Shift Change TF Stories

Then, the sharp, startling click of the piercing gun. A brief sting.

“Alright, one done!” the artist said cheerfully. “Just one more.”

Wait, one done? But… but I hadn’t felt… had I?

She moved around to the other ear. Another quick click.

“All done!” she said, beaming. “You did great! See? Nothing to be afraid of.”

I touched my earlobe, feeling the tiny, smooth ball of the stud. It wasn’t throbbing with pain, just a mild warmth. Ryan squeezed my hand. “See? Piece of cake. Told you you could do it.”

I looked at him, relief washing over me. He was smiling, his eyes full of affection. My steady, handsome Ryan. It felt like seconds had passed since I’d blurted out my fear. Had the tool even touched my ear before the wish? It was all a blur. But I had them. My first earrings. And I hadn’t completely panicked. Only slightly.

“Yeah,” I said, a genuine smile finally spreading across my face. “Yeah, I guess I did okay.”

The background humming that I'd been barely noticing since my panicky wish suddenly increased, the odd flickering of the lights resumed, and out of nowhere a feeling of reality itself warping and flexing jarringly descended all around me. Then the collection of strange sensations vanished as quickly as it arrived, and we both found ourselves standing in front of the jeweler again, as if nothing had happened. Nothing at all.

“Ready?” Ryan asked, his voice a warm murmur against my ear. He leaned closer, kissed my forehead, and ran his finger gently along my ear then resting lightly on the pair of small silver studs glinting at the base of my earlobe.

I shivered, but not entirely from nerves this time. His touch always did that. We were back outside The Gilded Needle, but something about it felt… different. A little less polished, maybe? The display cases seemed to hold an increased variety of options, with more interesting, less conventional pieces too – tiny skulls, intricate filigree, spikes. My heart flickered with a thrill of excitement.

My earlobes felt… different. A little weighted, somehow. Interesting. I reached up, touching the small silver studs I’d gotten… when? Last time, I guess. Funny, I thought this was my first piercing appointment ever for some reason, but that's impossible. The proof was right there, two studs on each ear. They couldn't be new, they weren’t sore at all. Weird. I could have sworn they were fresh. Had I just forgotten?

“Yeah,” I replied, a different kind of excitement bubbling in my chest. “Ready. Let’s get that helix done.”

This time, the fear wasn’t overwhelming. It was a nervous flutter, a thrill. I’d gotten my earlobes pierced before, I reminded myself – twice each, apparently, based on how comfortable they felt now. That wasn’t so bad. Maybe I was braver than I thought.

The artist, Vivian, was still friendly, but she had a cool silver ring in her nostril and a delicate chain connecting her earlobe to her own helix piercing. I felt a strange pull towards her look.

Looking at the jewelry selection, my eyes were drawn to bolder pieces. Those tiny studs from before? Forget them. I wanted something that was a tad more noticeable. I picked out a delicate silver hoop for the helix and, on impulse, pointed to another small stud for my lobe.

“Just one lobe, or the pair?” the artist asked.

“Oh, just one for today I think,” I said, then changed my mind on a whim. “No, both! Why not?” I already had two pairs, another two wouldn’t hurt.

I sat down, feeling a rush of anticipation mixed with the familiar nerves. Ryan squeezed my hand. The artist prepped my ear. As she brought the needle – needle this time, no gun – towards my helix, I felt a tremor of fear, but it was quickly replaced by a surge of defiance.

“I wish I didn’t find this so scary when I was younger,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone, the words and the sudden sensation that came with them feeling strangely familiar.

Again, that brief, impossible shimmer in the air, a borderline unpleasant humming, and an almost imperceptible flickering of the lights in the ceiling. Reality itself seemed to be stuttering, like the world holding its breath.

Then, the sharp prick of the needle. It smarted, definitely more than the gun had felt… last time? Or was it just because it was a different spot?

“Helix is done,” Vivian said smoothly. “Moving to the lobe.”

Another prick, then another.

“All done!” she smiled. “Looking good!”

I looked in the mirror. The shiny silver hoop curved elegantly around my upper ear, catching the light. And in my lobe, another two small studs, perfectly spaced in sequence with the original two studs. Wait. Four studs? On each ear? Was that what I…? My reflection showed four delicate points of silver on each lobe, plus the new helix piercing up above. That didn't seem right. I’d only meant to get two new pairs total, not three. How had they multiplied?

But before I could dwell on the bizarre math going on with my earlobes, Ryan was there by my side, admiration in his eyes. He touched the new helix hoop gently. “Damn, that looks hot on you.”

My heart did a different kind of flutter this time. It wasn’t fear at all. It was… pleasure. Seeing the new jewelry there, on my ear, felt right. It felt like a little act of rebellion, a tiny declaration of independence.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling a surge of confidence I hadn’t expected. I ran a finger over the multiple studs on my lobe. Four on each side. Okay. Weird, but… okay. They looked kinda cool, actually. Edgy.

Another hum, another flicker, another warp, and Ryan and I found ourselves standing outside, on a busy shopping street. Things felt vaguely different, but I couldn’t put my finger on how or why…

The shop before us wasn’t The Gilded Needle anymore. The sign outside said ‘Crimson Canvas & Steel.’ The windows were plastered with posters of heavily modified people. I glanced over the models in the posters with envy. Inside, the lighting was dimmer, moodier, the air smelling faintly of incense and disinfectant. Ryan was wearing a band T-shirt I didn’t recognize, his arm around my waist. He had a new tattoo on his forearm, an intricate blackwork design, and a small silver ring glinting in his nostril.

My reflection in the glass case showed my own multiple piercings in my ears – hoops, studs, even a small chain connecting two points. And a delicate silver hoop through my own nostril, mirroring Ryan’s. I didn’t recognize or remember that, but then new memories drifted in. Right, we did those on our anniversary. Sexy. Okay, so I definitely had a nose ring now. And more ear piercings than I could count. How long had I been accumulating these? It was like I woke up this morning with more hardware, but they were all fully healed, so I knew my collection (obsession?) must have been going for a while. Something inside of me whispered that it should have been terrifying, but honestly? I felt… good. Adorned.

Today, I wasn’t here for my ears or nose. My confidence with piercing cartilage was well known among my friends, but I’d shied away from more adventurous piercings so far. For some reason the idea gave me anxiety, even though I’d gone under the needle so many times now. My gaze lingered over the body jewelry displays. Navel rings, eyebrow rings, tongue barbells. Today, with Ryan by my side, I’d conquer my fear.

“So,” Ryan said, his voice low in a way I suddenly found incredibly sexy, “what’s calling to you today?”

I swallowed, a thrill shooting through me. The idea of a navel piercing had been floating in my mind all week. It felt daring, and more intimate. “I’m thinking my belly button needs some attention,” I said, a grin spreading across my face.

The artist, Viv, looked like a walking art piece – arms sleeved in tattoos, multiple facial piercings, stretched lobes. But her eyes were always calm and professional. She showed me the different styles of navel jewelry. I bypassed the simple gems for something more detailed and eye-catching, a small silver crescent moon dangling from a curved bar.

Sitting on the bench, pulling my shirt up, I felt my heart pound with that familiar mix of nerves and excitement. It was less fear of the pain now, more anticipation of the result. Ryan sat beside me, his gaze warm and approving.

The artist prepped the area around my navel, the smell of disinfectant wafting up to my nose. In the mirror across from me I could see the multiple glints of silver and gold already studding my ears and nose. It was a lot. More than I would have ever thought I’d get. But looking at myself, seeing all that metal against my skin… it felt right somehow. It felt like me, a version of me I hadn’t known existed, but one I definitely liked.

As Viv brought the needle towards my navel, I took a deep breath. This wasn’t scary anymore. This was more like… an addiction. A delicious plunge into something thrilling.

“I wish I was braver about more unusual piercings,” I whispered, the words feeling like a truth I’d just discovered.

The world around me experienced another subtle wobble, like a ripple in a pond.

I felt a sharp, deep tug. Pain, yes, but a clean, quick pain. Then the weight of the jewelry sinking into place.

“All done,” the artist said, applying a bandage. “You’re a natural. You barely flinched! See you again soon?”

“Most likely!” I smirked as I adjusted my shirt just enough to peek. The bandage hid my newest addition, but I could already imagine that glinting silver moon hanging perfectly, catching the dim light. It was beautiful. It felt… perfect.

Ryan leaned in, kissing my shoulder. “Hot. So damn hot.”

I grinned, feeling a blush creep up my neck. Yeah. It was hot. I was hot. A part of me wondered, who was this person, covered in metal, craving more? I didn’t know for sure, but I liked her.

As I stood up to leave, reality lurched yet again and Ryan and I were standing on a more rundown street in a different part of town.

The shop was now a dive bar that also did piercings in the back room. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, damp concrete, and cigarettes. Music, loud and heavy, vibrated through the walls. Ryan had full sleeves and a partial neck tattoo now, his face decorated with several piercings including a septum ring. He looked edgy, like he belonged in a punk rock band, all raw energy and sex appeal.

My own appearance was… extensive. My ears were a constellation of metal. My nose ring was a bold hoop. I had a delicate chain dangling from an eyebrow ring, connecting to a stud on my ear. My double navel piercing gleamed. I smiled and looked at myself in the grimy mirror on the wall, and suddenly I noticed the undeniable tang of a barbell through my tongue. That must’ve been from my last visit to Vixen’s back room piercing studio. It felt strange, this body that was somehow both mine and a stranger’s, constantly evolving without my conscious effort, yet feeling more like me with each new addition.

Today, I was here for something I’d seen on the Vixen’s display board and couldn’t get out of my head. Something that felt incredibly bold, incredibly sexy, and intensely personal.

The artist herself was covered head to toe in ink and metal. But her hands were steady, her demeanor always calm amidst the chaos of the bar.

“Hey girl. Welcome back again. You ready?” she beamed, her voice surprisingly gentle for how tough her personal style came across.

I nodded, a knot of pure excitement tightening in my chest. Fear was a distant memory now. This was about self-expression. This was about claiming my body, decorating it like a sacred canvas.

I pulled up my top, exposing my chest. Small silver hoops already graced my nipples, a piercing I only knew I had because I’d caught sight of them in the mirror that morning and felt a jolt of surprise, then desire. Now, I wanted to add more. Small, discreet dermal anchors just below my collarbones, like tiny hidden gems.

Ryan watched, his eyes dark with desire. He didn’t need to say anything. His look was everything. Approval, obsession, lust.

Vixen, my regular artist, worked efficiently, like always, marking the spots, explaining the procedure. It was different from a standard piercing, placing the anchor under the skin. More intrusive. Permanent. I loved the everything about the idea.

As the artist prepped the first spot, I felt a surge of exhilaration so strong it made me lightheaded. This wasn’t just about proving my bravery anymore. This was an all out craving. Needing this metal to feel complete.

“I wish I could get every piercing I want to get,” I breathed, the words once again setting off a deep, resonant hum in my chest and all around me.

The bass from the music distorted for a split second, like the Doppler effect of a blaring car horn passing by, the air in the room almost shimmering like heat haze off of asphalt.

Then, the quick sting and pressure as the first dermal was inserted. Another, and another, and another. Four tiny points of silver nestled against my skin, mirrored just below the curve of my collarbones.

I looked down, touching them gently, gingerly. They felt integrated, part of me. Combined with the nipple rings I’d acquired who knows when, my chest felt… electric.

Ryan leaned down, his voice quiet but rough. “You are a fucking piece of art.”

I tilted my head back, letting him see the hunger in my eyes. He was artwork too. We were transforming together, becoming something wilder, something truly fierce.

As I looked down at my newly glistening chest, the shimmering of the air seemed to increase and suddenly the two of us were standing on a different dingy street corner, again ready for my latest piercing appointment.

My go-to piercing artist Vixx had recently set up shop in a room in the back of a smoke shop downtown, smelling of weed, flavored vape smoke, and stale cigars. The walls of the building were covered in graffiti, the floor inside perpetually sticky. Outside, the seedy noise of the city hummed along. Ryan’s tattoos now covered his hands, even creeping onto the sides of his head and parts of his face. His piercings were numerous and heavy-gauge. He rarely smiled, instead radiating a raw, almost dangerous magnetism. Like me, he had so much metal now he was probably actually magnetic.

My own body felt like a map of metal. Ears heavy with rings and tunnels. Multiple facial piercings – eyebrows, nose, septum, lips. A dozen strategically placed dermals scattered across my chest and abdomen. Nipple rings that made their presence known from beneath my clothes. The barbell under my tongue was thick and heavy. Every time I looked in the mirror, I noticed more metal, more modifications, a gradual process I could never quite remember initiating but always embraced when I saw it. It wasn’t scary anymore. Not in the slightest. It was exhilarating. It was so me.

Today was the culmination of my compulsion. The final frontier. At least until I decided I want more, which let's be honest was inevitable. The piercing I’d only dreamed of in the darkest corners of my mind, the one that felt like the ultimate act of self-possession.

Vixx had been my favorite piercing artist now for years. She was a legend in the underground piercing scene, whispered about with reverence. She herself was like a living sculpture of modifications, her face a mosaic of implants, tattoos, and heavy jewelry. Her hands were a roadmap of fine lines and ink, but when they moved, they moved with deliberate, focused skill.

We walked in through the smoke shop, each of us giving a curt nod to the bearded man at the register. He knew what we were here for. Vixx was already prepping what passed for a work station in the dingy back room. She smirked knowingly when she saw me. There was no facade of smalltalk, no nervous chatter. There was no need. I'd been punctured by her needles more often than I could even remember. I knew her and she knew me. No point in fucking around. Ryan stood by me, his presence a solid, comforting weight at my side. There was never any fear or anxiety in me now, not after so many appointments, only intense anticipation. This wasn’t about facing my fears. I had no trouble being brave in any situation. This was about desire. That powerful, aching desire to show my wild side. It was practically second nature. Routine.

I lay back on the worn leather chair in the quasi-privacy of Vixx’s makeshift workspace, pulling down my jeans, then my panties, my body already a landscape of gleaming metal. Ryan sat casually in a cheap folding chair next to me. He was always here for me in my appointments, not that I needed the moral support, but I think he mainly just liked watching. Gets him going. Gets me going too to be honest. The air felt charged with electricity. This felt like the final thrashing chord in an epic death metal song, the last drag on a particularly satisfying blunt.

Vixx finally finished prepping the work area, her movements precise and professional. The back room may have been seedy as hell, but she was still a fucking boss at what she does. I focused on breathing, on the warmth of Ryan’s tattooed hand finding mine. My body felt open, ready.

As Vixx brought the thin needle closer, I closed my eyes for a second, a satisfied smile playing on my lips. I always enjoyed the quivering anticipation of this moment. I didn’t need to make a wish this time. The desire was already a roaring fire inside me. I had no recollection of exactly what had changed, but my wishes had already been granted, over and over, bringing me to this exact visceral experience, the climax I’d been longing for, at least as long as I could recall.

The words of my past inadvertent wishes were echoing not just in my mind, but feeling like they resonated through the very air, manifesting their energy through every prick of metal already embedded in my skin. I didn't notice, but the humming was gone. The only flickering was from the dingy light fixtures of Vixx's studio.

A wave of sensual heat passed through me, coursing within me. Then, a sharp, intense sensation. Fucking hell. I'd been pierced more times than I can count, but never like this before. A momentary flash of pure feeling, pain and pleasure intertwining, a white-hot pinpoint of sensation that grounded me completely in my body, and simultaneously sent my mind blissfully spinning into oblivion. The pain centers of my brain and the pleasure centers of my most intimate area linked inextricably for one searing second.

It was done.

I opened my eyes. The artist was cleaning the area, her expression unreadable.

I carefully reached down, touching my thighs. My new small curved barbell was there in between, perfectly nestled exactly where it belonged, ready to enhance pleasure through pressure. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. It felt like power and release, all at the same time.

I looked at myself, feeling the cumulative weight of the metal, the intricate map of piercings covering me practically from head to toe. My ears, my face, my chest, my abdomen, my tongue, my most… intimate self. It wasn’t scary. It wasn’t overwhelming. It was perfect. This was who I was meant to be.

I grinned, a huge, wild grin that felt strangely foreign and utterly right. I twisted my hips back and forth, triggering wave after wave of magnificent new sensations. “Oh my god,” I breathed. “It’s… it’s amazing. Vixx, as usual you are a fucking genius.”

I looked over at Ryan. He was magnificent, too. Strong, serious, covered in ink and metal of his own, his eyes burning with an intensity that mirrored mine. He was my perfect counterpart, transformed alongside me, just as modified, just as unapologetically himself.

“Fuckin' filthy,” he said, his voice reverent and husky as he looked over my exposed pussy with obvious lust. He didn’t touch me, not yet, but I felt the heat of his gaze on every single piercing on my body.

I stood up, feeling the new piercing settle, a constant, delightful reminder of its presence. I shimmied my panties and my jeans back up. I felt confident, sexy, powerful. I was experiencing a heightened, exhilarating version of reality. This body, this dragon’s hoard of metal, was mine.

“You know,” I said, leaning towards him, my hips squirming with a bold urgency I’d never possessed before, “now that I've snagged my latest hole…” I reached my hand out to him, confidently tracing the line of his jaw with my spike ring-adorned fingers, feeling the slight roughness of his stubble, and the cool smoothness of his piercings. “I feel like we should head home right away.”

Ryan’s gaze dropped to my mouth, where my tongue piercing glinted as I spoke, then lower, to my chest, my abdomen, and finally, to the place that pulsed with new sensation. His eyes darkened.

“Oh?” he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down my spine.

“Yeah,” I purred deviously, toying with the spiked choker around my neck. “According to Vixx, I can’t have sex for two weeks, but there are some other ways I can think of that we can still have fun. I’ve got plenty of… other holes I want to play with. And I know just the person I want to join me.”

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I settled into the chair in the nail station, a sterile and functional space. Amber was a young, kind of scrawny woman with a quiet demeanor. I held out my hands, displaying my long, almond-shaped nails, painted in a classic, vicious red. “I’m thinking something bold,” I began, ready to scrutinize her every move. “Perhaps a chrome finish, or—”

I blinked, looking down at my hands again. The second Amber held my hand to examine what we were working with, my nails seemed… different. Shorter. The aggressive points I was used to were gone, replaced by a neat, practical squoval shape. They were my hands, but not. A thought flickered through my mind, as natural and ingrained as breathing: Long nails are such a hassle with all the typing I do at the office. They just get in the way.

Amber was holding up two bottles of polish. One was a demure dusty rose, the other a simple, pearlescent nude. “I agree, a straightforward coat of polish would be perfect for your nails today. Which color do you think?” she asked softly.

I found myself hesitating, the demands for a bold look, for metallic chrome dying on my lips. “Oh, I don’t know,” I heard myself say, my voice softer than before. “You’re the expert. Which do you think would be best for… work?” The word felt right. My job. I’d taken on an assistant job lately in Dominic’s campaign office, typing up his proposals, handling some of his correspondence for him. Dom was a good boss, as patient and understanding as a boss as he was as a husband. But still, I would hate to disappoint him, or mess up any of his documents with anything less than perfect typing. I needed to look professional, and I’d always prided myself on my work ethic.

“The rose is lovely,” Amber suggested. “Understated.”

“Perfect,” I agreed, feeling a strange sense of relief at not having to make the decision. As she painted the soft, plain color onto my short, sensible nails, I felt the weight of my diamond bracelet lessen. It wasn’t a tennis bracelet anymore, but a delicate silver chain with a single charm, a gift from my husband for our fifth anniversary. We’d had to save up for it.

Next up was my hair. I was led to a standard styling chair in front of a large, clean mirror. A man named Gary introduced himself. I was about to instruct him on the precise temperature of the water and the exact products to use to maintain my vibrant, sleek crimson waves, but when I looked in the mirror, that wasn’t the hair I saw.

Staring back at me was a head full of untamable, coppery curls. My hair. It had always been this way, a wild mop I’d spent my life fighting. A familiar sigh of resignation escaped me. Most mornings, I just scrunched it back into a messy bun before rushing out the door of our little slice of suburbia. There was simply no time to wrestle with it before my morning commute.

“I’m thinking just a trim, Gary,” I said, my voice warm and friendly. “And maybe some kind of deep conditioning? This frizz is always such a nightmare.”

