the mirror no longer looked like mine —it never had— but it didn’t look entirely like hers either: it was the face of someone shattered by pleasure, mouth slack, painted lips smeared, cheeks blazing.

I turned around. I pressed my face and boobs against the cold marble of the mirror, stuck my ass out behind me, and reached between my legs from the back. From this angle, I could reach differently, more deeply. My fingers sank in to the knuckles and curled forward. My pussy tightened around them, sucking them in. With my other hand, I grabbed one ass cheek and pulled it apart, looking over my shoulder at my own fingers sliding in and out, dripping.

—Yes —I gasped—, like that, like that.

I was talking to myself in Renata’s voice. I was fucking Renata with Renata’s fingers. And I was eating myself whole.

***

The pressure grew slowly, in layers, from the inside out. It wasn’t quick or simple: it was deep, filling my entire body from my feet to my still-sensitive nipples. The rhythm emerged through trial and error, adjusted itself, held steady. My breathing quickened until the bathroom was filled with gasps echoing off the marble. I put three fingers in my pussy, then four, feeling it stretch to take them, while with my other hand I returned to my clitoris, rubbing hard, mercilessly.

—I’m going to come —I moaned—, I’m going to come, I’m going to come…

The orgasm arrived without any final warning: repeated, brutal internal contractions that squeezed my fingers inside my pussy like a fist closing. I folded over the sink, my forehead pressed against the marble, my legs trembling, a hot gush of liquid running down the insides of my thighs. A scream came out in her voice, far too loud for the hotel’s silence, a long, high moan that broke halfway through and turned into a breathless laugh of pure relief. My legs trembled for what seemed like minutes. My pussy kept squeezing around the fingers I hadn’t yet dared to remove, each throb sending a smaller, gentler aftershock until finally everything calmed down.

Afterward, stillness.

I slowly withdrew my fingers with a wet sound. I looked at them: shiny, sticky, transparent threads connecting them. Without thinking much, I brought them to my mouth and sucked them. They tasted soft, faintly salty, a flavor I had never tasted before. They tasted like her. They tasted like what I had wanted for two years.

I looked at myself in the mirror, my cheeks flushed, my eyes bright, my mouth parted and still wet with my own fluids. My hair was stuck to my forehead from the exertion. A strand of saliva ran down my chin. My boobs rose and fell with my ragged breathing, my nipples reddened from the pinching. Between my thighs, my pussy was swollen, glistening, still throbbing softly.

The guilt returned, heavier than before. But something else came with it: the certainty that what I had just experienced was incomparable to anything I had ever felt in my own body. No jerk-off, no blowjob, no fuck from my former life had been anything like this. It was different in magnitude, texture, and duration. Capable of things I had never imagined. An entire orgasm that occupied my whole body, not just the tip of my cock. And I knew —with a certainty that turned my stomach— that I could have another one in five minutes if I wanted. And another afterward. And another.

I turned off the bathroom light.

I got into bed still trembling, naked, without bothering to look for the sweatshirt. The cold sheets against my hot skin gave me another shiver. I settled on my side, one hand beneath my cheek and the other —without thinking— between my thighs, cupped over my still-warm pussy, as if holding it, as if claiming it.

Outside, the city was still lit up. Tomorrow there would be obligations, rehearsals, people waiting for Renata Villanueva. People who would look at me and see someone who wasn’t me.

I didn’t know whether I could reverse it. I didn’t know whether I wanted to.

The only thing I knew was that the ritual had worked, that the desire feeding it still wasn’t satisfied —on the contrary, it had multiplied— and that I had just crossed a line there was no going back across.