He smiled knowingly. “I have just the thing.”

He worked in silence, and I found my mind drifting not to gala events or charity balls, but to the grocery list. We needed milk and bread, and I should probably pick up that new brand of coffee Dominic wanted to try. We lived in a nice enough house in a decent suburb, but it wasn’t a mansion by any stretch of the imagination. The mortgage was always a constant, looming pressure.

After my hair was tamed into something resembling soft, manageable curls that would probably still explode into frizz the second I stepped outside, I was taken to a dim, quiet room for my facial. The esthetician’s name was Sarah. Her touch was gentle as she cleansed and steamed my skin. Lying there, cocooned in warmth, my thoughts grew more domestic, more… small. I worried about whether I’d remembered to switch the laundry over. I pictured my husband, Dominic, a middle manager in the city government, always hunched over policy briefs, and working all hours to keep the narcissists on the city council happy.

When Sarah was finished, she handed me a small mirror. The face I saw was not the sculpted, striking vision I was used to. The sharp cheekbones had softened. My porcelain skin was now dusted with a dense scattering of freckles across my nose and cheeks, freckles I’d had my whole life. My lips, once plumped and perfectly lined, were now naturally thin. It was a pleasant face, a kind face, but it was a face you would pass on the street and probably forget a moment later. It was however my face. The only face I’d ever had.

“You have such a lovely smile,” Sarah said kindly as she applied a touch of tinted moisturizer and a swipe of mascara.

“Thank you,” I replied, a genuinely humble blush rising behind my freckles. This spa day was such a treat. I’d used the little bit of bonus money I’d earned from my part-time paralegal job downtown to pay for it. Dominic and I had a date tonight; dinner at The Olive Branch, our favorite little Italian place, right in our neighborhood. Nothing fancy, just… nice. It was our first real night out since our son, Ben, had started sleeping through the night. I’d spent ages vetting potential sitters. I couldn’t wait to get home to our cozy little condo and get ready. With a newborn to care for and Dominic’s meager salary as a permitting technician in the city planning department, nights out were only a now and then thing these days. I could picture him now, poring over documents at the kitchen table, his glasses perched on his nose, racing to finish his never-ending workload so we could have an evening just for us.

The final treatment was a full-body massage. As I lay on the table, the masseuse’s strong hands working the knots from my shoulders, I felt a deep sense of contentment. I knew my figure was no one’s definition of perfect. My hand drifted to my stomach. It was soft, with a gentle, permanent roundness. I smiled, a wave of love washing over me as I thought of Ben and Lucy. My two beautiful children. Their births had changed my body, leaving me with wider hips and a belly that I’d come to accept would likely never be flat again, but it was a small price to pay for my two favorite accomplishments.

Dominic was at home with them now, in our tiny two-bedroom rental apartment. Bless his heart. He was a doting father, if a bit overwhelmed. He worked so hard at the construction site, yet he’d insisted on saving up a little extra from his last few paychecks to send me here for the afternoon. “You deserve it, Genny,” he’d said, kissing my forehead. I was so proud that he was literally building this city, and still found the time and energy to care for me and the kids, to make me feel special, even now that I was just a stay-at-home mom. We were barely scraping by, but we had each other. He adored me, not for my looks—lord knew I was no bombshell—but for my wry humor and the way I could always make him laugh after a long day. I knew I was lucky. We both were.

When the massage was over, I felt like a new woman. Rejuvenated. I got dressed, pulling on my comfortable mom jeans and my soft floral blouse. My practical flats felt good on my feet. I walked back to the reception desk, feeling light and happy.

The same kind-faced woman was at the desk. “How was everything, Mrs. Worth?”

“It was wonderful, thank you so much,” I gushed, my voice sweet and sincere. I fumbled in my small faux leather purse, pulling out my phone so I’d be ready to make the payment, the platinum card already a fading memory. The screen of my phone was spiderwebbed with cracks from a recent incident where Lucy had knocked it out of my hands from her high chair (mid-tantrum as usual). The cracks were a nuisance, but you could still see the photo of my two darlings on the home screen.

The receptionist noticed the photo and asked after them. “Those your kids? How cute!”

“You’re too kind. They’re my little angels,” I said, swiping open my photos app as a force of habit. “This is my little Ben at his first T-ball game. He just turned four. And this is Lucy; she’s turning two soon and already quite the chatterbox!”

The receptionist smiled and made all the appropriate appreciative noises. I felt a warm kinship with her, another working woman, maybe even another mother. When she told me the total, I winced slightly—it was a lot, more than Dom and I could really afford to spend regularly—but I tapped my phone without complaint. It was worth it. For today at least.

“This place is so convenient,” I told her. “I’ll have to see if I can set aside some cash to come back in a few months.”

Stepping out of Down to Earth and back onto the street, the world felt different. The boutiques seemed imposing, the glittering jewels and works of art in the windows cold and alien. The sun was setting. A cool breeze brushed against my face, and I pulled my simple cardigan tighter over my blouse. I needed to hurry. I wanted to get home in time to tuck the kids into bed before the sitter arrived. Then, my wonderful, humble husband and I would have our romantic evening at Olive Garden, sharing a bottle of cheap wine and holding hands across a checkered tablecloth. I could practically already taste the breadsticks. My heart swelled with a quiet, profound joy. I was just an average woman, with an average life, loved by an average man, raising two adorably average kids. It was a simple life, sure, but it was absolutely everything my heart desired.

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Story Navigation

Chapter 1: Link

Chapter 2: Link

Chapter 3: (You are here)

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It was subtle, the kind of thing only a boyfriend who spent a significant amount of time admiring her would catch. As she swallowed, a soft, warm glow seemed to settle over her skin. She shifted her weight, and I noticed her leggings suddenly looked… tighter. Not because they were shrinking, but because she seemed to be filling them out differently. Her glutes, which on an average day were already toned from her running habit, seemed to lift and round out, creating a more pronounced curve where the gray fabric met her lower back.

“Are you okay?” I asked, my voice a little shaky, unsure if what I was seeing was real.

“Yeah! Why?” she asked. Her voice sounded a tiny bit brighter, a little more melodic. Maybe she was just waking up? She took another eager gulp, nearly draining half the cup. “I feel, like, totally energized suddenly. Wonder where they get their roast?”

She spun around to grab her sneakers, and my jaw nearly hit the hardwood. The transformation was definitely real, and it was accelerating. Right before my eyes, her backside was expanding. It wasn’t just muscle; it was a soft, lush fullness that pushed the limits of her compression gear. The fabric stretched thin, turning from its normal heather to a lighter, more iridescent grey as it strained over her growing curves. At the same time, her waist seemed to nip in tighter, accentuating the dramatic heart-shape that her hips were rapidly adopting.

She didn’t seem to notice. Any of it. In fact, she seemed preoccupied with her hair. She pulled the tie out of her messy bun and shook her head, her tresses falling in stunning waves around her shoulders. To my amazement, her dark brunette tresses seemed to shimmer and brighten, as if her DNA was being rewritten with sunshine. Strands of honey-gold and bleach-blonde bled through the brown until she was a radiant, golden-haired bombshell.

“Hey, Chase?” she said, turning back to me after tying her shoes. Her lips, once thin and determined, were now plush, pink, and looked like they’d been professionally plumped. She tilted her head, a wide, slightly vacant but incredibly sweet smile on her face. “Does my hair look, like, really, I dunno… shiny to you? I feel so sparkly today!”

“Alexis, you do look… different,” I managed to say, gesturing vaguely at her entire person.

She giggled, and it was a bubbly, infectious sound. “Different good, I hope.” She winked at me and took the final few gulps of the coffee, draining the cup. As she finished, the last of the transformation took hold. Her sports bra, which had previously held her comfortably, was now struggling. Her breasts had filled out significantly, rounding into a lush, cleavage-heavy silhouette that perfectly balanced her now-enormous, ripe peach of a backside.

She looked like a pin-up model come to life, a hyper-feminine, incredibly fit, and undeniably ditzy version of my girlfriend. She bounced on the balls of her feet, her new assets swaying in a way that made it impossible for me to look anywhere else.

“I feel, like, literally so amazing right now!” she chirped. She reached out and poked my chest, her fingernails suddenly long and perfectly manicured in a shade of soft pink. “We should totally go for that run now. I have so much energy! It feels like, whoosh!”

She spun around again to head toward the door, literally bouncing with that bubbly energy. Every time she shifted from one foot to the other, her movement was fluid and exaggerated. The sight was hypnotic. Her leggings were practically sheer in the places where her new curves were most prominent, and the pendulous perfection of her rear was the absolute focal point of her new figure.

“You’re coming, right babe?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder. Her blue eyes were bright, and she chewed slightly on her lower lip, looking endearingly confused by my silence. “Chase? Hellooo?”

I took a deep breath, trying to process the fact that my intellectual, slightly-cynical girlfriend had been replaced by this effervescent, gorgeous vision with a backside that could stop traffic, all because of a clearly enchanted cup of coffee with a “typo” in the name. At least, I’d thought it was a typo. Apparently not!

“Yeah,” I said, finding my voice as I grabbed my own sneakers. “I’m definitely coming.”

“Yay!” she squealed, clapping her hands together. “Do I look okay baby? I feel like my leggings are a little tight, but like, in a cute way, right?”

“They’re perfect, Lexi,” I assured her, walking up behind her. I couldn’t help but let my hands rest briefly on the flare of her new hips. The skin beneath the fabric was warm and firm. “In fact, I think that new coffee shop knows exactly what they’re doing.”

She beamed at me, completely oblivious to the magic that had just occurred. “Oh I know right? Now I’m kinda glad we ran out of our coffee, cuz we totally got to try a new place! Butt First Coffee. It’s such a silly name, but the coffee tasted sooo good, it must be like, magic or something.”

She casually tied her blonde hair up into a long, flowing ponytail, and pulled open the front door, stepping out into the sunlight, her golden locks catching the rays. She started a light jog down the street, her stride bouncy and rhythmic. The view from behind was, quite literally, breathtaking.

“Come on, slowpoke!” she called out, her voice trailing back to me, light and sweet as sugar.

I followed after her, keeping a steady pace just a few feet behind. I sure didn’t mind being the one to follow, especially when the view was this good. If this was what “Butt First” meant, I was going to make sure we were the new cafe’s most loyal customers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Walking through the lobby of the Azurea felt like entering another dimension. The lobby was an oasis of marble. The air was chilled to a perfect, crisp temperature, scented with lemongrass and the natural sea salt of being right on the waterfront. Her boots left faint, dusty prints on the polished floors. She looked like a stray cat in a pristine cathedral. It made her feel self-conscious.

The concierge, a man named Mateo with a smile as bright as his pressed white suit, didn't flinch at her disheveled appearance.

"Welcome to the Azurea," he said smoothly. "How can I assist you this evening?"

"I’m looking for a room," Savannah said, her voice a bit raspy. "Just for two nights. I know it’s peak season, but I’ve been through every hostel in town. Is there any chance you have a cancellation? Even just a small room? I'd honestly take a broom closet and a blanket at this point." She grinned wearily.

Mateo tapped at his tablet, his expression thoughtful. "It is indeed shaping up to be our busiest week of the year. However..." He paused, tapping on his keyboard, his eyes lighting up. "We did just have a cancellation for one of our Oceanfront Honeymoon Suites. It’s quite a step up from a 'broom closet,' I assure you."

Savannah felt a wave of relief, followed quickly by a flicker of annoyance. She hated fancy places. They felt stifling, artificial. She wasn't one for the uber-luxury of a private suite. She preferred the camaraderie of a shared kitchen and the stories of fellow travelers. The fact that this was the only option she could find felt like a cosmic joke. But she looked down again at her aching feet and knew she couldn't just keep fruitlessly hiking around the island all night, looking for someplace to stay. Beggars can't be choosers.

"How much?" she asked, afraid to hear the answer.

Mateo cited a number that made her heart skip a beat. It was more than she usually spent in two weeks of travel.

"Hold on, just a sec," she said, pulling her phone from her pocket, its heavy duty case thoroughly scuffed from being dropped on the trail so many times. She opened her banking app, her short, clean thumbnail hovering nervously over the screen. She checked the balance in her checking account, then her savings. Doing some quick mental math, she figured if she stayed for two nights, and only two nights, she’d still have just enough to finish the final leg of her trip through the rest of the archipelago. It would be tight, and it would have some ripple effects—no more expensive excursions, only the free museums, strictly street food for the rest of the month—but she could do it. Just barely.

"Okay," she sighed, sliding her credit card across the marble counter. She imagined her poor bank account, bracing for impact. "I'll take it. Two nights."

"A wise choice," Mateo said, handing her back her credit card along with a weighty, gold-embossed key card. "I hope you enjoy your stay with us. Guests usually find the experience revitalizing. Some even say, transformative. If you don't mind my saying, you look like you could really use the rest, Miss Savannah."

He wasn't wrong.

The honeymoon suite was absurd. That was the only word for it. Well, maybe breathtaking was another option.

It was larger than any apartment she’d ever lived in. A sprawling private balcony directly overlooked the darkening Caribbean, the sound of the lapping waves a gentle, rhythmic hush as the water faded from turquoise to a gorgeous shade of indigo. There was a spacious open concept sitting area with velvet couches and hand-carved wooden end tables, and in the attached bedroom, a king-sized bed that looked as soft and inviting as a giant, fluffy cloud.

Savannah dropped her rucksack by the door, the heavy olive green canvas looking utterly out of place against the silk wallpaper. She stripped off her sweat-stained hiking clothes until she was blissfully nude, and stepped into the bathroom. The shower was a walk-in rainfall setup with six different nozzles, and even more settings. She let the hot water wash away the salt, the dirt, and the fatigue, her mind already drifting to the vast bed that awaited her.

She didn’t even bother to unpack. Only the essentials. She pulled on an old, oversized T-shirt she used for sleeping, quickly brushed her teeth, stumbled to the bed, and collapsed. The sheets were high thread count Egyptian cotton, cool to the touch and impossibly soft. The pillows were unbelievably plush. She didn't even have time to pull the duvet over her before she was dead to the world.

As Savannah drifted into the deepest sleep of her life, the air in the room seemed to shimmer. It was a subtle vibration, like a heat haze rising over a desert road.

On the floor, the rugged, mud-stained rucksack began to change. The coarse green canvas softened, darkening into a rich, buttery cognac leather. The plastic buckles melted and reformed into polished brass hardware. The "Savannah" scrawled in all-caps Sharpie on the strap vanished, replaced by a set of leather tags with an embossed monogram reading "S.M." the letters looping elegantly in a classy script.

In the bathroom, her travel-sized plastic tube of generic brand toothpaste and her fraying manual toothbrush dissolved. In their place, a marble tray materialized, holding two sleek, top-of-the-line electric toothbrushes. A curated procession of glass bottles—serums, oils, lotions and even a pair of French perfumes—sparkled into existence on the countertop, looking like fine gemstones expertly set in jewelry.

The transformation moved to the bed. Savannah’s old, thinning T-shirt thinned even further, the cotton turning to a delicate, translucent silk chiffon. The hem shortened, and the neckline dipped, trimmed with intricate lace.

Her body, physically fit from months of backwoods trekking, began to soften and refine. The jagged scar on her shin from a rock slide in Costa Rica faded until the skin was flawless. The callouses on her palms and feet, earned from miles and miles of hiking well off the beaten path, vanished as if they'd never been there at all, replaced by soft, pampered skin. Her complexion, previously featuring a stark sun-baked farmer's tan and dotted with several persistent bug bites, cleared into an unblemished, uniformly tanned glow the likes of which would require dedicated time by the pool, or in a tanning bed.

Her muscles didn't disappear, but they shifted; the sturdiness of a long-distance hiker smoothed into the long, lean lines of a woman who spent her mornings in a private Pilates studio. Her shifted physique was soon joined by attractive curves that filled out her negligee ever so nicely, a perfect valley of cleavage, and thighs and glutes that suggested her typical workout regimen focused on lunges and squats. Her hair, usually a salt-tangled mess these days, and still damp from the shower, suddenly took on a luminous, honey-gold sheen, falling in perfect, healthy waves across the pillow.

Finally, on her left hand, a weight appeared. A platinum band set with a diamond the size of a postage stamp, flanked by a delicate jewel-encrusted wedding band.

And then, the space beside her occupied itself. The sheets shifted as the form of a tall, broad-shouldered man appeared, his breathing deep and steady, his arm instinctively reaching out to find her in the dark.

The first thing Savannah felt was the heat.

Not the oppressive sun-blasted heat of a bright Caribbean morning, but a localized, comforting warmth right in the bed with her. Savannah rolled over in her sleep, her subconscious seeking the warmth. Still unconscious, she draped an arm over a firm, muscular torso, her fingers getting delicately tangled in the soft, yet sturdy hair of the mysterious man's chest. In her half-asleep state, she thought she must be back in a hostel, perhaps having rolled too close to a fellow traveler on a neighboring bunk.

For an unthinking moment, she snuggled closer, eyes still closed, sighing into the crook of his neck. She squeezed gently and nuzzled her face into a neck that smelled of bergamot and sandalwood, and expensive soap.

Wait.

The unfamiliarity of the sensations pierced through the fog of sleep. Her hostels never smelled like sandalwood or bergamot. They only ever smelled like mildew, cheap beer, and occasionally weed.

Her eyes shot open.

The warm, sunny light of the early morning filtered around the edges of the premium blackout curtains she hadn't bothered to close the night before. Through bleary eyelids, she saw a face. A man’s face. He was strikingly handsome, with a square jaw dusted with dark stubble and thick, dark eyelashes. He was fast asleep, looking incredibly peaceful.

Savannah’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She wanted to scream, but the sound died in her throat. She didn't want to wake him—she didn't know who he was or why he was in her bed. Was she in the wrong room? Had someone broken in? Had she sleepwalked?

She went to cover her mouth in shock and froze.

Her nails were longer, shaped into perfect almonds, and painted a shimmering sky blue. And there, glinting on her finger, was the diamond ring.

"Oh my god," she mouthed, the words barely a breath.

She scrambled out of the bed, as calmly and quietly as she could manage with her heart still pounding in her chest. She didn't feel the usual morning stiffness in her joints. She felt light. She bolted for the bathroom and locked the door with a trembling hand, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

She turned to the mirror and gasped again. The woman staring back at her was her—but a version of her that had been airbrushed, polished, and perfected. Her skin was glowing, devoid of a single blemish or freckle. Her chest looked more supple, her hips more defined. She was wearing negligee the likes of which she'd never owned let alone packed for a backpacking trip.

"What the fuck... what the fuck..." she whispered, leaning forwards against the marble counter. Then she looked down at the counter. "Where is my stuff?"

She saw the rows of La Mer creams, the Chanel makeup, the Dyson hair dryer. She noticed the two toothbrushes.

"I'm either in the wrong room or I'm losing my mind," she breathed, clutching the edge of the vanity. "Or I’m having a stroke. Or this is some kind of hallucination brought on by dehydration."

She splashed cold water on her face. The water felt real. The sheer silk of her nightie felt real, too. She looked down at herself, noting the way the skimpy fabric clung to her new curves. She looked… incredible. But she wasn't herself. She slipped on the luxuriously soft hotel robe, just to have a little more coverage, and resolved that she couldn't very well hideout in the bathroom all morning. She had to get out of here safely before Mystery Man woke up, and then she could start to investigate what had happened. Maybe she could start at the front desk? Confirm her room number? Check security footage? She'd think of something…

She slowly unlocked the door and peeked back into the room. The man hadn't moved. Still sound asleep. Thank goodness. She looked toward the door, hoping to see her hiking boots and her rucksack so she could grab them and run, but it was all gone. In place of her trusty pack stood an expensive-looking three-piece set of Prada luggage in a chic burgundy color.

She crept over to the bags, her bare feet on the marble floor and her heart in her throat. Her toes, she noticed, were also perfectly manicured, sparkling with a hint of glitter. She reached for the monogrammed luggage tag on the smallest bag. S.M. Her initials. That was… weird.

She flipped the tag over.

Savannah Montgomery.

"Montgomery?" she whispered. Her last name was Miller.

Suddenly, she felt a presence behind her. Before she could turn around, a pair of strong, warm arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against a hard chest. A chin rested on her shoulder, and a low, morning-raspy voice vibrated against her ear. She hadn't heard the man get up.

"Morning, babe. Happy honeymoon. Sleep well?"

Savannah stiffened, her mind racing. Honeymoon? Babe? She turned in his arms, her hands instinctively coming up to rest on his bare chest. Up close, he was even more devastatingly handsome. His eyes were a deep, soulful brown, looking at her with nothing but pure affection.

"I... uh..." she stammered. Her brain was screaming Who are you? but something in the way he held her, the familiarity of his touch, sent a strange jolt of recognition through her body.

"You look a little out of it," he chuckled, his hands sliding down to rest on her round hips. "Still recovering from the flight?"

"I think I’m still a little disoriented," she found herself saying, her voice sounding higher, breathier than usual. "Waking up in a new place, you know?"

"I know," he said, pulling her into a gentle embrace. He began to stroke her back, his thumbs tracing soothing circles over her shoulder blades. "I get it. It was a long flight yesterday. But we’re here now. Two weeks of nothing but us. No work, no demands, just paradise."

A name flickered in the back of her mind. Like a word on the tip of her tongue that suddenly snapped into focus.

Julian.

"Julian," she said, the name feeling strangely right in her mouth.

"That's my name," he teased, kissing the top of her head. "I'm glad you haven't forgotten it already. I put a lot of work into that wedding. Almost as much as you. And don't you worry, I've taken care of all of our plans for the day, so you won't need to lift a finger."

Wedding? What?! Savannah pulled back, looking around the room. Her itinerary flashed in her head - she only had two nights here in St. Lucia, she needed to get back on track and fast. Her hiking plans. The rain forest preserve. Visiting the sea turtle nesting sites. She needed to get out of here. She needed to find her boots. She also needed to play along until she figured out who this Julian guy was.

"So," she said, trying to sound casual while her heart did somersaults. "What... what exactly do we have planned for today? Remind me? I'm such a space cadet in the morning."

Julian laughed, a rich, warm sound that made her feel strangely calm. "You really are. It’s okay, Vannah. I’ve got the itinerary memorized."

Vannah? No one called her Vannah. Ever. It sounded like the name of some rich girl who lived off a trust fund and spent most of her time on yachts.

"First thing," Julian said, ticking it off on his fingers, "we have a two-hour appointment at the spa. Couple’s massage and the resort's signature mud wrap. You said you wanted to 'melt' the jet lag off your skin the moment we got here."

Savannah blinked. A mud wrap? She’d planned to spend the morning ankle-deep in actual mud, trekking through the jungle to find hidden waterfalls.

"And then?" she prompted.

He smiled, tucking a strand of her strangely perfect hair behind her ear. "Then we have a private cabana reserved by the main pool. All-inclusive service. We’re going to sit there, drink something with an umbrella in it, and watch the ocean waves until our skin turns bronze. Then, dinner at Les Ondes—I managed to snag a 7:00 PM reservation."

Les Ondes was the most expensive restaurant on the island, and located right next door to the Azurea. Savannah had read about it in a travel blog and scoffed; a single appetizer cost more than a night at one of her beloved hostels.

The weight of the situation started to press down on her. She felt a surge of panic—a genuine, chest-tightening hyperventilation. Somehow, she wasn't Savannah Miller, the backpacker, anymore. She was apparently Savannah Montgomery, and who was that? A bride? A socialite? A pampered vacationer? Who was she? What had happened? What happened to the turtles? What about the rain forest hike? Where was her stuff? Her bags? Her boots? Her plans? Her self?

"Hey, hey," Julian said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming infinitely more tender as he noticed her spiraling. He took her face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away a stray tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "Breathe, Vannah. It’s okay. You’re just overwhelmed. It’s been a big month."

He pulled her close to his chest, holding her tight. And the weirdest thing happened: Savannah felt herself calm down. Not because she suddenly understood what was happening, but because his arms felt like home. Her body seemed to know him, even if her mind didn't. The scent of him, the way his heart beat against her ear—it was familiar.

"I'm okay," she whispered into his skin. "I'm okay."

"Good," he said, stepping back with a playful grin. "Because I’m starving. I’m going to order breakfast while you get ready."

He walked over to the bedside phone. Savannah watched him, her mind a whirl. She had to keep playing along. She didn't have her gear, she didn't have her money (presumably, her bank account was different now, too, and she wouldn't even know how to sign in), and she was trapped in a body that wasn't quite hers. She had no earthly idea what was happening.

"What do you want, babe?" Julian asked, his hand over the receiver. "The usual? Truffle eggs benedict? Or should I order that fruit platter you were eyeing in the brochure?"

Savannah felt a brief surge of her old self. No, I want scrambled eggs and toast. Simple. Fuel for the trail. But as she opened her mouth, and that new breathier voice came out all confident and melodic, the words changed. "Yes, please. But not truffle today, baby. The eggs benedict with the stone crab would actually be perfect. And let's do the jeweled fruit platter, too. I’ve been dreaming about tasting that papaya."

Julian beamed at her. "There’s my girl. Celebrating already."

Savannah froze. Where had those words come from? As far as she knew, she'd never even looked at the menu. And she didn't even like crab that much—or did she? Not to mention, eating like this would definitely blow the rest of her budget. How was she going to afford Barbados, or Grenada, or Trinidad, if she blew all of the money she had left on a way-too-expensive hotel suite and fancy fruit? She tried to set aside her panic for the moment, as she had more pressing matters to attend to.

While Julian was on the phone, Savannah turned to "her" suitcases. She unzipped the largest one.

Instead of the quick-dry cargo shorts and sweat-wicking T-shirts she was hoping for, Savannah found layers of silk, linen, and fine lace. Everything was organized perfectly, and looked like it would fit her new, more curvaceous body like a glove. There were designer sandals, wide-brimmed hats, and a collection of bikinis that looked more like art than swimwear.

She reached in and pulled out a bikini top. It was a deep emerald green, the fabric shimmering like a mermaid’s scales. It came with a matching, sheer silk sarong that felt like a cool breeze against her skin.

This will be perfect for the spa, a voice in her head whispered.

"Stop it, Savannah," she muttered to herself. "You're a hiker, not an heiress. You wear Keens and a sports bra."

But as she put on the bikini, she couldn't help but stare in the full-length mirror. She looked... stunning. The green made her eyes pop, and the cut of the suit accentuated every new curve of her body. She even found herself striking a couple of poses, absentmindedly. She tied the sarong around her hips, and she looked exactly like the kind of woman who belonged in an Oceanfront Suite. As she took in her reflection, another thought bubbled up: I’m going to look so hot in this by the pool. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog. Focus, Savannah. Find a way out. Go talk to the front desk, as soon as you can.

Breakfast arrived on a rolling silver cart. The eggs benedict were rich, the hollandaise sauce perfect, and the fruit was dusted with some kind of edible gold leaf. Savannah ate with a gusto she usually reserved for a post-hike burger, but her manners were impeccable. She navigated the various forks and fancy napkins as if she’d been doing it her whole life. Every time she felt the urge to panic, a bite of the delicious food or a casual touch from Julian seemed to soothe the anxiety away.

"You've got a little sauce..." Julian reached over, his thumb brushing the corner of her lip. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in, his eyes darkening, his intent clear.

Savannah’s first instinct was surprisingly to melt into him, but a sharp spike of her old self protested. You don't know this man!

She quickly stood up, holding her hands up. "Wait! I… need to do my makeup! I need to put on my face for the day."

Julian blinked, looking a bit surprised. "We have a little time before the spa… I thought maybe… we could…"

"I just... I want to look nice for the first day of our honeymoon," she lied, retreating to the bathroom. Julian still looked a little put out, but placated. For the moment.

She had honestly never been any good at makeup. Usually, a bit of tinted moisturizer and some lip balm was the extent of her routine, if she bothered with anything at all. Her skin care regimen was more focused on sun protection than presentation. But as she stood in front of the vanity mirror in the spacious en suite bathroom, her hands moved with a life of their own. She applied primer, foundation, mascara, and a subtle smokey eye with the precision of a professional artist. She contoured her cheekbones and swiped on a nude gloss that made her lips look plump and inviting.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Julian actually stood up. He'd just finished thoughtfully packing a beach tote for them with everything they'd need to hang out poolside. "Wow. Vannah. You look... incredible."

"Thanks," she said, feeling a flush of pride that felt entirely alien. "Shall we?"

When they arrived at the resort spa, Savannah tried to stay alert. This is it, she thought. My chance. I’ll tell the masseuse I’m being kidnapped or… something. I’ll run for the lobby.

But the spa itself was a blur of sensory indulgence. Soothing lights, delightful aromas, calming music. Savannah fully intended to find her opening and make her escape, but between her own nerves and the peaceful atmosphere, she found herself leaning into the experience. Instead of speaking up, or getting some distance, she just… didn't. She continued to play along. Sometimes she even forgot that's what she was doing.

In her old life, Savannah’s idea of a "spa day" was soaking her feet in a cold stream after a ten-mile trek. Here, she and Julian lay side-by-side on massage tables while two therapists worked over their muscles with scented oils. Expert hands pushed deep into the muscles of her back, erasing any lingering fatigue from three months of backpacking by thirty minutes in.

As the therapist’s hands moved over her back, her shoulders, her thighs, Savannah felt much of her tension, and perhaps even a bit of her resolve, dissolving. The "backpacker" Savannah was trying to hold on, trying to remember the name of the trail she was supposed to hike, the name of the beach where the sea turtles nested, even the color of her old rucksack, but it was getting harder. The scent of the essential oils and the sounds of the indoor waterfall were intoxicating. Then after the massage was over, she was wrapped in warm, mineral-rich mud that made her skin tingle. The scents of eucalyptus, lavender, and more filled the air. She felt like she was enclosed in her own little beauty cocoon.

After the massage and mud wrap were both over, they sat together in a private relaxation room, sipping cucumber water. Savannah felt so blissful, so light, that she turned to Julian and hugged him.

"Thank you," she whispered. "This was... amazing."

"Anything for my wife," he murmured, leaning in for a kiss.

Again, as she mentally rejected the word wife, she pulled back at the last second, crying out, "Wait!" A small frown of concern creased Julian's forehead.

"Is everything okay? You seem a little... skittish today."

"It's just, my makeup," she said, her manicured hands flying to her face without touching it. "I don't want to ruin the 'look' before we get to the pool! Think of the photos, baby!"

Where had that come from?

"Right. The photos," Julian said, his smile returning, as he held his hands up in surrender. "Don't want to ruin the masterpiece. Let's head down to the cabana then."

As they stood up to leave, Savannah thought to herself, Since when do I care about my makeup? She had to correct herself, No, that was just a cover I used to stop this total stranger from kissing me. Of course I care about my makeup. I just need to figure out what's going on before we kiss or anything.

Even though he is handsome.

Feeling more confused and uneasy than ever, Savannah resolved to try her best to keep track of which thoughts were truly hers. But things were quickly getting… blurrier.

The pool area was a turquoise paradise. Their private cabana was draped in white canvas curtains, featuring a pair of lounge chairs, a plush daybed and a personal server named Nicolas who gave them each a sapphire blue wristband which gave them full access to all the resort's amenities.

As soon as Julian settled onto the lounger, Savannah saw her chance.

"I’m just going to go for a little stroll," she said, adjusting her sarong and grabbing her designer sunglasses and a tiny purse she hadn't noticed before. "I want to explore the grounds, see where everything is."

"I'll come with you," Julian said, starting to get back up.

"No! No, stay. Relax, baby. You’ve been working so hard planning all this. I just want to poke around the boutiques and maybe find the concierge to ask about... a few things. I'll be right back, promise!"

Julian chuckled. "Alright. Don't get lost. You know how you are with directions."

"I do?" Savannah asked, pausing uncertainly.

"Vannah, you got lost in our own wedding venue trying to find the powder room. Just follow the signs. And see if you can find us some drinks!"

Savannah nodded and hurried away. Lost in a wedding venue? She was a master of geography! She could read a topographic map in a thunderstorm!

She marched toward the lobby, her mind set. She would find Mateo, or whoever is working concierge today. She would start asking some questions. She would ask them what happened to the girl in the hiking boots who checked in yesterday evening. She would demand her rucksack back. She would… she would… need to find the lobby first…

She suddenly found she was a little turned around. Which way was she going? She could be so spacey sometimes, and directionally challenged.

What? No, that’s not true. She was great with a map. She’d been traveling solo for months, for crying out loud.

But wait, no, that can't be right either… After all, she was a little lost right there in the hotel and that felt perfectly normal. Like it happened all the time. Sometimes Julian joked that she could get lost in her own house.

Wait, how do I know what Julian says sometimes? He's a stranger… Savannah was getting so confused. That wasn't like her. Was it?

What had she been doing again? Looking for… something. Going… somewhere. To ask about… something.

Huh. She paused, tapping her painted lips with a long nail. What could she have been up to.

As she walked through the lush gardens, and sun-drenched patios, she found herself losing track of her thoughts completely. She felt her urgency melting away. The sunshine was gorgeous. The hibiscus flowers were so beautiful. She should take a photo. She reached into her tiny clutch and pulled out an iPhone—a much newer model than her old one, in a trendy case without a single scratch. She snapped a picture of the flowers, then another, and another. Then a few selfies, just for good measure. 

Hang on. Where was I going again? Oh right, the lobby.

She turned around. The paths branched off in multiple directions; towards the beach, back to the pool, over to the spa, several that seemed to head off various wings of rooms and suites.

"Nowww, which way was the lobby?" she wondered aloud. Her brow furrowed. She felt a strange, dizzying sensation. The layout of the resort, which should have been simple, felt like a labyrinth.

"Come on, Vannah, how can you be this spacey," she giggled to herself, twirling a manicured nail through a wavy lock of her blonde hair, and not even clocking that she had used her new nickname. "I'm literally hopeless."

She stood there for a moment, the sun warming her shoulders. What had she been looking for? Something important, she was sure of it.

"Drinks!" she exclaimed. "That's it. I was getting drinkies for me and hubby!"

She pivoted on her heel, her wedges clicking against the stone path, and headed straight for the poolside bar. She didn't even think about the lobby or Mateo. She didn't think about her rucksack. Or her hiking boots. She barely thought about anything.

"Two piña coladas, please!" she told the bartender, flashing a bright, vacant smile. "Extra pineapple!"

She watched him blend the drinks, her mind a pleasant, sunny blank. She fidgeted with her wristband—the "all-inclusive" pass—and felt a surge of giddy delight. It was like magic. You just showed your wrist and things appeared! As she looked at the wristband, the sparkles bouncing off her engagement ring and wedding band caught her attention, and she spent the next several moments gazing at her rings in the sunlight without a care in the world. She only snapped out of it when the bartender announced her order was finished.

She sauntered back toward the cabana, hips swaying, two huge frozen drinks in her hands. Halfway there, she stopped.

What am I doing?

Savannah's old self roared back to life, horrified. She almost dropped the drinks as a wave of vertigo hit her. Drinkies? Hubby? You were going to the lobby to find out why your reality has been— is still being rewritten!

"Savannah, get a grip!" she scolded herself.

She felt as if two completely different people were fighting for control of her brain. One wanted to find a map and a sturdy pair of shoes before putting as much distance between her and this resort as possible; the other wanted to lay down on a recliner and be fed slices of mango while she worked on her already fantastic tan. As the two sides of her mind competed, she found herself walking on autopilot back to the pool area. Damn it.

"Look what I found!" she said as she reached the cabana, her voice betraying none of her internal struggle.

Julian took the beverage with a grin. "You're a lifesaver, babe."

Savannah sat on the edge of the daybed, her heart racing. She took a long sip of her drink. It was delicious—creamy, sweet, and spiked with high-end rum. She felt the alcohol hit her system almost instantly, softening the edges of her panic.

"I need to put on some sunscreen," she murmured, reaching into the tote bag.

She searched for her SPF 50 zinc reef-safe sport-block. All she found was a bottle of shimmering tanning oil with a paltry SPF of 20.

Oh, perfect, I want to get a real glow today, she thought. I want to see how bronze I can get.

Hmm, was that her own thought? She did think it, she reassured herself, so it's probably fine.

She began to slather the oil over her legs, her arms, her chest, her midriff, her fingers admiring the smooth, toned skin. She laid back on the day bed, closing her eyes behind her designer shades. The sunshine felt intense in the best way. Thirty minutes later, she let Julian apply the next round of tanning oil to her back when she rolled over. She loosed her sarong to minimize tan lines. She should ask the front desk if there is anywhere safe to tan nude here.

Wait, a thought crept up from her old self, the front desk. She needed to—

"Another round?" Julian asked, derailing her train of thought, as Nicolas their server came back around.

"Ooh, yes, please," Savannah chirped.

By the third drink, the voice of her old self, the backpacker, the rugged adventurer, was becoming less noticeable, a ghost in the back of her mind. Savannah felt giggly. She felt hot.

She pulled out her phone. Maybe there's a clue in here, she thought, a final, half-hearted attempt at investigation.

She opened her photo gallery. There were no photos of muddy trails or mountain peaks. Instead, there were hundreds of pictures of her, but surprisingly there were hundreds more of her and Julian together. For every mirror selfie, every bikini photo, every photo of her in a white dress surrounded by rose petals, there was another of the happy couple. There they were at a fancy engagement party. There they were at a tasting for their wedding cake. There they were at the wedding itself. She looked happy. She looked like she belonged there. She didn't remember any of it.

This was so weird.

She opened TikTok. She wasn't sure if she'd even had that app installed before. Her handle was @VannahMonty. She had fifty thousand followers.

She scrolled to her most recent post, finding a video posted just twenty hours ago. It was her and Julian, sitting in the plush leather seats of a first-class cabin, sipping champagne.

"Honeymoon bound!" she said to the camera, her hair perfectly coiffed, bubbling glass in her hand. Julian leaned in and kissed her cheek. The caption read: Finally! Honeymoon mode activated! #StLuciaHereWeCome #Honeymoon #MarriedLife #MrsMontgomery.

Savannah watched the video over and over. She didn't look like she was being kidnapped or coerced. She looked like she was having the time of her life. But why didn't she remember any of this ?

"Baby, get over here!" she called out, her voice bubbly.

Julian slid over next to her on the day bed. Savannah held the phone up high, pouting her lips and tilting her head to find the best light.

"Say 'paradise'!" she chirped.

Julian laughed and pulled her close, and she reflexively turned and planted a lingering kiss on his cheek, capturing it in high definition for her followers.

As soon as she hit 'post,' a cold shiver went down her spine. What are you doing? You don't even use TikTok! You need to get out of here!

"Julian," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "How... how long are we staying here again?"

He looked at her with that patient, loving expression. "Two weeks, Vannah. We talked about this. Two full weeks of bliss before we have to go back to our real life."

Two weeks.

For the briefest of moments, Savannah's old self mused, Two weeks to escape. Two weeks to find a way back to my real life.

Quickly though, Savannah's new self interjected, Two weeks of paradise. Two weeks to work on my tan. Two weeks of flirty fun with my man.

"Two weeks," Savannah repeated, a slow, dreamy smile spreading across her face. "Yay, I'm so excited."

Evening fell, the sky turning a deep, velvety purple over the horizon. They headed back to the suite to change for dinner.

Savannah opened the closet. She wasn't searching for her rucksack anymore. She was searching for which dress her husband might like best.

She found it—a slinky, midnight-blue silk slip dress that hugged her curves and featured a slit that went halfway up her thigh. She found a four-inch pair of strappy silver heels in her suitcase that made her legs look miles long.

She spent an hour in the bathroom, her hands moving with practiced ease. She touched up her makeup. She pinned her hair up in an elegantly tousled chignon, leaving a few tendrils to frame her face. She applied a bold red lipstick, and what she knew to be Julian's favorite perfume. She somehow knew instinctively how to do all of this pampering without a second thought.

When she stepped out, Julian was waiting there in a crisp suit. He looked at her, and the air in the room seemed to thicken.

"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," he said softly.

Savannah walked over to him, her hips swaying naturally in the high heels. She looped her arm through his, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"And you're the most handsome husband in the world," she said. Wife was a title that was getting easier and easier to wrap her head around.

As they walked toward the restaurant hand-in-hand, Savannah felt the last flickers of her old self fading. She tried to remember the name of the island she’d arrived from, but it wouldn't come. She tried to remember the weight of her rucksack, but her shoulder only felt the warmth of Julian’s arm.

The dinner at Les Ondes was a masterpiece. They drank expensive wine and ate sea bass that melted on the tongue. She laughed ditzily at Julian's jokes, her mind clear, not a hint of any anxiety. She wasn't worried about slipping away. She wasn't worried about her bank account. She wasn't worried about anything. She felt like the luckiest woman alive.

By the time they walked back to the suite, she was well and truly tipsy. The tropical air was sweet with the scent of night-blooming orchids.

Julian unlocked the door and stepped inside, turning on the dim, golden accent lights.

Savannah stood in the center of the room. She looked at the king-sized bed. She looked at her new leather luggage, monogrammed V.M. just like she'd ordered.

Suddenly, everything clicked. Sparkly, new memories began to crystallize. She remembered her name, Vannah, obviously. She remembered a whole sequence of sweet (and sexy) romantic dates with Julian, the love of her life. She remembered a proposal in Paris. She bit her lip as she remembered how much she loved the way Julian looked in a tux. She remembered the wedding. She remembered the white roses and the delicious cake and the way Julian’s voice had cracked when he said his vows. She remembered the first class flight, the excitement, the way she’d been dreaming of this honeymoon for the better part of a year.

Vannah Montgomery (née Miller) wasn't a backpacker. Why had she ever thought she was a backpacker? That sounded totally exhausting. Walking in the mud? Staying in hostels with strangers? Carrying all her own stuff? On her back?

"I must have had, like, the weirdest dream," she whispered to herself.

"You say something, babe?" Julian asked, tossing his jacket onto a chair.

Vannah turned to him, her eyes bright. She reached back and unzipped her dress, letting the blue silk pool at her feet. Underneath, she wore a matching set of lace lingerie that left very little to the imagination.

She walked toward him, her eyes full of fire and confidence. She took his tie in her hands and pulled him toward the plush king bed.

"I said," she whispered, her voice a sultry purr, "let's start this honeymoon off right."

Julian didn't need to be told twice. As they sank into the Egyptian cotton sheets, Vannah let go of the last traces of Savannah Miller. She didn't need the rain forest or the turtles or the rugged trails. Not anymore.

She had all the adventure she could ever want right here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With all the commotion over the course of the previous week, Eli still hadn’t found time to buy more coffee, or any groceries for that matter. And he didn’t think he’d have time to stop by the Daily Grind to pay Sage another visit. So in lieu of coffee, Eli scrounged some tea bags from the pantry, boiled some water, and made do. Eli spent the next hour pacing his living room, drinking tea that he barely tasted, mentally rehearsing the logic of his plan. He had realized the day before that this whole time he’d just been beating his head against the wall, trying to convince the contract to work differently than it did. Trying to convince Nyx to bend the rules when she was just as bound by them as he was. He had been approaching it all wrong. He didn't need to break the contract. He needed to re-negotiate it somehow. He needed to find a loophole, some kind of logic that could be turned against itself. And if he wasn’t mistaken, he’d finally thought of something. He hoped.

As far as he could tell from years of being bound by it, the contract with Nyx was built on a simple two step process. The first step was obviously encountering an individual that he found attractive in some way, which would herald the freezing of time and the arrival of Nyx who would bring about the second step: the transformation. Physically transforming the subject into exactly the kind of woman Eli might like and mentally transforming her to return his momentary affection with a seemingly undying adoration.

For a decade, he had thought of Nyx as the architect of his fate, more or less in control of the whole process of granting his wish. She certainly acted that way much of the time, and he had taken to treating her as an entity beyond the system. But yesterday, lying on that massage table with Tania, a thought had sparked in the darkness. Nyx wasn't just the architect, the conduit of his fantasies. She was also a person, at least in some form. Eli didn’t exactly know the nuances of demon biology - were they living things, undead, something else outside of conventional categorization? He wasn’t sure, but he was hoping he was correct in his guess.

Yes, Nyx was the one who translated his subconscious, fleeting crushes into a tangible, if hollow, reality. But for all her mockery and malice, Nyx was also a woman. Or at least, she chose to appear as one. She chose the outfits. She chose to banter with him. She had been chastising him for his tastes, mocking his morality, yes, but also teasing him with her own increasingly provocative forms.

She likes the attention, Eli realized. Or maybe she’s just bored. She’s been watching me live out these fantasies for ten years, but when it comes down to it, she’s probably the only one who truly knows me.

If he was going to break free of this cycle, he figured the only way out was through Nyx. Even if she was the most powerful, and most seductive, being he had ever known. Appealing to her better nature, if she even had one, had so far been a non-starter. But maybe a different approach… well, it was worth a try anyway.

He looked out his window. The park across the street was a lush, green rectangle in the urban sprawl. He’d avoided it for two years because of the Jogger.

The Jogger. That was what he’d been calling her in his head, since he didn’t know her name. She was a blonde phenomenon of athletic grace. He’d only seen her from his window, but nevertheless knew a surprising amount about her. She owned a veritable rainbow of neon sports bras. She had a noticeable rhythmic stride, and seemed to always be listening to something upbeat on her circuit. She was radiant, her skin glowing, and seemed to lead a healthy, uncomplicated life, with a perfectly predictable workout regimen. Once he’d noticed her one morning, her bright clothing catching his eye as he looked out the window of his apartment, he’d resolved to keep his distance, ceding the park as yet another space that was just too risky for him to go. He knew that if he ever truly met her, if he ever let that spark of "Wow" ignite in his chest, Nyx would descend like a vulture and pick the girl's personality clean until there was nothing left but a fitness-crazed bimbo.

He had never wanted to do that to her. He never wanted to do that to anyone anymore. That being said, today he was going to the park. It was all part of his plan. But he would do everything in his power to make sure she would not end up another victim. Instead, she was going to be… the bait.

At 9:00 AM, Eli stepped into the sunlight. The air was crisp, smelling of mown grass from the park across the street and car exhaust from the morning commuters on the road. He felt incredibly nervous. He crossed the street to the park entrance and scoped out the area. No sign of the Jogger yet. He walked to a bench near the main running loop, a strategic point where the path narrowed near a decorative fountain.

He sat down, not sure what to do with his hands. Despite his best efforts, they kept shaking. Now, all he had to do was wait. Maybe he should’ve brought a book or something? No, no distractions, he reminded himself.

Wait for it, he told himself. Wait for her. It’s Thursday morning. She’ll be on the loop. Eventually. She never missed a morning run.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. A man with a golden retriever walked by. An elderly couple slowly made their way towards him from the other side of the park, then sat on a bench a way’s down the path. Eli’s heart was beating like a drum in his chest, pounding out a rhythm of pure stress.

Then, he heard the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of expensive sneakers on asphalt.

Around the bend she came. The Jogger.

Up close, she was a masterpiece. He’d never seen her this close before. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a high, swinging ponytail. Her skin was flushed with a healthy glow, a light sheen of sweat catching the morning light on her toned shoulders. She wore a lime-green sports bra and black athletic shorts that left very little to the imagination. As she ran, her chest moved with a rhythmic, heavy bounce that was, even to Eli’s guilt-ridden mind, primally attractive. He had to allow himself to notice her. That was part of the plan, too, he reminded himself.

Besides her prominent bosom, he also noted the curves of her calf muscles, the determined set of her jaw, and the cute cupid’s bow of her upper lip. She was simply stunning.

She zipped past his bench. Eli felt a rush of displaced air, the scent of a pleasantly floral deodorant, and... nothing.

The world didn't stop. No frozen time. The fountain kept splashing. A bird chirped in the oak tree above just like it had the moment before.

For just a moment, Eli was deeply confused, but then he let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-groan. Of course. They hadn't made eye contact. The contract required that step, that mutual recognition, to make the connection. He didn't want to chase after her (that would be just too creepy) so he decided to sit tight and just wait for her to loop around again. She always did.

The park trail was only about a mile long. He estimated he had probably ten minutes, give or take, to prepare his speech. Then, showtime.

When he saw the flash of lime-green coming around the bend again, Eli stood up. He didn't run. He just stepped into the middle of the narrow path, pretending to check his watch, looking for all the world like a distracted pedestrian.

"Oh! Ohmigosh! Sorry!” the woman gasped, her pace slowing drastically as she nearly collided with him.

She stopped abruptly, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. She looked down at the pavement as she collected herself, wiping a stray blonde hair from her forehead.

“I totally almost ran you over,” she said with a sweet, apologetic smile. “My bad, I was really in the zone.”

“It's okay,” he responded. “It’s my fault.” And that was the truth. It was usually the truth. Eli looked her right in her eyes. They were a bright, striking blue.

The beautiful blue of her eyes suddenly froze. The smile remained on her lips, but her expression and everything around them was frozen. Right on cue.

The splashing of the fountain stopped mid-drop, the spray of water hanging in the air like a crystalline curtain. The birds became feathered statues, like gargoyles perched in the nearby oak trees. The wind died, leaving the park in a profound, eery silence.

A thick, billowy cloud of red smoke erupted from the lawn behind him. It churned and pulsed, smelling of that familiar stench of sulfur.

As expected, Nyx stepped out of the scarlet haze.

She was dressed in her own version of ‘athleisure.’ A skintight, charcoal-grey workout set featuring what resembled a pair of yoga pants that fit her like a glove and an even tighter sports bra with criss-crossed straps that showed off the crimson glow of her shoulder blades and midriff. Her raven hair was in a sleek, high ponytail that mimicked the Jogger’s.

“Elias,” she purred, her eyes dancing with sardonic glee. “A busty jogger? Really? After the last couple of transformations, I rather thought we were moving towards a more… sophisticated phase of your libido, though I suppose the classics never die. She’s quite fetching, isn't she? Those legs... that stamina. I can practically feel the ‘gym-bunny’ tropes writing themselves.”

She began to circle the frozen blonde, a predatory smirk on her face. “What shall it be this time? A workout partner who’s perpetually ‘thirsty’ for you? A pilates instructor who wants to show off her flexibility on the yoga mat, on the sofa, in the shower? Ooh, or maybe—”

“Stop,” Eli said. He wasn't sure when, but his hands had stopped shaking. He felt a strange, confident clarity. “This visit isn't about her.”

Nyx stopped. She turned her head, squinting her obsidian eyes. Then she rolled her eyes, a gesture of pure, demonic exasperation. “Oh, please. Don't start with the ‘don't ruin her’ speech again. It’s Thursday, Elias. I’m not in the mood for a morality play. The contract is clear. You looked, you wanted, I deliver.”

“You didn't hear me,” Eli said, stepping toward her.

Nyx smirked, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “I heard you just fine. You're trying to justify some insipid nonsense about how this time is ‘different.’ You should know by now. It’s never different…” 

She trailed off, and let out an unexpectedly delicate sigh. She furrowed her brow, and the mirth that usually played with the curl of her lips seemed to vanish. “You know, Elias, I try, too. I try so hard to please you. I pay attention to your whims, your needs, your every fantasy. I don’t know at what point my ministrations started to disappoint you, or bore you, or violate whatever situation is going on in that conscience of yours, but I’m not going anywhere, Elias. We’re bound together eternally by your own desires, remember? So, to business; do you want her to have the standard Valley Girl accent or should we go with a breathless Southern belle for a change?”

Eli didn't answer with words. He walked right up to Nyx, invading her personal space in a way he’d never dared to before. Surprised, she held her taloned hands up in front of her instinctively. He reached out and grabbed her bare wrists. They were cold, not quite chilled like ice, but more like a void without heat.

Nyx’s expression flickered from shock to indignation to curiosity. For the first time in a decade, she looked genuinely confused. “What are you doing? Let go, you little—”

“You misunderstood me before. I said it isn't about her,” Eli repeated, his voice low and firm. He leaned in until their faces were mere inches apart. “And it isn’t. Because this time it’s about you.”

He looked her straight in the dark pools of her eyes. She looked back, their gazes holding, their connection palpable. The frozen silence of the park somehow seemed to deepen. Nyx’s face continued to pass through a dizzying sequence of emotions. First, that sharp edge of confusion. Then, a flash of annoyance that made her squint her eyes accusingly. And finally... a dawning understanding.

“Elias,” she whispered, her voice losing its mocking edge. “Wait. You can’t do what I suspect you are trying to do. I don’t think that’s how this works.”

“As best as I can tell, it’s exactly how this works,” Eli countered. “I have a crush, Nyx. If I’m being completely honest with myself, I think I’ve had one for years. You’re the only person who’s been there for me, through every milestone, every heartbreak, every mistake, every transformation. You’re the one who knows exactly what I like because you are what I like. You design my reality. You’ve been doing it for years. Who else could I possibly want?”

Nyx’s expression softened as she processed his compliments. It was a slow, agonizingly beautiful transition. The confident mask crumbled, leaving behind a look of profound vulnerability. She relinquished one of her wrists from his grasp, but she didn't pull away like he expected. Instead, she reached up, her cold, sharp-nailed hand stroking his cheek in an almost loving gesture.

“I always knew you were a clever one,” she murmured. Her voice was no longer thrumming with demonic annoyance; it carried a soft, almost wistful tone instead. “You’re going to try to use the contract to trap a demon in the mortal plane.”

“I'm not trapping you, not exactly,” Eli said. “The way I see it, I'm freeing you, too. I’m freeing both of us.”

Nyx leaned into his touch. She glanced away from him with a look that was no longer panicked, but somehow thoughtful. “The contract... it still requires a transformation, Elias. You know that. I can't stay as I am, let alone walk the mortal plane. If you claim me, I have to become what you desire. I still have to administer the fulfillment of the contract.”

Eli nodded, “I’d kind of figured that would be the case. I have a few ideas.”

She looked at him, her obsidian eyes shimmering. “What do you wish for, Elias? What kind of transformation? Make it special. Please. I’ve spent so much time watching you choose others. What do you choose for me?”

Eli leaned into her pointed ear, his breath hitching slightly as he whispered a long, detailed set of instructions.

As he finished, Nyx took a step back. She looked impressed. Truly, deeply impressed. And more than a little flattered. Her confidence was back in full force, but there was no mockery in her voice when she asked, “Are you sure? Once I snap my fingers, the demon is gone. There will be only what you’ve described. There is no ‘cancel’ button on this one. No going back. Not that there ever was.”

Eli looked at her; the creature who had been his curse and yet for so long his only true companion. He gave a firm, resolute nod. A sheepish, genuine smile touched his lips. “I'm sure. I'm tired of dating fantasies, Nyx. I’d like to try dating you.”

Nyx smiled a real smile, one that reached eyes that were already starting to turn from black to a deep, dark brown. If her skin were any color other than red, Eli was sure he’d have seen her blushing. She raised her hand.

“As you wish, Elias.”

She snapped her fingers.

The red smoke didn't merely billow. It exploded, as if full of excitement, accompanied by a blinding flash of scarlet light that felt as warm as a summer afternoon. The magic didn't even touch the frozen jogger, who remained a statue of athletic grace several feet away. It only enveloped the space where Eli and the demoness stood.

When the light faded and the smoke started to clear, Eli was standing alone by the bench.

The world rushed back into motion. The fountain splashed. The birds continued their songs. The Jogger, whose name Eli still didn’t know, was oblivious to the cosmic shift that had occurred in the blink of an eye. She gave him a quick, polite nod and a smile as she passed him, then continued her lap, her ponytail swinging as she disappeared around the next bend.

Eli stood there, blinking rapidly, his heart pounding. He'd looked at the Jogger and nothing had happened. But maybe that was because he'd already made eye contact with her before? And where was Nyx? For a moment, he thought he’d failed. He worried he’d just wished his only friend out of existence.

Then, he looked at the bench.

A woman was sitting there who hadn’t been there before. Her skin wasn't red. She didn’t have talons. She was real.

She had a shock of vibrant red hair that fell in elegant, controlled waves to her shoulders. Her skin was smooth and flawless, with a warm sun-kissed glow, and she was dressed in a razor-sharp charcoal-grey suit jacket over a black pencil skirt and matching low-cut blouse that were  molded to a gorgeously lithe and curvaceous body.

A leather briefcase sat on the bench beside her. She appeared to be deeply absorbed in leafing through a stack of legal documents, her elegant, black-manicured nails helping her separate and turn the pages with a practiced, efficient rhythm.

Eli took in the sight, his breath catching. She was beautiful, yes, but it was a different kind of beauty. It was nothing like the beauty he’d been faced with the past few days (or even years). Sage, Roxy, Tiffany, Brielle, Tania, and all the others that came before, they were each undeniably gorgeous. But there was a certain substance to the woman in front of him that Eli wasn’t used to. A realness. An intelligence.

The wind picked up, a stiff morning breeze that caught the edges of her papers. With a startled “Oh!” she reached out, but several sheets of paper escaped, fluttering across the asphalt toward Eli’s feet.

Eli didn't hesitate. He scrambled to gather the sheets, his fingers brushing the cool grass as he did so. He straightened up and walked toward the bench, holding the papers out.

As she reached for them, their hands touched.

Her hand was warm.

He didn't pull away immediately, and neither did she. Their fingers lingered, a silent acknowledgement of an instant connection that felt miles deep.

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was familiar, rich, melodic, and slightly dry, but any sense of darkness or malevolence was gone, replaced by a sophisticated, human warmth. “This wind is a nightmare for contract law.”

Eli took the seat next to her, his heart finally slowing to a steady, hopeful thrum. “Contract law? That sounds complicated.”

The woman laughed. It was a bright, genuine sound that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. Eli felt a little flip in his chest—the same kind of sensation he’d felt for Sage, but this time, there was no sense of dread following behind it.

“It can be,” she said, tucking a stray red hair behind her ear. “I’m a junior lawyer at Thorne & Associates, just around the corner. I handle high-stakes contract negotiations. Mostly making sure people don't sign things they’ll regret for the next thousand years.”

She looked him up and down, her gaze sharp and discerning. A slow, approving smile spread across her face. “I’m Nykki, by the way. That’s N-Y-K-K-I. Don’t ask, my parents were super weird.”

Eli smiled, a real, unburdened smile. “I'm Elias. But everyone calls me Eli.”

“Hmm,” Nykki said, tilting her head. “I think I like Elias better. It has more... gravitas.”

They fell into an easy, natural conversation. For the first time in a decade, Eli wasn't some unwilling puppeteer. He wasn't directing every interaction. They talked about his work in graphic design—she actually seemed to follow along and understand the nuance of what he was talking about—and her work with “the devils in corporate law.”

She was intelligent. She challenged his opinions. She made jokes that were so biting and clever they made him genuinely laugh out loud.

There was no red smoke. No frozen time. Just two people on a park bench.

“Listen,” Eli said, feeling a surge of boldness that felt entirely his own. “I know this might be pretty forward, and we only just met, but... you seem really interesting. Like, exceptionally interesting. Could I take you out sometime? Maybe dinner?”

Nykki blushed. It wasn't a magic trick; it was a rush of blood to her shapely cheeks, turning them a bright, familiar scarlet. She looked down at her papers, then back at him.

“Oh, what the hell! I think I’d like that very much, Elias. I’m free tomorrow night, if that works for you… You know, it’s hard to explain, but I feel like I already know you. It almost feels like we’ve been friends for years, or like I’ve been watching your life from the sidelines or something.” She trailed off, a look of brief confusion crossing her face. She shook her head and chuckled. “I probably sound lobotomized. Am I making any sense?”

Eli reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently. He enjoyed the warmth, the solid reality of her. “You absolutely don't sound lobotomized. In fact, I think you're making perfect sense. And Friday sounds perfect.”

Nykki looked him right in the eyes. Her dark brown eyes were full of life, full of a brand new history, and for the first time in Eli’s memory of potential romantic partners, full of a choice that belonged entirely to her. Eli couldn’t help but grin.

“I’ve decided. You’re adorable,” she said, her voice dipping into a playful, flirtatious cadence. “Truly.”

Eli blushed and looked past her, toward the fountain. The air smelled fresh without a hint of sulfur or hellfire. The water was still splashing. The birds were still singing. The world was moving, chaotic and messy and beautiful, and for the first time in a long time, Eli wasn't afraid to be involved. He could be part of it, he was part of it. He was thrilled. Even his inner teenage self was satisfied.

He wasn't going to hell. Not anymore. And neither was Nyx. He was staying right where he was supposed to be. Nyx, or Nykki now, would stay right here with him. Instead of ruining the lives of those around them, they could try to build something together for a change.

“So,” Elias said, standing up and offering her his arm. “Tell me more about these contracts. I hear the fine print can be a real killer.”

Nykki laughed, tucked her briefcase under her arm, and snaked her other arm through his, clasping his hand in hers. “Oh, you have no idea, Elias. But don't you worry. I'm an expert.”

As they walked away from the bench together, the red-haired lawyer and the newly unburdened graphic designer, the only thing left behind them was a faint, lingering red haze that slowly cleared until it was completely invisible, as a long-standing, and seemingly impenetrable contract was finally null and void.

The End.

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Story Navigation

Chapter 1: Link

Chapter 2: Link

Chapter 3: Link

Chapter 4: Link

Chapter 5: Link

Chapter 6: (You are here)

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Eli stayed in bed for another hour, staring at the ceiling. His phone buzzed a couple more times. He had to stop the bleeding. He needed a day off. A day of introspection. Soul-searching. Maybe then he could finally figure out a way out of the hell he’d been living in. He grabbed his laptop and fired off emails to Marcus and Tiffany, claiming a sudden, debilitating flu.

Marcus’s reply was a distracted-seeming thumbs-up emoji and a “reminder” that he has full permission to “manage his team” remotely. Well, at least that’s one perk of yesterday’s transformations, Eli admitted to himself begrudgingly. Tiffany’s reply, however, was a tidal wave of concern.

Tiffany (8:31 AM): Oh no!! My poor, brave boss! 😭 Is it a fever? Do u need me to come over and do a sponge bath? I’m like, really good at nursing! I can bring soup and wear a tiny little nurse outfit… please let me help!! ❤️❤️❤️

Then just two minutes later she followed up with an even more frantic text.

Tiffany (8:33 AM): 😱 I hope its not because u r 2 sore from our after hours fun 2gether bc I can totally b more gentle next time ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

Eli let out a shaky breath, typing a quick, firm reassurance that he just needed sleep. He put the laptop away and his phone down and sat in the quiet of his apartment. He needed space and time. He needed to think.

The craziest thing of all of it was, he didn't hate Nyx. That was the most confusing part. In her own twisted, demonic way, she was his oldest friend. She had been there for his lonely nights, his humiliations, and his triumphs. She was, in her words, a “service provider” who had taken an awkward fifteen-year-old's desperate plea and turned it into a lifetime commitment. They were both trapped in the gears of a contract he had signed in spirit and she had ratified in smoke. As far as he’d been able to discern, she had just about as much control over the way the contract worked as he had over his libido.

He just needed to think. His body was a knot of tension—his shoulders were up to his ears, and his lower back throbbed from the "extra work" Tiffany had put in the night before. He could feel a low-grade headache building. He may have taken the day off work, but this was no way to think his way out of his hell-bound contract. He needed to de-stress. As much as he’d planned to, he couldn’t just spend all day in bed stewing in his own anxieties, or he’d crack.

“I need some coffee,” he whispered to Pixels the cat, who had just slinked through the door, probably wondering why Eli was still in bed.

After a few more minutes of lying prone on his comforter, Eli finally mustered up the initiative to get out of bed when Pixels leapt onto his back and started to knead his paws into him. He coaxed Pixels off his shoulders, and stood up. Eli made his way to his kitchen, fumbling with the coffee-maker and opening the pantry to assess his options.

The coffee supply was… sparse.

That was something Eli had always appreciated about Sage. In the few months they’d been together, she always made sure he started each and every day with the perfect caffeinated beverage. Eli sighed. Even when he had a good thing, he hadn’t been able to figure out how to keep it. The guilt of how he acquired her, or any partner, was always too much to bear.

And now, he didn’t even have any coffee. If only Sage were there.

That’s when it dawned on him. They had parted ways pretty amicably, but he had been avoiding the Daily Grind, Sage’s workplace, for a while now anyway. Mostly to avoid the pangs of guilt at seeing her in her transformed state. But lately he had been contemplating what spaces might be safest for him to visit without triggering further transformations, and a place where he had already transformed the target of his affection might be one of the safest of all. Sure, if he risked a visit at rush hour, there was always a chance of anyone in the crowds of coffee customers catching his eye. But as long as he dropped by in one of the quieter windows (late morning, and mid-afternoon onwards, according to Sage) he could minimize even that risk.

That didn’t remove the feeling of guilt that he would undoubtedly feel on seeing Sage again. But he was already feeling that guilt all the time anyway, he reminded himself.

By this point, it was already close to ten in the morning. Probably as safe a time as any to drop by the Daily Grind, and his caffeine headache was building whether he liked it or not. He got dressed, and steeled himself to face the world. He stepped out the door, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn’t have any cause to run into Nyx today.

As he entered the Daily Grind, his footsteps accompanied by the usual tinkle of the door’s bell, he surreptitiously scanned the seating area. Very few customers, mostly on the older side. He had timed it well. The coast appeared to be clear.

He looked over to the register and saw Kevin, man bun as tightly coiled as ever, leisurely leaning near the checkout counter. He was aimlessly wiping down a spot that could probably have been described as clean several minutes ago. It was clearly a slow day. There was no line to be seen, not a waiting customer anywhere. Eli congratulated himself on correctly selecting such a safe time to venture out into the world.

Oddly, there was no sign of Sage anywhere. Maybe she was off shift today? Or maybe she didn’t work here anymore? In his efforts to steer clear of one of his old stomping grounds, he realized that he hadn’t really been keeping tabs on Sage at all. As much as he felt guilty about her transformation, as he did for all of his, well, victims, the idea of not being able to find her, not seeing her again left him feeling unexpectedly… sullen.

He made his way up to Kevin at the register. Regardless of Sage’s whereabouts, he had his caffeine addiction to satiate.

Kevin looked up from his mindless cleaning, and a look of recognition sparked in his eyes.

“Eli! Long time no see, man,” Kevin remarked, as warmly as Eli had seen him say anything.

“Hey, Kevin. Wasn’t sure if you’d remember me,” Eli replied, a flush rising in his cheeks at the uncomfortable feeling of being recognized. What did Kevin think about his and Sage’s whirlwind romance? Did Kevin think poorly of him for dumping his coworker? For once, Eli hoped he was overthinking things.

“Of course I remember you, man. You were here practically every other day for months. You were dating my coworker, remember? Sage still talks about you just about every day, you know,” Kevin deadpanned, giving him a pointed look.

So Sage clearly still worked here. That was good, Eli supposed.

“Uh, yeah, of course,” Eli mumbled, his self-consciousness increasing.

“Anyway, what’ll it be today? I’m sure you’re more here for the coffee than the conversation. Your usual?” asked Kevin, back to his usual all-business demeanor.

“I’ll have–“

Just then, the door to the backroom swung open, and Eli’s response was interrupted by a high-pitched squeal.

“Eeeeellllllliiiiiiiiiii!!!” Sage bounded towards them, her bountiful bosom coming to rest a few seconds after she did. “Why didn’t you, like, tell me you were coming by today? I’m so, so, SO excited to see you! I would have gotten more dressed up if I had known you were going to be my customer today!”

Eli looked her over. She looked just as sexy as she did every day that they’d dated. Every day since Nyx had transformed her into the bubbliest coffeehouse barista he’d ever met. He couldn’t imagine what else she could do to look any more alluring or adorable, but apparently there were even higher levels than the vision he saw before him.

“Hey Sage, it’s… nice to see you, too,” Eli managed to get out before she hopped right over the countertop and wrapped him up in the tightest embrace he’d had since… well actually, he’d been getting a lot of tight embraces lately.

Sage beamed at him, before she got a funny look in her eye, and glared at Kevin, then back at Eli, then back at Kevin again. “Wait,” she began with an accusatory tone. “Kevinnnn, you weren’t about to take Eli’s order, were you? You know he’s my favorite customer! That’s like, my job!”

Kevin fidgeted with his apron, before calmly stating, “You were on break, Sage.”

“Well you coulda told me he was, like, here, Kev!” Sage sang, back to her usual bubbly self. “I am so happy I get to make you coffee again, babe. It’s been FOR. EV. ER. You don’t even have to tell me your order, I know just how you like it. And don’t even worry about paying or whatever, it’s totally on the house.”

Despite the constant feeling of guilt in his bones, Eli’s heart melted at the sheer level of adoration on display. It was as if he and Sage were still together, like nothing had changed since their breakup. Eli wasn’t sure what he expected, but it was clear that Nyx’s magic had shown no signs of wearing off. Not in her physical appearance, and certainly not in her devotion to him. She was already bouncing from counter to counter, lovingly preparing him a decadent beverage, and glancing fondly over at him at every opportunity.

Eli sat down on a barstool by the order pickup counter and waited for the needlessly complex, but certainly bound-to-be delicious coffee order that Sage was concocting just for him. He kept his gaze on the relative safety of Sage, avoiding glancing around the room on the off-chance that he accidentally found yet another subject for Nyx to contractually transform.

Sage was positively giddy as she placed Eli’s coffee in his hands, the lipstick imprint of her signature kiss marked on the side of the cup like a calling card. She leaned her elbows on the counter, her head resting in one hand dreamily, watching with rapt attention as he took his first sips.

“Sooooo, Eli,” Sage breathed. “How have you been? Missing me terribly?”

Eli contemplated how to respond. How much could he really say? How much would she even understand? She wouldn’t even remember her old self, Nyx had made that abundantly clear, so discussing the ins and outs of his curse with her seemed needlessly cruel. He decided he could at least discuss his emotional state without being overly burdensome.

“Honestly, Sage. I’ve been pretty stressed out lately. Things have been strange at work. And at home, too. Everywhere, really. I’ve been… trying to figure out a problem. One I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to figure out.”

Sage’s expression of pure adoration melted into one of loving concern. “Oh, my poor, poor Eli. You do seem tense. If I had any idea you were going to be suffering like this, I never would have let you let me leave. All this time I just, like, assumed you were on to bigger and better and brighter things, and I totally didn’t want to hold you back from living your best life! Is there anything I can, like, do to help, babe?”

“I really don’t think so,” Eli sighed. If only it were that easy.

“Are you sure? I could totally try! I could come back to your place and help tidy things up like I used to! Or I could give you one of those shoulder rubs you loved so much! You know how great I am at, like, relieving tension!” Sage gestured with her manicured hands, miming a back massage with her long acrylic nails.

Eli thought back to how easily Tiffany’s shoulder rubs had devolved into much, much more intimate activities. As much as he knew he’d enjoy Sage’s attentions, this was a terrible idea if he actually wanted to have the reflective, introspective day he was hoping for.

He visibly tensed as he said, “No, that’s really fine, Sage. I think these are just some things I’m going to have to figure out on my own.”

“Oh, okay,” Sage looked momentarily crestfallen, but she recovered quickly. “But I can, like, see the stress on your face. And in your, like, posture. You totally need some self care. If you won’t let me give you a massage, at least go get one from a total professional. That should help you deal with all the stressy feelings on your mind.”

That… actually wasn’t a bad idea. Eli considered it for a moment. He wasn’t getting very far on his introspective day off with all these stressful burdens weighing him down. Some self care might actually help him cut to the heart of his problems. His mind was always clearer after a good massage. It was worth a try anyway. Sage smiled at him, waiting expectantly.

Eli smiled back. “Okay, Sage. I’ll think about it. That actually sounds nice.”

Sage bounced on her heels, excited to have been helpful. “You promise?”

Eli chuckled, “Yes, Sage, I promise.”

“Pinky promise?” She suddenly took on an uncharacteristically serious expression, holding one very long acrylic pinky nail out at him insistently.

Eli held out his own unadorned pinky, and curled it around hers as they shook on his promise.

“Good,” she chirped, satisfied. “I really hope you do. I hate to see my favorite customer so sad.” She continued to gaze at him, empathy emanating from her as thickly as the aroma of coffee wafted from behind the counter.

Eli grabbed the cup with the remainder of his coffee, and prepared to take his leave. “Thanks Sage. It really was helpful talking to you. I’ll… see you around.”

“I’m like so glad. Seeing you totally made my day!” she beamed. “Don’t be a stranger, babe!” And with that she blew him a kiss and slipped back behind the counter.

Eli made his way back to his apartment safely and without further incident. Emboldened by the successful outing, he began contemplating how he might be able to schedule a massage for the afternoon. It was a risky idea, but the thought of an hour, maybe an hour and a half of self care and relaxation sounded like just what he needed. And after all, he had pinky promised that he would. If his life had taught him anything, it was that you had to take any contract you entered into seriously or there’d be hell to pay.

After a few Google searches, he decided to call Serenity Now, an upscale spa just three miles away from his apartment. They had easy parking out front, and didn’t seem like they’d be too busy on a Wednesday afternoon.

The call rang just once before someone answered. “Hello, you’ve reached Serenity Now. How can I assist you today?”

“Hi there. I’d like to book a massage appointment for this afternoon if possible," Eli said, his voice strained. "But I have a specific request. I... I have a… lower back injury and I’m going to need a male therapist. I can’t stress this enough, a male masseuse only, please. Is that okay?”

“Don’t worry about it, hon. We get requests like that all the time. Let me just see what we’ve got today. I’ll check the schedule. Hold on just a sec…… hmm, David is fully booked today, but it looks like we have Gregor open at three o’clock,” the receptionist said. Her voice was light, melodic, and undeniably cute. Eli felt a phantom spark of romantic interest and immediately did his best to shut it down. Thank goodness the curse didn’t work over the phone. “Does that work for you, hon?”

“Three o’clock is perfect. Thank you.”

He arrived twenty minutes early, sitting in his car like a detective on a stakeout. He watched the front glass window of the spa from a distance. He saw the receptionist, a young woman with a bright smile and a ponytail. Too cute to risk. He would have barely made it through the front door before Nyx would show up to ruin the receptionist’s life and his day. Thankfully, there was another receptionist next to her, a young man in a tan polo shirt.

He waited. He watched. Finally, the young woman stood up, whispered something to the man, and headed toward the back. A lucky bathroom break.

Eli jumped out of his car and practically sprinted to the front door of the spa.

He made it to the front desk, checked in with the male receptionist, and was ushered into the dim, lavender-scented hallways before the female receptionist even returned to the lobby. He felt a surge of triumph. Today was going so well. He was winning. He was outsmarting the universe.

The male receptionist opened the door to Room 4. "Gregor will be with you in just a moment. Please undress to your comfort level and lie down under the sheet.”

Eli stripped, feeling the tension already beginning to leak out of his muscles. He climbed onto the heated table, burying his face in the padded cradle. He was safe. He was going to get his knots worked out by a man named Gregor, and then he was going to go home and brainstorm how he might possibly find a way out of his curse.

He was relaxing under the blanket, eager for the self care to start. He had just started to feel like it had been slightly longer than “just a moment” when there was a sharp knock on the door. Then the door clicked open.

“Hello,” a voice said. It was low, but it definitely didn’t belong to anyone named Gregor. It was a rich, smoky alto with a hint of a melodic Russian accent. “I am so sorry for the wait. Gregor had a family emergency and had to leave suddenly. I am Tatiana. I will be taking care of you today.”

Eli’s heart stopped. He began to scramble upward, the sheet clinging to his chest. “Wait, no! I specifically asked for—"

He turned his head.

Tatiana was standing by the dim light of a salt lamp. She was a classic Slavic beauty: high cheekbones, dark hair that faded to a stylish blonde toward the ends, dark soulful eyes, and a figure that was undeniably elegant and imposing in her white scrubs.

Their eyes met.

Fuck, Eli thought.

The flow of time itself seemed to relax. The scent of lavender faded, replaced by the sharp sulfurous sting of the void. The soft pan-flute music that had been playing in the background was now hanging in the air frozen on a single, haunting note.

“Oh, come on, Elias. Even for you, this is getting a bit ridiculous. You claim you want to stop, but here you are again, seeking out beautiful, malleable women for me to change for you,” she stared at him, shaking her head, then added in a sing-song tone, “I’m starting to not believe you…”

Nyx was sitting leisurely on the end of the next massage table, hands folded casually between her thighs . She was wearing a sheer, silk robe that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, a garment in a shadowy black as dark and cool as her loose, tousled hair. She looked positively incredulous.

“Oh, for the love of— I tried!" Eli shouted, still half-tangled in the sheet. "I called ahead! I did a stakeout! I checked in with a man! How is this even possible?”

Nyx hopped off the table, her bare feet padding silently on the carpeted floor. She circled Tatiana, who was frozen like a marble statue of a healer. “The universe works in mysterious ways, Elias. You never quite know how things will play out. Although I think it’s safe to say, darling, that you will nearly always encounter beautiful women. And I do mean you in particular. I mean look at her. Tatiana. So regal. So… professional. So 'I studied anatomy in St. Petersburg.' What a perfect template. You’re giving me so much to work with. She’s magnificent.”

Eli looked on silently, despondence creeping into his already strained posture.

Nyx leaned in, sniffing Tatiana’s hair. “Delicious. That reporter you claimed yesterday proved that you have class, but this shows you also have a real eye for the 'undiscovered' ones.”

“Don’t,” Eli pleaded. “I don't want to ruin her. She’s just a masseuse. She’s here to do a job. Please, Nyx. If you have any mercy, just... let her stay a masseuse. Make her happy. Let that be the change. End of story.”

Nyx’s eyes widened, a mischievous, wicked glint appearing in their obsidian depths. “Make her happy? And keep her a masseuse? Oh, Elias... I was already thinking about going in this direction, truly, but now I simply have to. You really should be more careful with your phrasing.”

“Wait—“

“One 'happy ending' masseuse, coming right up!”

Nyx snapped her fingers with a sound like a whip crack.

The red smoke didn't just billow this time; it oozed. It seemingly seeped from underneath the floorboards, thick and cloying, smelling of the usual sulfur, but also sandalwood and something else, something muskier. It crawled its way up Tatiana’s legs, reshaping the fabric of her scrubs.

Eli watched, horrified, as the white cotton turned into a thin, spandex-blend top that plunged dangerously low. Her dark hair grew longer, glossier, spilling over her shoulders in raven waves. Her lips swelled, turning a deep, peachy color, and her hips flared out, stretching the fabric of her newly skintight pants until the seams groaned. Intricate tattoos of cherry blossoms and serpents appeared on her forearms, trailing down to her delicate wrists.

Nyx looked at the transformed woman and sighed with genuine appreciation. “She’s a natural. You see, Elias, I didn’t actually have to change much about her physically this time, but the biggest change doesn't have to be the hair or the... assets. It’s the vibe.”

She gestured around the room as the red smoke continued to drift lazily over everything in sight. The already dim lighting shifted to an even dimmer, suggestive amber. The pan-flute music was replaced by a smooth low-fi playlist that seemed to pulse in time with a heartbeat and would be right at home in your average adult film.

“The best part is she’s not a masseuse anymore, well not just a masseuse,” Nyx whispered, leaning over Eli and winking lasciviously. “She’s that kind of masseuse. And this place? This is now that kind of establishment. And just like you requested, she’s as happy as can be. Especially because she’s just found her true calling: you.”

Nyx winked again, blew him a kiss, and vanished in a final, swirling puff of smoke that left the room feeling ten degrees warmer and infinitely more steamy.

As usual, with Nyx’s departure, time lurched back into motion.

Tatiana stepped forward. The girls who transformed, they were never disoriented or dazed. For them, it seemed, their new reality snapped right into place, as if it had always been, and always would be. Tatiana didn't have the clinical, upright posture of a professional massage therapist anymore. She moved with a newly languid prowl, her lusciously expanded hips swaying like a pendulum. She bit her lower lip, the adoration coming on fast, her gaze dropping to Eli’s bare shoulders with a look of starving hunger.

“Hello, handsome,” she purred, her Russian accent now thick as honey and twice as sweet. “I am Tania. I hear you are very... tense. Very stressed. Do not worry. Raslábsya. Tania will make sure you leave here feeling very, very good.”

She didn't wait for him to respond. She reached for a bottle of oil on the table. As she poured it, the scent of vanilla and chamomile filled the small room.

“Please, get on table,” she commanded softly. “Strip everything. No secrets between us.”

Eli tried to protest, his mouth opening to try to tell her that he had changed his mind about the massage, that he was leaving, but before he could even get a word out, she placed a hand on the small of his back. Her touch was electric. The tension in his muscles began to melt away. It wasn't the professional touch he’d been seeking out; it was tender, it was insistent, it was sensual.

“Please,” she whispered in his ear, her breath warm against his skin. “I am waiting for good-looking client like you all day. You have such... powerful shoulders. Let me take care of them. Let me take care of everything.”

The resistance in Eli’s mind, already weakened by this unexpected turn of events, simply gave in. He disrobed completely and lay back down, the sheet falling away entirely.

The massage began normally enough—long, firm strokes across his back—but as the minutes ticked by, the boundaries blurred. Tania’s hands moved with a rhythmic intent. She didn't stay at the head of the table; she climbed onto it, straddling his hips, her weight a warm, solid presence that grounded him even as his head began to swim and his thoughts began to float away.

Her hands drifted lower. Her fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.

“You are still so tight,” she murmured, leaning down until her long, raven hair fell like a curtain around his face. “You are holding much inside. You need release, no? You need... happy ending?”

Eli looked up at her. Her eyes were glazed with that familiar, magical lust, but there was something else there. A genuine joy, a belief that this was exactly where she was meant to be.

“I... I shouldn’t," Eli stammered.

Tania pouted, a look of such profound disappointment crossing her face that it felt like a physical blow. “What is being wrong? You do not like Tania? You are finding... unattractive?”

“No! No, you're incredible. It's just—“

“Then let me making you happy,” she pleaded, her hand finding its target. “It is my only wish. To see you lose control. To see handsome man like you belonging to me, just for little while.”

He relented. He couldn't help it. The combination of the magic, the scent, and the sheer, overwhelming need radiating from her was a siren song he wasn't strong enough to ignore.

The next hour was a blurred fever dream of amber light and frantic, heavy breathing. It was the most intense, sense-shattering experience of his life. She was tireless, her every movement designed to elicit a reaction from him, her voice a constant, Russian-accented stream of praise and desire.

Finally, they lay together on the narrow table, spent and tangled in the sweat-soaked sheet. The room was silent except for the low-fi beat of the music and the sound of their synchronized breaths. Tania was curled against his side, her head on his chest, tracing the line of his ribs with a manicured nail.

“I am thinking you are best client ever,” she whispered, looking up at him with a sultry, adoring smile. “I am being so glad you changed your mind about having... sexy fun times with me. I am feeling so... complete.”

Eli stroked her hair, looking at the ceiling. “I'm glad I changed my mind too, Tania.”

And he was. In the moment, it had been perfect. But as that post-massage clarity that he’d been looking for began to set in, the weight of the day returned. He looked at Tania wistfully. She was happy. She was exactly what she wanted to be. But she only wanted to be that because of the snap of a demon’s fingers. Why couldn’t Nyx help him figure out a way out of the contract? Wouldn’t that be good for her, too?

“If only I could change Nyx’s mind,” he mused out loud.

Tania stiffened slightly, a flash of mild, possessive jealousy crossing her face. “Who is this Nyx? Another masseuse? She is being better than me? She gives better... fun times?”

Eli chuckled sadly, kissing her forehead. “No, Tania. She’s nobody you need to worry about. She’s just… the cause of a lot of my stress.”

Tania was assuaged, purring as she went back to snuggling him, but Eli’s mind was suddenly racing with an idea.

He sat up slowly, the sheet falling to his waist. Tania made a small disgruntled sound at his motion.

For ten years, he had been trying to fight the results of the contract. He had tried to avoid women, tried to mitigate the transformations, tried to outrun the magic. But he had been looking at the wrong end of the equation.

He couldn't break the contract. It was ‘binding, eternal, soul-sealing’ as Nyx was always so happy to remind him.

As much as he had tried, he couldn’t suppress his own libido. He couldn't stop noticing or desiring beauty. He was a designer after all; it was in his nature.

And he couldn't blame Nyx for being a demon. She was just fulfilling the terms of the contract as they were written. As was her duty.

The terms.

Eli looked at the amber-lit room, at the “happy ending” parlor he had accidentally created. That Nyx had conjured for him. Nyx had told him many times that she was the fulfillment of his desires. She was the one who interpreted his ‘crushes’ and turned them into reality.

But Nyx wasn't a mere force of nature. She had a personality. She had tastes. She had feelings. She had spent the last two days dressing in increasingly provocative outfits, teasing him, watching him, clearly enjoying the show she was putting on.

Eli’s heart began to race, not with lust, but with the growing realization that he may have finally found a way out. If he was going to unlock the terms of his contract, Nyx was going to be the key. And if he was lucky, he may have just discovered the loophole he needed.

“I need to be careful,” he whispered to himself, ignoring Tania’s curious gaze. “So incredibly careful. If I mess this up, I’m probably done for. But if it works…”

He looked toward the corner of the room where Nyx had so recently vanished, half-expecting to see a puff of red smoke. There was nothing there anymore, of course, but he was never sure how often, or how closely she was watching.

He stood up and began to dress, his movements fueled by a newfound purpose. He looked back at Tania, who was still watching him with wide, adoring eyes.

“Tania,” he said softly. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You come back tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.

“I don't know,” Eli said, “Maybe. But I think you may have just helped me solve all of my problems.”

Tania grinned, not fully understanding what he was talking about, but happy to have helped nonetheless.

He walked out of the spa, past the male receptionist who didn't even look up, and into the cool evening air. He had a plan now. It was a little bit insane, possibly even dangerous. But if it worked, he might finally escape the hell he had created.

To be continued…

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Story Navigation

Chapter 1: Link

Chapter 2: Link

Chapter 3: Link

Chapter 4: Link

Chapter 5: (You are here)

Chapter 6: Link

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As he led her back into his office and the door clicked shut, Eli caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass against the fading twilight outside. For a second, he met his own gaze in the window, but he couldn’t hold it for long. He couldn’t bear thinking about all the damage done by his own staring eyes. Not if he was going to get any enjoyment at all out of what he was about to do. Before he was adrift in a tide of guilt once more.

An hour and a half later, Eli was finally gathering his things to head home. For real this time, even as the sound of Tiffany’s breathy, high-pitched giggles still echoed in his head. The pretense of "extra work" with Tiffany had quickly devolved into a blurred whirlwind of intimate moments; it started with a heated makeout session, which itself quickly devolved into an insanely satisfying blowjob, which itself was followed by Tiffany hopping eagerly up onto his desk, hiking up her skirt, and together they made sure her new position was a perfect fit. She was a masterpiece of office allure, anticipating his needs and desires before he even knew he had them. Suffice it to say, she definitely earned the overtime. If Marcus asked how she was settling in, Eli would happily and honestly report that Tiffany could handle any hard task shoved her way, that she had a deep commitment to getting hands-on experience, that she excelled at both synergy and integration, and that she accepted every new ‘assignment’ with a bend-over-backwards attitude.

After their closed-door session, Eli lay back on his new office chair, Tiffany seated in his lap, both of them mostly unclothed. When she finally pulled away to fix her smeared lip gloss and gather her carelessly discarded outfit, she first gave him a lingering kiss on the cheek, her eyes wide and vacant of anything but desire for him. She got dressed, squeezing herself back into her tight work clothes. She finished touching up her makeup and packed each item carefully into her little purse. Finally she slipped back into her five-inch heels and turned to wish Eli a good rest of his night.

“That was like, soooo productive. Ooh, I put my number in your phone in case you need anything from me. Text me literally anytime. See ya tomorrow, Boss!” she chirped, planting another enormous kiss on his cheek, then swinging her hips in a way that spurned any sense of ergonomics as she headed for the elevator. She was blissful, trapped in a bubble of synthetic adoration, entirely ignorant of the fact that just twelve hours ago, she had been a promising graphic designer with a sharp wit in a sensible floral dress.

Eli knew he needed to get home for many reasons, not least of which to feed his cat, poor Pixels, who spent most of the previous two days alone and unattended and was probably yowling up a storm by now. Nevertheless, Eli stayed at his desk for a long minute that stretched into two and then three, after the elevator chimed. The silence of the office felt heavy, pressing in around him. He just closed his eyes, and applied gentle pressure against his temples. His teenage id wanted to celebrate his sexual conquests, his accomplishments as a man. These days though, Eli felt less like a man and more like a black hole, pulling every bright, vibrant light into his orbit and crushing it into a singular, predictable shape before casting it into oblivion.

Eventually he stood up, grabbed his belongings, and made his way to the elevator, where he caught one more whiff of Tiffany’s perfume, now swirled together with the tell-tale aroma of sex. If there was even a chance this was going to become a new routine, he might want to think about bringing some scented candles or something into his new office. He made a mental note to ask Tiffany to order some for him the next day. He trudged out to the parking lot, his footsteps echoing in the cool evening air. His mind drifted to the long record of his own guilt, a distressing tally he kept, or tried to, to remind himself of the monster he had been for the past decade. In the months immediately before his encounter with Sage, he’d tried to quantify the damage, conducting a full accounting, but he realized he wasn’t sure if he could remember each and every one of the women who’d been swept up in his curse over the years. The transformations and subsequent titillations all sort of blurred together. That was a new, stark reminder of his disgrace to register. He had always told himself that even if no one else could remember their old identities, at least he always would. It had devastated him to realize even that wasn’t true.

He’d tried to tally them up anyway at the time, and to the best of his ability, he had accounted for at least 44 women in the decade since he’d made that desperate, teenage wish. He mentally clocked the count up to 47, now including Sage, Roxy, and Tiffany. Nyx had, of course, “optimized” each of them into various versions of his subconscious desires. Come to think of it, Nyx probably had a ledger recording each and every one. Heck, she probably had some kind of a trophy case dedicated to them. But there was no way in Hell he was going to ask her to recount their whole history. He could only imagine her gloating narration of each tragic transformation, and the justifiable mockery he’d be in for if she could remember any that he’d forgotten.

The demographics were a testament to the indiscriminate nature of his curse, and Eli supposed his libido, too. There were all kinds of women that had fallen victim to his wandering eyes. Each one had been a unique individual on her own journey; fellow students in high school and college with their whole lives ahead of them, retail workers, waitresses, one time a professor of his, a cute young woman waiting in line at the DMV, one of the HR reps who’d helped onboard him at the graphic design agency, a flight attendant on a flight to visit his grandparents across the country, the girl who sold popcorn at his local movie theater, the nurse at his local health clinic who administered his flu shot four years ago, and on, and on, and on. And each one had been flattened into some two-dimensional fantasy courtesy of Nyx’s magic and his own inner demons. Almost 100% of them had eventually abandoned their original career paths or personal ambitions to better serve the "role" Nyx had assigned them, Sage being the rare exception.

His mind dwelled on Sage, the wide-eyed barista who was now likely pouring lattes with a vacant, plush smile for whichever man walked in next. He thought of Roxy, the executive turned street-racer, and a cold shiver ran down his spine as he contemplated her reckless actions. He really hoped she hadn’t been arrested, and he hoped even more that she hadn't killed anyone.

Eli had by now reached his car, but like the day before, his departure was once again stalled by a distraction in the parking lot. Eli normally parked well away from the front door of the office building these days, so as to minimize the risk of encountering any crowds. This placed his car right across the sidewalk from the main road with just a narrow bank of green space and some scattered oak trees in between. As Eli approached, he noticed the rhythmic pulse of blue and red lights a couple of blocks away, apparently some kind of crime scene, but closer to him and the parking lot exit, a bright white spotlight cut through the emerging darkness of the late evening. A professional news van was parked precariously on the curb, its side emblazoned with the Channel 6 News logo.

Standing in the glow of the light was a woman Eli recognized instantly: Bridget Badden. She was the city’s premier investigative reporter, known for her razor-sharp questions and a professional, almost stern beauty. She was currently speaking into a handheld microphone, her face set in a mask of grim determination as she stared into the lens of a massive shoulder-mounted camera. Three men–a cameraman, a broadcast technician, and the van’s driver–rounded out her field team.

Curiosity, that treacherous instinct, overrode his caution. As far as he knew, the only newsworthy event that had happened on this street lately was Roxy’s street-racing and the traffic accidents it had caused. Protectively, he wanted to know about Roxy and make sure that she was okay. He also wanted to know if his (second) latest "creation" had left a trail of bodies in her wake. He walked away from his car, keeping to the shadows of a nearby oak tree, trying to get close enough to hear the broadcast without drawing any attention to himself.

"...still no leads on the identity of the driver," Bridget was saying, her voice a polished, authoritative alto. "Witnesses describe the vehicle as a 'cherry-red muscle car’.” 

Yep, that had to be Roxy, Eli thought to himself, listening even more closely.

“The vehicle moved with a speed and recklessness rarely seen outside of professional stunt driving. The driver very nearly side-swiped an off-duty city bus, before directly causing the five-car pileup, which occurred just down the road from here during yesterday’s morning rush, and miraculously resulted in no fatalities. Police and emergency responders are still investigating the scene, but the perpetrator, whoever they may be, remains at large. If you have any information, please…”

As she spoke, her eyes naturally panned across the street, looking for good opportunities for B-roll footage. Her gaze swept past the oak tree, past the shadows, and landed directly on Eli.

The world didn't just stop; it felt like it fell out from under him.

The hum of the news van’s generator died. The blinking lights of the distant police cars froze into static beams of red and blue. Bridget Badden was caught mid-syllable, her finger raised to emphasize a point, her mouth hanging open with a general expression of professional concern. It was as if the whole world was buffering from a lost signal.

"Two in one day! Elias, you are absolutely insatiable," a voice purred from the roof of the news van.

Nyx was lounging against the satellite dish, looking like she’d just stepped off a runway in Milan. She was dressed in a "News Anchor Chic" ensemble—a blood-red silk blouse tucked into a jet-black pencil skirt that was split high up the thigh. Her hair, usually a wild cascade, was still done up in a sophisticated, razor-sharp bun like the one she’d sported earlier, though this hairdo somehow seemed more at home in a newsroom than a boardroom.

"I wasn't looking for her!" Eli shouted, his voice echoing unnaturally in the frozen vacuum. "I was looking for news about the other girl you ruined! The one who caused a pileup!"

Nyx hopped down from the van, landing soundlessly on her heels. She sauntered over to Eli, her obsidian eyes shimmering with ancient amusement. "Ruined? Such a harsh word. Roxy is having the time of her life. Trust me, she’s never felt more... driven. And as for this one..." She gestured toward Bridget Badden. "I must say, I’m impressed. You’re finally ending that dreary dry spell of yours with some real quality. A journalist? How very 'Clark Kent' of you."

“It’s only been a few weeks since Sage, Nyx! Not a dry spell!" Eli threw his hands up, then immediately buried his face in them, his shoulders sagging. "And I’ve already been with Roxy and Tiffany! Why am I even arguing with you? Please. Just... stop. She’s a professional. She’s doing important work. Don't do this."

Nyx walked over and touched his arm in a gesture that was surprisingly almost sympathetic. Her skin was cool like always, almost chilled, which somehow only made Eli feel more nauseous. "Oh, Elias. You deserve a treat. You’ve had a very stressful forty-eight hours. I can tell these things. Let’s make this one something special. Something... modern. Any ideas?"

Eli shrugged defensively, leaning his back against the oak tree. "I didn't even realize I had a crush on her. I just... I’ve seen her on TV. I thought she was hot, okay? Everyone thinks she’s hot. That doesn't mean she needs to be lobotomized!"

"You know how I feel about that word… I'm not removing their brains, I'm just… changing them. And besides, you know the rules," Nyx chided, her voice dropping into a mock-disappointed tone. "The spark was there. The eye contact was made. The contract is binding.” She shifted her attention to Bridget and raised her hand to start casting her magic.

“But, she’s a public figure,” Eli protested weakly. “Won’t someone, somewhere remember the old her? How can she just be erased?”

“I would’ve thought that was obvious, Elias,” Nyx paused and turned back to him. “When I enact the terms of the contract, the old identity is entirely subsumed by the new one, and reality itself bends to comply. There’s no trace of her left except in your memories. And mine. I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, no one who knew them remembers their old selves; not their friends, coworkers, family members, and most importantly not the girls themselves. Not a soul can recall what’s transpired, or how things changed, except for you and me. You know, for as smart as you seem sometimes, you do need more handholding than I’d expect, darling. But you’re spent tonight, I can see that. And I don’t blame you in the slightest. You don't have the energy to 'design' her like you did with little Tiffany, so I’ll simply ask, do you have any preference for who she will be?“

Eli looked forlornly at Bridget Badden. He saw the intelligence in her brow, the grit in her posture. He tried to think about how he could save her. Was there something he could say to lead Nyx to a less complete transformation? Less ‘subsuming'? He didn’t have much time to think, and nothing he’d tried yet had worked anything close to how he intended it to. Plus, his brain felt like molasses. He felt a wave of exhaustion so profound he could barely stand. "I can't. I don't know how to protect her from this. Every time I try to mitigate it, things just get weirder."

"That’s alright, darling," Nyx said, a wicked grin spreading across her charcoal-painted lips. "I’ve already got more than enough inspiration to work with. The 'on-screen personality' angle is just begging for a glow-up. Something with a bit more... engagement."

She turned toward the news crew, her eyes momentarily glowing with a sinister, crimson light.

“The news is so boring, don’t you agree? Let’s give the people what they actually want to watch."

Nyx snapped her fingers.

Instead of a small puff of smoke settling on Bridget, an enormous, billowing cloud of red smoke erupted around the entire news van. It was thick and smelled of expensive hairspray and artificial strawberry. It swallowed Bridget Badden, her cameraman and crew, and the entire van in a violently roiling scarlet fog.

Through the haze, Eli heard the sounds of shifting metal and something that sounded strangely like the frantic tap-tap-tap of fingernails on a touchscreen. Through the shadows, the heavy, professional camera equipment appeared to melt away, replaced by an almost eerie shining light.

When the smoke cleared, the scene looked very different.

The Channel 6 news van was gone. In its place stood a sleek, white SUV covered in a pastel-colored vinyl wrap embellished with heart emojis and what looked like social media handles. The professional news crew had vanished entirely, as if they’d been erased from reality. Eli was afraid to ask if that was indeed their fate.

And Bridget Badden...

Eli’s jaw dropped. The professional, stern investigative reporter was nowhere to be found. In her place stood a woman who looked like she’d been manufactured by a TikTok algorithm.

Her crisp blazer had been replaced by a tiny, ribbed crop top that ended just below her bust, and a pair of skintight, high-waisted leggings, both in a loud leopard print. Her hair, once a controlled bob, was now a waist-length explosion of platinum-blonde extensions, styled in beachy waves that looked impossibly high-maintenance.

She wasn't holding a microphone anymore. She was holding a hot pink, glossy selfie stick, with an iPhone 17 Pro Max mounted to the end. The newsvan’s lighting rig had vanished with the rest of the professional television equipment, but the streetlights were on and casting a halo of artificial perfection onto her face. Her makeup was "heavy-glam"—huge lashes, contour that could cut glass, and lips that had been puffed up into a permanent, pouty "duck face."

She was still frozen in the middle of a monologue, but now instead of sparkling with intellectual astuteness and gravitas, her eyes appeared wide and vacant, focused entirely on her own appearance on the screen of her smartphone.

Nyx circled the new creation, nodding approvingly. "There. A vapid TikTok vlogger. Much more 'relatable' for your demographic, don't you think? She doesn't care about pileups or suspects anymore. Headlines give her a headache. All she cares about is content. Hearts and views, not hearts and minds. And all you have to do is like and subscribe.”

Nyx looked at Eli, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She leaned in close, whispered, "And this protects Roxy, too. You're welcome. Now go, enjoy," and then made a slow, deliberately lewd tongue-in-cheek gesture—the classic, mocking mimicry of a blowjob—before dissolving into a final puff of red smoke.

Time snapped back into motion as easily as pressing a play button.

"...and like, I was literally dying!"

The voice that came out of the former reporter was no longer a serious alto. It was a high-pitched, rapid-fire flurry of Valley Girl inflections, punctuated by vocal fry.

“So I was just sitting there, like, totally stuck behind this humongous accident on my way to the mall yesterday morning," she babbled into the phone. "And I was like, 'Hello? I have a fitting at 10:00?' Like, the trauma of being ten minutes late for my newest haul? Literally un-aliving me right now. I just like can’t even. Oh, huh, one sec everyone, I’ll be right back. Stick around for part two. And don't forget to like and subscribe, besties!"

She paused her livestream, her long, neon-pink acrylic nails clicking against the screen. She looked up, her suddenly intense gaze landing on Eli, who was still standing by the tree in stunned silence.

The vacant look in her eyes had immediately sharpened into the predatory interest of an influencer on the prowl. She didn't look at him like some random stranger; she looked at him like he was her next trending topic.

"Oh. My. God," she squealed, click-clacking over to him in her six-inch clear plastic heels until she stood right in front of him, her legs teetering precariously in the grass. "Wait, were you like, watching me record? That is so sweet! I don’t usually have a live audience!! What’s your name? Are you a fan? You totally look like a fan."

Eli took a step back, his hands raised. "I... I just saw you on the news. I mean, I thought you were..."

"Pffft, the news? Ugh, gross. Old school media is like, so yesterday," she said, waving a hand dismissively. She moved into his personal space again, the light from her phone screen nearly blinding him. "I’m Brielle, in case you didn’t know. I’m like, a lifestyle influencer? Fashion, beauty, and like, random road-trip trauma too now, I guess? I have like, three hundred thousand followers on the clock-app. Not that I’m counting!“

She leaned in, sniffing the air around his neck. "Mmm, you smell like... really good. I love that for you. You have to tell me what products you use."

“Um, I’m Eli," he managed to interject, his brain struggling to reconcile the serious woman he’d seen moments ago with this walking For You Page. “And—“

"Eli! OMG, stop! That is such a cute name!” Brielle said, her eyes scanning him with a dawning, magical lust that was now apparently standard for any woman Eli looked at for more than three seconds. "Wait, we should totally collab. You have like, such a good face. Maybe you could make a guest appearance in one of my 'Day in the Life' vlogs. Or we could like, go on a date or whatever and do a 'Get Ready With Me' together sometime? Or like, it’s been wayyy too long since I soft launched a boyfriend. You’d totally work for that."

She didn't wait for a response to any of her rapid-fire suggestions. She stepped even closer, her supple chest nearly pressing against his sweater. She grabbed the back of his neck with a firm, manicured hand.

"But first," she whispered, her voice dropping into a sultry, breathy tone that sent a jolt of pure, pavlovian male response through Eli’s system. "I think I need a little test of our… on-screen chemistry.”

She tilted her head upwards and decisively pulled him down into a deep kiss. The woman who had once been ace reporter Bridget Badden was broadcasting on an entirely different frequency than his recent trysts. Her kiss wasn't anything like the adoring, insatiable kiss of Tiffany, or the sweet, fawning kiss of Sage, or even the wild, hungry kiss of Roxy. It was a high-production-value kiss. Her tongue was bold, her movements performative, as if she were still conscious of an audience that wasn't there. It was a kiss that would look as good as it felt. The taste of her artificial strawberry gloss was almost overwhelming. Almost.

When she finally broke away, she was breathless, her eyes shimmering with a focused, obsessive need.

"Mmmmmhmmm, yeahhh,” she moaned, before tapping her phone screen on again. "That’s definitely good enough to go viral. It’s giving… soulmates.”

She fished Eli’s phone smoothly out of his pocket and held it up to his face so that it unlocked. Three brisk taps and a quick search later, he was her latest TikTok follower. “Text me, ‘kay? My handle is @BrielleBaddie, but I’ll just DM you my private number. We are like, totally going to be a thing."

Eli didn’t point out that she could have just given him her number now, but clearly it was more important to her that he connected on her socials. That… tracked.

She winked, dramatically blew him a kiss, and immediately turned back to her phone, restarting her livestream. "Okay besties, so I just met the hottest guy in this random parking lot? Hashtag breaking news amirite? I was literally just chatting with you, going on about some adult-ass-nonsense about traffic and the universe was all like, 'Bri, honey, you need a reward for all this hard work,' and then boom—there he was! Manifesting totally works, you guys! Literally! And ‘cause I’m such a baddie, you know I had to give him a little taste of the Brielle Experience and let’s just say, the vibes are immaculate.”

Eli didn't say another word. Apparently he didn’t have to. He turned and walked back to his car, his movements somewhat stiff and robotic. He got inside, locked the doors, and stared at the steering wheel for several moments. His phone pinged - it was the promised DM from Brielle.

Her personal number, followed by “Don't keep me waiting cutie 💅💖✨😘”

He started the engine, and as he drove out of the lot, he looked in the rearview mirror. Brielle was still there, bathed in the glow of her phone, spotlighted by streetlights in the darkening evening, talking to her feed, perfectly happy in her new, shallow world. He wished he could feel that level of bliss.

He had two phone numbers now. One from his new secretary who practically lived to serve him, and one from an influencer who seemed inclined to break the Internet together and broadcast his life to hundreds of thousands of people while they were at it. This was… not the day he’d hoped for. He was starting to truly ache from the weight of being haunted by the ghosts of the women whose lives he had accidentally erased, and yet, the last thing he wanted to do was forget any of them. He had to figure this out. He had to find a way out of this. He just didn’t even know where the hell to even begin…

To be continued…

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Story Navigation

Chapter 1: Link

Chapter 2: Link

Chapter 3: Link

Chapter 4: (You are here)

Chapter 5: Link

Chapter 6: Link

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Another beauty transformation story set at The Aura salon

(At least) two more planned chapters of my Down to Earth series

Potentially several planned sequels to Unwrapped, which is a concept I felt had a ton of potential, and also had an amazingly positive response, so if you enjoyed that one, stay tuned to this station ;)

Some possible sequels to my currently standalone Guidance Counselor story

It's not popular at all, but I do plan on continuing my Erato Anthology at some point. It's fair to say that the crossover between Greek mythos and modern erotic transformation is pretty niche. Nevertheless, I do intend for it to eventually grow to nine or ten chapters, though I'm in no hurry - I want the concepts for each transformation and the characterization of each Muse to be just right

Plenty more standalone stories in the works as well, including one that I think will be the next thing I publish after the conclusion of TDYK. Can't wait to share!

Also, a few milestones that I'm proud of…

With the publication of Chapter 4 of TDYK later today, my total word count across all my writing here will pass 150,000 words. It's almost entirely comprised of short stories, but considering a modern novel usually falls in the 80,000 to 100,000 range, I'm pretty stoked that I've been able to write and share so much in what still feels like a short time.

I'm getting so close to 450 followers, which is crazy to think about since it was only two months ago that I hit 350 followers. Similarly, two months ago I hit 1000 likes, and I have since passed 1500 likes. I've also gone from 100 cumulative reblogs two months ago to over 200 today. The growth in my audience over the last two months has been so fast and so appreciated. It just makes me all the more dedicated to writing and sharing even more sexy stories with all of you!

Enjoy!

The new hire was exactly what Eli feared as soon as his boss had said the words. She was young, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three, with a mess of wavy brunette hair and a pair of oversized, stylish glasses that sat on a button nose. She wore a sensible, modest floral dress and carried a portfolio bag like it was a shield. She looked smart, ambitious, and utterly nervous.

"Hi! Sorry," she said, her voice bright and slightly nervous. "Am I in the right place? All these doors look exactly the same. I think I’ve walked into the breakroom three times now. And I figured that Z would be way further down the hall; didn’t realize there were only three conference rooms! But I get it, X, Y, and Z, like dimensional axes? Very funny! Sorry, I think I’m rambling…“

She looked at Marcus, then her gaze shifted to Eli.

Eli tried to look at his shoes. He tried to look at the whiteboard. But his eyes, drawn in by her adorable monologuing, snapped upward, taking in her cute office look, her hair, her awkward smile, and then…

Their eyes locked.

The sound of a chuckle from Marcus died mid-throat. Dust motes in the sunbeams from the third story window stopped their frantic dance. The clock on the wall, a sleek digital model, stayed frozen at 9:04:12. The only thing in motion was a waft of red smoke dissipating across the floor. Eli put his head in his hands and looked at the floor, rubbing his eyes in disbelief and growing shame.

"Two in two days, Elias! My, my, my, my, my, you are a busy little bee."

Eli didn't even lift his head from his hands. He knew the voice. He knew the smell. It was all as familiar as the back of his hands. “Go away, Nyx."

"And miss all this? Never."

Nyx was leaning against the whiteboard on the wall, looking every bit the high-powered executive. Her crimson skin was set off by a crisp, black silk blouse and a pinstripe pencil skirt that hugged her hips with lethal precision. Her raven hair was pulled back into a severe, elegant bun, and she held a tablet as if she were about to deliver a quarterly report on Eli’s soul.

"She’s adorable," Nyx said, stepping closer to the frozen girl. She ran a sharp, black nail along the girl's jawline. “Or, dare I say, adorkable? Is that still a thing? Look at all that 'fresh-out-of-grad-school' optimism. So much potential. Such a clean slate. What shall we do? She could be a rival designer who hates you but can't help wanting you? A shy intern who is obsessed with you but practically faints when you speak? I have so many ideas saved up, you haven’t had a workplace romance in ages.”

Eli finally looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. He looked at the woman who was currently a statue of innocent confusion. He thought of Sage, now a vacant-eyed buxom barista. He thought of Roxy, a grease-stained fugitive pinup girl.

If he let Nyx choose again, she would without a doubt turn this girl into another extreme caricature. Another person lost to a trope. If he couldn't stop it from happening like he’d hoped, he could at least direct the blast. At any rate, he had to try.

"No," Eli said, his voice hard. "If this is happening, I'm calling the shots."

Nyx raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, her obsidian eyes shimmering. "Oh? The student becomes the master? Well, alright then Elias, I'm listening." She feigned a quick curtsy in his direction.

Eli took a breath, his mind racing. He needed to keep her close—not out of lust, but for her protection. He didn’t want to run the same risks that happened with Roxy. If she was his "assistant," he could control her schedule. Maintain a watchful eye. He could make sure she wasn't out there, in the world, causing unintended consequences. He could try to keep her focused on work, maybe? It was a pathetic hope, but it was all he had.

“Let’s make her my personal assistant," Eli said, hoping the words came out as strong and forceful as he intended. "Not a rival designer. Not an intern. An assistant. Or, I guess, a secretary? Someone whose entire job is just to help me out around the office. If she has to be devoted to me, I can... I can at least keep her safe. I can keep her here most of the time, in the office, where I can… mitigate the damage."

Nyx’s grin was positively predatory. “Ooh, Elias, so decisive. ‘Make her my assistant.’” she repeated in a mocking impression of his voice. “Very commanding. It actually gave me a little shiver. Well, yes Sir, right away, Sir. You want the classic 'Secretary/Boss' dynamic? The devoted, desk-side companion? A sexy secretary? Elias, you dog. I love it. It’s so... mid-century. So deliciously cliché."

"No, I didn’t say 'sexy'," Eli protested weakly. "Just... an assistant."

Nyx shushed him, pressing a cool, taloned finger to his lips. "Hush, darling. No one likes a micromanager. You’ve given me the theme. Now,  let the master work her magic. You want a personal assistant? I’ll give you the ultimate one. One who wouldn't know a Photoshop layer from a layer cake, but knows exactly how you like your coffee... and how you like your ego stroked."

She snapped her fingers.

The red smoke didn't just drift this time; it coiled around the girl like a python, smelling of fresh printer paper and air freshener. Eli watched, his heart breaking yet again, as the sensible floral dress melted away. The girl’s silhouette stretched, her legs lengthening as her flat shoes transformed into five-inch stiletto heels that forced her calves into a permanent, taut arch.

The smoke swirled around her face, and when it cleared, her glasses were gone. Her eyes were framed by heavy, expertly applied lashes and a shimmering, smoky eyeshadow. Her lips were fuller, slick with a nude, high-shine gloss, and pulled into a permanent, slightly confused pout.

Her outfit was an HR nightmare of corporate eroticism: a black skirt so tight and short it looked like it was painted on, and a white blouse that was unbuttoned just one—no, two—buttons too many, revealing a glimpse of a lacy bra and cleavage that had to have been magically amplified.

The girl’s brain seemed to undergo the same "optimization." Her sharp, intelligent gaze softened, turning into something wide-eyed, vacant, and utterly focused on the space where Eli sat.

Nyx stepped back, admiring her handiwork. She reached out and gave the girl's miniskirt-clad asscheek a playful squeeze. "There. She’s perfect. She has exactly three thoughts in that pretty little head: filing, coffee, and you. This is what makes you such a good graphic designer, Elias. Your designs are so wonderfully… graphic.“ She gestured with a flourish at the girl’s newly voluptuous figure, as if to prove her point.

Nyx turned to Eli, her eyes gleaming with pride. "Enjoy your new 'right hand,' Elias. Try not to work her too hard."

With a final, mocking wink and a swirl of smoke, she was gone.

Time slammed back into gear.

The digital clock ticked to 9:04:13.

The new hire—the girl who had been worried about conference rooms—stumbled slightly on her new heels, her hips swaying with a hypnotic, practiced grace she hadn't possessed seconds ago.

"Like, oh my god," she said, her voice now a breathy, high-pitched warble that made Eli flinch. "I am like, sooo sorry. Like I said, like, all these doors are like sooo confusing! I could hardly tell where I was s’posed to go!"

Marcus didn't blink. He didn't seem to notice that she was suddenly wearing enough makeup for a red-carpet event or that her skirt was barely even considering complying with the company dress code. To him, suddenly, the woman had always been this way. He’d hired her after all.

"You’ve made it to the right place, my dear," Marcus said, beaming. He looked at Eli. "And I was just telling young Eli here that you would be joining his team as his personal assistant. Anything he needs—and I mean anything—that’s your responsibility. Understood?"

"Yes sir, like absolutely sir!" she chirped, her eyes snapping to Eli.

She walked toward him, the clack-clack-clack of her heels the loudest sound in the quiet conference room. She extended a hand, her nails long, manicured, and painted a soft, innocent pink. As she approached, Eli could see the dawning light of the curse in her eyes—a glazed, shimmering look of pure adoration.

"It’s like such a pleasure to finally meet you," she breathed, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper as she leaned over the table. The plunging neckline of her unbuttoned blouse left nothing to the imagination. "I’m, like, Tiffany. And I’m totally going to love working under you. I can, like, tell already."

Eli took her hand. Her skin was soft, and she squeezed his fingers with a suggestive firmness.

"Nice to meet you, Tiffany," Eli managed to say, his voice sounding understandably distracted.

"Alrighty then!" Marcus said, clapping his hands. "Eli, show her to her new desk. Get her familiar with the rest of your team, and the… uh... filing system, and whatnot. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” With that Marcus left the conference room, leaving the two of them alone. Tiffany was still holding his hand.

Walking through the office with Tiffany was like parading a neon sign through a moth convention. Every head turned. Kyle, the "monotone" designer, actually dropped his stylus as they passed. Tiffany didn't seem to notice any of it. She had tucked herself close to Eli’s side, her arm linked through his, her ample chest brushing against his sleeve with every step. Apparently, Eli was her sole focus.

Eli turned her toward his workstation, expecting to lead her to the small, cramped cubicle he imagined they would be occupying together. Instead, he stopped dead.

Impossibly, the hallway leading to his cubicle area had somehow stretched out. Where there had once been a generic white wall and a water cooler, there was now a spacious, sun-drenched alcove. A sleek, white lacquer desk sat positioned directly in front of a brand new office door, looking like something out of a high-end furniture catalog. It was equipped with a gleaming iMac, a vase of fresh peonies, and a plush, pink velvet chair.

Nyx hadn’t just changed the girl; she had edited the architecture of his life to accommodate the fantasy.

“Is this, like, mine?” Tiffany asked, her mouth dropping open into a soft ‘O’ as she swayed toward the desk. Her hips moved with a deliberate, exaggerated rhythm that Eli knew she hadn't possessed when she first walked through the conference room door. “It’s so... pretty. It totally matches my vibe.”

“Yeah, I suppose it does,” Eli managed, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s your desk. Your... workstation.”

He watched as she sat down, the velvet chair sighing under her weight. She immediately reached into the pink designer handbag she’d set down on her desk and pulled out a tube of high-shine gloss, reapplying it with practiced precision while staring at her reflection in the darkened computer monitor. She looked perfect. She looked peppy. She looked exactly like the kind of secretary a lonely, overworked graphic designer would daydream about during a mid-afternoon slump.

She finished applying her lip gloss, then appraised her reflection for a moment or two more, pursing her lips happily. She turned to him with a curious expression, batting her eyelashes sweetly, and asked, “Can I, like, see your office, too?”

“Of course,” Eli replied, mystified. As he glanced around, not spying his old cubicle, it clicked in Eli’s head that the office door behind her desk had to be his. All the other regular cubicles were still positioned where they had been before, but this new corner with Tiffany’s secretary desk, and the mysterious new office room behind it had appeared out of whole cloth. “Big changes” Marcus had said in his email. There’s no way he could have known how right he was. Eli steered Tiffany through the office door. He was as unsure as she was what he would find on the other side.

"So, like, this is where you make the magic happen?" she asked, looking at the triple monitor setup as if it were an alien spacecraft. Eli had been noticing a number of design awards hanging on the wall (with his name on them, even though he certainly didn’t recall winning them) but he turned to face Tiffany as she ran a manicured hand along the smooth edge of his upgraded desk. Eli knew he’d had a dual-monitor before, but apparently Nyx’s magic had installed more than a few improvements. “It looks, like, so complicated. You must be, like, a total tech genius."

"It's a pretty typical graphic design setup," Eli said, sitting down in his newly comfortable executive chair and gesturing to the brand new rolling chair across his desk to try to create some professional distance.

She didn't take the hint. She sat down in the rolling chair and scooched it around the desk until she sat so close their knees touched. The scooching produced some very satisfactory jiggling, Eli noted guiltily. She leaned in, peering at the in-progress logo designs he had open on his screens. "Ooh, look at those colors! I love colors. They’re so... colorful!”

Eli closed his eyes for a second. I did this. I chose this. He had wanted her to be his “secretary" to mitigate the damage, keep her close to avoid any unintended consequences. But he realized now that he really should have known better. Of course Nyx would twist his words, as she always did, and turn her into the sexiest stereotype of a secretary he could imagine. She wasn't anything close to a peer. She wasn't even a trainee anymore. She was a living, breathing manifestation of a libidinous trope whose primary directive seemed to be bolstering his own ego.

"Tiffany," he said, trying to find a professional tone, and invent a task to keep her occupied.

“Yes, Boss,” she fixed him with her full, undivided, attention, eyelashes fluttering, clearly hanging on his every word. Her expression sent a chill down his spine, but he was too confused to sort out whether the intense feeling was emotional or arousal. Probably both.

"I need you to... organize my digital archives. Can you do that?" he asked, hating how condescending he sounded.

"Um, totally!" she said, though she looked slightly confused at the word 'archives.' “Artchives, right. Isn’t that the thing on a computer with the, like, little folders? For all your artwork? I can totally do folders. I’m like, a folder expert."

She reached for the mouse, her hand overlapping his. She didn't move it. She just held his hand, looking at him with an expression of such soul-crushing devotion that Eli felt his throat tighten and his heart quicken.

"You have, like, the dreamiest eyes," she whispered, her head tilting to the side with a pensive expression. "Did you know that? I bet all the girls here are, like, totally jealous that I get to be your assistant."

"Tiffany, we… should probably get to work."

"I am working!" she giggled, leaning closer until her hair brushed his cheek. "I’m like, assisting you in being the best designer ever. Oh, do you want coffee? I bet you want coffee. I’ll go get you a coffee. How do you like it? Wait, like, let me guess... strong and powerful? Like you?"

She bit her lip, a playful, practiced gesture that sent a jolt of unwanted heat coursing through Eli’s body. By even the most charitable interpretation, the breakroom coffee sucked, but maybe he could use a cup of terrible coffee right then. He certainly felt like he deserved it.

"Just... a latte is fine," he said.

"Coming right up, Boss!"

She stood up, giving him a long, lingering look before sauntering toward the breakroom. Every man she encountered in the halls of the office watched her as she passed, their expressions a mix of lust and bemusement.

Eli put his head on his desk. This damn contract. He had almost given up on trying to outsmart it, but he had figured he could at least try to control the impact. He had thought he could create a role for her to occupy that wouldn’t require her to be completely rewritten to satisfy his fantasies. He would have been happy to just have the original Tiffany as a friendly, loyal assistant. If that was even her actual name; considering Roxy, he realized he didn’t even know for certain. But he was realizing the bitter truth of Nyx’s game. The curse didn't just change the women; it changed the world around them. It made the absurdity normal. It made his shameful violation of another human’s agency resemble a step up the corporate ladder.

He looked at his upgraded screens, trying, and failing, to find something productive to focus on. He was twenty-five years old. He was a talented designer, sure, but he didn’t expect to be handed a corner office or a personal assistant. If he was going to get those things at all, he wanted to earn them. But there he was currently being "assisted" by a woman whose entire personality had been deleted to satisfy his teenage self’s fantasy of a sexy secretary.

His revery was interrupted by a knock at the door. He expected to see Tiffany returning with a depressing paper cup of lukewarm coffee, but instead Kyle poked his head in.

“Hey Eli, I just sent those design mock-ups over. No rush, but when you have a sec, could you look over them and approve the changes?”

Eli stared at the man, blankly. Same old efficient Kyle, but Eli was not used to Kyle asking for his approval for anything. They were colleagues, equals. Heck, Eli was pretty sure Kyle started before him. What was going on?

“Boss?” Kyle was still staring at him, patiently.

Caught off guard, Eli merely stammered, “Sure, I-I’ll take a look at them. No problem, man.”

Kyle smiled gratefully, “Thank you. Again, no rush! I know it’s a busy day with training your new assistant and everything.” And with that, Kyle retreated back to his cubicle.

Eli just sat there, flabbergasted. Kyle normally barely spoke to him, let alone with that level of… deference. So now he wasn’t just Tiffany’s supervisor, but in charge of his whole team? Before he had time to process this turn of events, he heard the clack-clack-clack of Tiffany’s heels returning.

"Here you go, Boss! Extra hot!"

She was carrying a steaming ceramic mug of what smelled like a latte made with a high quality roast in a premium espresso machine. Apparently Nyx’s magic had upgraded the old Keurig, too.

Tiffany set the coffee down on his desk carefully, but she didn't leave. Instead, she stood behind him, her hands dropping gently onto his shoulders. She began to knead the muscles of his neck with surprising skill.

"You look so tense," she murmured. "You just need to, like, relax and let Tiffany take care of everything. I’m here for you, Sir. For whatever you need. Seriously. Anything."

Eli stared at his coffee, the steam rising in a slow, mocking swirl. The aroma made him think of Sage, triggering another wave of guilt. He shook his head and sighed. Tiffany’s hands were working wonders on his muscles. That thought reminded him of Roxy and the sublime work her own skilled hands had performed on him the previous night. More guilt. He thought of the girl Tiffany used to be, mere hours ago, the clever new grad who was worried about finding the right conference room. Whole lives erased. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Tiffany kept up her efforts, slowly moving the satisfying pressure from his neck down to his shoulders.

"Thank you, Tiffany," he said, his voice barely audible. No reason he had to be rude.

"Anything for you, Boss," she cooed.

He knew what would happen next. He knew how the day would end. He would eventually give in, because denying the devotion of a fantasy designed specifically for your pleasure was a battle no man was built to win. He would take her home, or they would find an empty office, and he would achieve the same hollow ecstasy as usual, then feel the same crushing guilt as always.

And tomorrow, he would try to resist again. And tomorrow, he would fail again.

Because Nyx was right. The contract wasn't a choice. It was more like a law of physics. And in Eli’s world, the only thing that mattered now was his own deepest desires, reflected in the vacant, adoring eyes of the women he inadvertently destroyed.

His train of thought abruptly derailed when Tiffany began nuzzling into the back of his head, trailing delicate kisses through his hair, down to his neck, leaving the responsibility of the back massage to her bountiful chest, which was now pressing firmly into him. Eli’s heart began to race.

"I really am going to hell," he muttered.

"Ooh, Hell?" Tiffany giggled, leaning further down to nibble his ear playfully. "Is that, like, a new nightclub? What a great way to unwind, Boss! We could go together, if you want! Would you like that? Do you like red? I have this super hot, kinda slutty red dress I could wear. What do you think?”

Eli didn't answer. He just stared at his lovely, eager personal assistant, reflected in his now dormant computer monitor. He took a sip of his coffee. It was perfect.

Exactly the way he liked it.

To be continued…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Story Navigation

Chapter 1: Link

Chapter 2: Link

Chapter 3: (You are here)

Chapter 4: Link

Chapter 5: Link

Chapter 6: Link

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eli let out a long, shaky breath, leaning his forehead against the steering wheel.

"You really are a glutton for punishment, aren't you, Elias?"

Her voice was more sympathetic than usual, but he couldn’t tell if she really meant it. He looked up. Nyx wasn't standing on the sidewalk or appearing in his backseat this time. She was lounging across the hood of the silver convertible, her charcoal-grey suit replaced by a sleek, skintight, black and white checkered dress that contrasted with the bright red sulfurous smoke still dissipating around her. She was buffing her nails with a casual, predatory air.

"I didn't mean to do anything," Eli snapped, his voice echoing in the vacuum of frozen time. "I just looked. It was a reflex. I don't even know her."

Nyx hopped off the hood, her heels clicking on the asphalt despite the frozen physics of the world. She sauntered over, slowly, running a sultry hand across his own car’s hood as she went. She arrived at Eli’s window, leaning down so her face was inches from his. The lingering smell of her sulfurous smoke wafted into the car.

"Oh, it was more than a look, darling. It was a yearning. Lust. The heart wants what it wants," Nyx purred, sliding off the hood and sauntering toward his window. "And your heart is very, very clear. No, no need to blame yourself. I certainly don’t blame you. I mean, look at her. You liked the way the wind caught that scarf, didn't you? You liked that haughty little look of 'I'm better than this traffic' she had going on."

"I'm not doing this, Nyx. I told you last time. I'm not playing your game anymore. Leave her alone. Just let the light turn green and let her go on with her life."

Nyx leaned her elbows on his door, her obsidian eyes shimmering, pouting at him derisively. "But Elias, we have a standard to uphold. And more importantly a contract. It seems like you’re forgetting, you don’t have a choice. What you do have is a type, or rather, a series of types. And this one? I don’t know if she quite fits. She’s a bit too... cold. Too aloof. Too 'I have a 401k and a rigorous Pilates schedule.' She needs a little more vroom, maybe some more va-va-voom, don't you think?"

"No," Eli said firmly. "I don’t think. I refuse to engage. I won't give you a single detail. I won't tell you what I want. If you’re going to ruin her, you’ll have to do it without my input."

“You can lie to yourself all you want, pet, but you can’t lie to me. We both know I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want her,” she gave Eli a sardonic, almost pitying smile. “You saw her, and in a fleeting moment you imagined your life together, you wondered what her laugh sounded like, you wondered what her naked form looked like... and most importantly, you wanted her to look back. And, as you should well know by now, I’m here to give you the answers to all of those questions and grant each and every one of your heart’s desires. This is for you! I really don’t know why you are fighting me on this…”

“Because I don't want this!" Eli shouted, slamming his hand against the steering wheel for emphasis. Time was still frozen, of course, so it didn’t make a sound. "I want you to leave these women alone. I want my life back. I want to be able to meet someone and actually get to know them without you lobotomizing them into my fantasies!"

Nyx let out a peal of laughter that had the frantic energy of wind chimes in a hurricane. "Lobotomizing? Such a dramatic word. I much prefer 'optimizing.' I’m just simplifying the process, Elias. Why spend months on awkward dates and 'getting to know' someone when I can just skip to the part where they already adore you?"

Eli sighed despairingly, his seatbelt feeling tight and uncomfortable. Nyx was clearly not hearing him. “Do what you have to, Nyx, but I just can’t be involved. I don’t think my conscience can take any more of this.”

Nyx let out a sharp, melodic laugh. "Suit yourself, darling. I’ve been reading your subconscious for a decade. I don't need a roadmap to reach this destination."

“No, please don't," Eli warned, reaching for his door handle, though he knew there was likely nothing he could do to stop her.

"Too late," Nyx smiled.

She snapped her fingers with a sound like a gunshot.

A violent plume of crimson smoke erupted from the interior of the silver convertible, swallowing the woman, and then the car, whole. It wasn't like the soft, perfumed smoke at the coffee shop; this was thick, smelling of burnt rubber and high-octane gasoline. The cloud churned, expanding and contracting, accompanied by the clanging of industrial metalwork. Nyx looked on in delight.

Through gaps in the smoke, the woman’s car appeared to be groaning, stretching, and reshaping itself. Eli watched in horror. He saw the silver paint of the car bubble and run, changing into a deep, aggressive cherry red. The elegant lines of the convertible flared out, the fenders widening, the tires thickening into smooth racing slicks. When the red haze started to clear, the silver car was gone. In its place was a lowered, aggressive, cherry-red muscle car, its engine block gleaming through a cut-out in the hood. It looked like it had been ripped right from the cover of a vintage hot-rod magazine. 

 Inside the car, the red smoke remained, concentrated on the driver’s seat. Again through brief glimpses, Eli could see the silhouette of the woman shifting.

The smoke cleared with a sudden, concussive pop, leaving behind the car and its driver…

The car’s chrome accents gleamed under the frozen sun, and a massive intake manifold had sprouted from the engine block. But Eli’s gaze was immediately drawn to the woman at the wheel.

Eli’s heart sank into his stomach. The woman’s whole vibe had switched from professional executive to pinup girl. The dark, chic silk scarf was gone, unleashing a wild, voluminous mane of dark hair that looked like it had been styled by a wind tunnel. The elegant sunglasses she’d been wearing before were replaced by a pair of oversized, aviator sunglasses with rose-tinted lenses. Her navy blazer had vanished, replaced by a tiny, grease-stained white tank top that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Her chest had been... enhanced, to say the least. It was like her tits had been inflated by a pneumatic pump, stretching the skimpy tank top to its limit. Nyx was clearly favoring a certain aesthetic lately, as the woman’s breasts were creating a canyon of cleavage that rivaled Sage’s. Her breasts strained against the thin fabric of her skimpy tank top, which bore a warped logo for a garage Eli couldn’t be sure actually existed before this moment.

Further down, she wore a pair of denim micro-shorts with frayed edges and high-heeled leather boots. Her once-clean skin was now adorned with several colorful tattoos; wrenches, flaming hearts, and a pair of checkered flags that disappeared beneath the waistband of her shorts.

"She’s a 'Car Chick,' Elias," Nyx said, giddily leaning against the now-red car and striking a pose. “I don’t think we’ve done this one before. A real gearhead. Loves fast cars, loud music, and men who know how to... handle a stick. She’s everything your inner fifteen-year-old ever wanted, especially after discovering a certain street-racing film franchise."

"You’re a monster," Eli whispered.

"I’m a service provider," Nyx countered. She leaned into the convertible and patted the woman’s now-ample thigh. The woman remained frozen, but her face was fixed in a wide, mischievous smirk, her tongue peeking out between her teeth. “She had a name before, obviously, but something tells me it won’t fit the new her. Let’s call her... Roxy. Yeah, she looks like a Roxy."

Nyx stood up and straightened her dress. "My work here is done. She has your number, metaphorically speaking. She’s ready to race. Try to keep up, Elias. She looks like she moves fast."

"I'm not doing this!" Eli shouted as Nyx began to fade into a swirl of red mist. "I don't even know her! I won't talk to her! I can't ruin another one!"

Nyx’s laughter echoed in the air even after her form had vanished. "You say that now. But just wait until she revs that engine..."

The world snapped back to life with a jarring, cacophonous roar.

The sound of the cherry-red muscle car’s engine hit him like a shock wave, a deep, rumble that shook the windows of Eli’s sedan. A pigeon in mid-flight finally finished its journey and perched on a lamppost. The traffic noise returned in a rush of exhaust and tires.

The woman, Roxy, turned her head. She lowered her sunglasses just enough to wink at Eli. Her eyes were no longer the intelligent, discerning eyes of the executive; they were bright, wild, and glazed with that familiarly artificial, hyper-focused lust.

"Hey, hotshot!" she shouted over the roar of her engine, her voice husky and playful. "Nice ride! Want to see what this baby can do?" She stroked her steering wheel lovingly, and Eli couldn’t help but picture her stroking… something else.

She blew him a kiss, and then gripped the gearshift with a dextrous hand. She began to rev the engine in a rhythmic, aggressive pattern, the car rocking on its suspension like a caged animal. She was looking at the red light, then back at him, her smile wide and inviting. She was a sex symbol come to life, a fantasy of "the cool girl" who just happened to be obsessed with him.

Eli stared at her, frozen in his seat. He looked at her tattoos, her ridiculous outfit, the way she was practically vibrating with a programmed desire to impress him. He felt a wave of profound sadness. Ten minutes ago, she was a woman with a career, a history, maybe even a family, and a sensible silver car. Now, she was a prop in his personal hell, a teenage sex dream come to life.

The light turned green.

Nyx was right about one thing; she did move fast. Roxy didn't hesitate. She slammed the car into gear, and with a deafening screech of burning rubber, she peeled out. Smoke billowed from her rear tires, obscuring the intersection as she roared through the light, leaving two long, black streaks of melted rubber on the asphalt. She didn't look back; she just sped away, weaving through traffic with reckless confidence.

Eli stayed where he was, stunned. A car behind him honked, but he didn't move for several seconds. He watched the red speck of her car disappear into the distance.

Follow her, a voice in his head whispered. She wants you to. It would be easy. You could have a week of fast cars and easy thrills. She’d do anything you asked of her. Anything at all.

"No," Eli said firmly.

He took a deep breath, shifted his car into drive, and slowly, safely, followed the flow of traffic. He didn't speed. He didn't look for the red hot rod. He just drove toward his office, his heart heavy with the weight of a lifetime of moral dilemmas.

The office was the usual maze of grey cubicles and the smell of low-quality breakroom coffee. It was exactly what Eli needed at that moment; mundane, boring, and safe. He sat in his uncomfortable desk chair, at his desk, in his cubicle, his dual monitors glowing with half-finished logos and typography layouts.

He tried to work, but the image of the silver car turning red kept flashing behind his eyelids. He kept thinking about "Roxy." Was she still driving like a maniac? Would she eventually run out of gas and wonder why she was wearing denim micro-shorts in forty-degree weather? What would happen if they never interacted? Would she gradually regain her old identity? Or was she, like all the others, stuck like that now, a permanent resident of the bimbo universe that Nyx was building around him?

Still sitting at his desk, he opened a search engine and hesitated. He wanted to look up her real identity, but he still didn't even know her real name. He had almost nothing to go off of. He searched for “silver convertible Wilshire and 4th," but of course, there was nothing. He didn’t know what he’d expected. He might as well search “beautiful businesswoman downtown”. The car was gone because she was gone. The executive was erased, replaced by the car chick.

His boss, a slightly harried man named Marcus, walked by and dropped a file folder on his desk. "Eli, you okay? You look like you saw a ghost."

"Just… bad traffic this morning, Marcus," Eli said, his voice flat. "It was... a mess out there."

"Tell me about it. I was seeing on the news just now, some crazy woman in a red Dodge almost took out a bus three blocks away. Cops are out looking for her. People are losing their minds these days.”

Marcus shook his head with well-meaning worry as he walked away. Eli felt a cold shiver run down his spine. She’s going to get hurt. Or worse, she was going to hurt someone else because her entire personality was now geared toward a reckless, "cool" version of femininity that didn't account for things like traffic laws or self-preservation.

He closed his eyes. He had tried to be the "good guy" by not engaging with Nyx, and then again by not following Roxy, but by doing nothing, he had left a demonically modified, high-speed weapon out on the streets with a mind straight out of his teenage fantasies. He’d tried to wash his hands of this, but the curse wouldn’t, maybe couldn’t, leave him alone. This was still his fault.

He spent the rest of the afternoon languishing in a melancholy daze. He avoided the breakroom. As usual, he avoided the cute intern in accounting. He avoided every reflective surface, unable to look himself in the eyes. He was a man trapped in a world where his own appreciation for beauty was a potentially lethal force.

As the sun began to set, casting long, orange shadows across his desk, Eli contemplated the true horror of the contract. Nyx was wrong. It wasn't just that he got what he wanted, even though this really wasn’t what he wanted anymore. It wasn’t even that he was getting what his fifteen-year-old self would have wanted, though he was skeptical that even as a teenage wallflower, he would have actually wanted a real-life knockoff Letty Ortiz. No, the true horror was that he was becoming the villain of every story, the silent, unwilling center of a hurricane of ruined lives.

He waited until the office was quiet, then packed his bag, intent on sneaking out to his car and driving home in the dark. He would talk to Marcus tomorrow. Maybe he could work from home for a month this time. Maybe a year.

He walked out to the parking lot, his footsteps echoing in the chilly air. He reached his car, fumbling for his keys. That's when he heard it.

The low, unmistakable rumble of a high-performance engine.

It was coming from across the parking lot. A slow, rhythmic revving. Vroom. Vroom-vroom.

Eli froze, his keys slipping from his hand and clattering onto the asphalt. The sound grew louder, the vibration shaking through him, right down to his bones. Then, a pair of headlights cut through the gloom of the evening, sweeping across the front of the office building like searchlights.

An instantly recognizable cherry-red muscle car rounded the corner, its racing tires shrieking aggressively as it drifted slightly on the smooth concrete. It slowed to a crawl and stopped ten feet in front of him.

The driver’s side door opened.

Roxy stepped out. She looked even more out of place in the this empty corporate parking lot than she had in his morning commute. She appeared to have changed into an even skimpier tank top, with fewer grease stains, and her hair was a wild mess of dark waves. She leaned against the door, crossing her tattooed arms over her chest, a cool, confident smile still firmly in place.

“I don’t totally know why, but I’ve been lookin’ for you,” she purred, her voice echoing off the concrete and glass of the office buildings behind them. “Spent all day drivin’ around. But then I remembered the parking pass on your windshield. Figured you might be here.”

She walked toward him, her high-heeled leather boots clicking with purpose. She stopped just inches away, the scent of gasoline and cheap perfume filling his lungs. She reached out and traced the line of his jaw with one finger.

“Name’s Roxy, and I can’t ‘xactly explain it, but you make my motor run, if you get what I mean. But you didn't wanna race with me,” she whispered, her eyes wide and hungry, her lips pouting. She pushed her big sunglasses up until they were resting on her forehead, revealing a pair of surprisingly soulful brown eyes. “But that's okay. I like a challenge. I like a man who makes me work for it." She bit her lower lip playfully without breaking eye contact.

Eli looked at her, and for the briefest of moments, he saw the executive again, the woman in the navy blazer who didn't know he existed. He saw the life he had inadvertently stolen from her.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

She laughed, a bright, empty sound. "Don't be sorry, handsome. All in the rearview mirror. Promise. You’ll find I get over things fast. And under them, too,” she said with a sultry wink.

She leaned in, her lips, slick with that cherry-red gloss, pressing against his. It was a kiss that instantly felt like a mistake, but he couldn’t stop himself from leaning in himself, and returning the feeling. Who was he to deny her what she so clearly wanted?

As she pulled away, grinning with a joy that he had to keep reminding himself was artificial, Eli looked up at the night sky. He didn't see the moon or any stars. It was a cloudy night. In his head, the gray clouds swirled and warped until he saw the red smoke of his own desires, slowly, surely, swallowing his entire world. Roxy was holding both of his hands in hers, tugging on him earnestly, eagerly.

“Come home with me?” Roxy pleaded, her eyes wide, her curves beckoning, the corners of her lips curling upward hopefully. “I promise I’m one hell of a ride.”

Eli hesitated. He was starting to wonder if he had any choice in the matter anymore. He thought back to Sage, and Sarah, and Cali, and Raquel, and Jade, and every other girl who’d stood in Roxy’s shoes before. Feeling morally drained, he made up his mind.

“Yeah, I’m definitely going to hell," he said, but this time, he said it like a man accepting a life sentence.

“Now we’re talkin’ stud. I’ll take that as a fuckin’ yes,” Roxy giggled, grabbing his hand and pulling him, dragging him towards her red car. "I'll drive."

To be continued…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Story Navigation

Chapter 1: Link

Chapter 2: (You are here)

Chapter 3: Link

Chapter 4: Link

Chapter 5: Link

Chapter 6: Link

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~