The apartment was a disaster zone when I got back around 8:30 a.m. on Saturday—Solo cups tipped over on the coffee table, a half-eaten pizza box splayed open on the floor like roadkill, and Jake snoring face-down on the couch with one shoe still on. Sarah was curled in the armchair beside him, blanket pulled up to her chin, her breathing soft and even. The faint echo of last night's music still hummed from a forgotten speaker in the kitchen, but the place felt empty now, the wild energy drained into hangovers and regrets. I stepped over a puddle of spilled beer and headed to my room, the bond with Elise pulsing fresh in my skull like a new tattoo—raw, permanent, ready to stretch across distances. Sarah's new affinity hummed too, softer but there, a quiet tether I could tug anytime. But the party scout had been just that: a test. Legacy needed planning. Patience.
I crashed for a few hours—my own body finally demanding rest after the dual possessions and the night's filthy highs. Woke around noon, head clear, power humming stronger than ever. The semester was done: finals aced, self-assignment submitted (a cushy psych research project on anomalous behaviors—ironic, given my "hobby"). Winter break loomed—five weeks off before spring term. Time to go home. My family was expecting me; Mom had texted twice already: When are you driving back? Dad's making his famous chili. Annie misses you—says she has "big news." Hometown: a quiet suburb two hours north, the kind of place where everyone knew your business and nothing ever changed.
Packing took an hour. I threw clothes into a duffel—hoodies, jeans, a couple button-ups for "family dinners"—then grabbed my laptop, chargers, the stolen stats books I'd retrieved from Lena's dorm (she'd woken groggy that morning, blaming a "flu bug" for her lost days, no memory of the emails or gummies). I packed everything I needed any got to my car that I left in the parking lot for centuries. This because I couldn't afford the petrol price and to stand still in a car that I wouldn't use anyway, doesn't add up. Yet I needed it during my time off, during that time that I will be enjoying my winter holidays at home with my parents and my younger sister Annie, who still has to go to school. For her the school is going on for at least for one or two weeks. Everybody that I made a bond with, is going to enjoy they free time. Lena with her family in the east, Sarah and Jake together at his home and Elise, who is going to be home in Paris during the vacation. So maybe I'll have time to peak in her body and try a croissant and see how Paris is like.
The drive north took two hours and change—highway mostly empty, gray November sky pressing low, radio cycling through the same three pop songs on repeat. I kept the window cracked, letting the cold air cut through the lingering scent of party smoke on my clothes. The power thrummed steady in my veins: Elise's fresh bond (still warm from last night's dual-fuck), Sarah's deeper tether (locked in during the backyard fence scene), Lena's quiet anchor (still dosed lightly, sleeping through her "flu"). But as the familiar exit sign for my hometown appeared, the revenge fantasies sharpened again. Gina. Always Gina.
She hadn't just left. She'd weaponized it.
We met junior year in the library—bio study group, her laughing too loud at my bad puns, green eyes crinkling, wavy brown hair always falling in her face. Back then she carried extra weight in a soft, inviting way: full cheeks, generous hips, C-cup tits that strained her hoodies, thighs that touched when she sat. Comfortable. Lazy in the best way—Netflix marathons, takeout on the couch, sex slow and sleepy. I loved it. Loved her, or thought I did. No powers then—I'd buried the ability after college, convinced it was a hallucination or a phase. With Gina it was real. Normal. We talked future: apartment together senior year, maybe marriage after graduation. She'd trace my chest in bed and murmur, "We're good, right?" I believed her.
Then she changed.
It started small—skipped walks, more snacks, weight creeping up. Thirty pounds by graduation, then forty, fifty. She ballooned: double chin, rolls at her sides, ass spilling over jeans, tits heavy and sagging. Sex dwindled—she was always "tired," always "not feeling it." I tried: jogging invites, gym suggestions, gentle "let's eat healthier." She laughed them off. "You love me like this, right?" I stayed. Tried to stay.
Senior spring she started a new job—marketing internship downtown. New boss: slick, older, expensive suits. She came home later, dressed sharper, makeup perfect. The weight started dropping—fast. Personal trainer, meal prep, "lifestyle change." By summer she was thin again—thinner than when we met. Flat stomach, toned legs, perky tits high again, ass tight. She looked expensive. And she knew it.
The betrayal wasn't gradual. It was surgical.
I came home early one Thursday—found her riding him on our bed, her new thin body glistening, moaning louder than she ever had with me. She didn't stop when she saw me. Just laughed—sharp, cruel, triumphant. "God, finally. You were never enough. Look at me now. I deserve this." She came right there—on his cock—eyes locked on mine the whole time, daring me to react. Then she climbed off, grabbed her phone, took a selfie with him still inside her. Posted it later—caption: New chapter 💅. Blocked me the same night. Moved into his downtown condo the next day.
The humiliation burned hotter than anything. She didn't just leave. She erased me. Turned the body I'd accepted—loved—into a weapon against me. Thin, bitchy, untouchable Gina. Posting gym selfies, vacation pics with him, captions dripping condescension: Living my best life. Sorry not sorry. Every like, every comment from mutual friends, felt like a fresh cut.
That's when the power woke up again. Dormant for years, it surged back during a blackout-drunk rage week. First test: a neighbor. Then focus locked on Gina. The old affinity from our relationship made it effortless—distance collapsed. I started small: possessing her at night, tearing holes in her new designer dresses, leaving her confused and furious. Then the bingeing—shoving entire boxes of Twinkies, bags of chips, pints of ice cream down her throat while she "slept." Watched through her eyes as the scale crept back up: ten pounds, twenty, thirty. Her flat stomach rounding again, tits sagging heavier, thighs chafing. Her boyfriend pulled away—disgusted by the sudden regain. She cried on the phone to him: "I don't know what's happening—I'm eating in my sleep!" I laughed inside her head while she sobbed.
But that was just foreplay.
The real revenge plot crystallized later: bond with her like Lena, Sarah, Elise—stretch the control infinite. Possess her during dates—make her binge at five-star restaurants, spill wine on her outfits, slur words mid-conversation until he dumped her. Edge her to madness during "alone time," leave her frustrated and dripping without release. And the legacy twist: possess her during a hookup, whisper in her ear to beg for it raw, no condom, "fill me deep, don't pull out." Watch her belly swell with some stranger's kid—her perfect new life derailed by the "accident" I engineered. Thin, bitchy Gina reduced to bloated, single mom, regretting the day she laughed at me.
I pulled into the driveway just as the porch light flicked on. Mom's minivan, Dad's truck, Annie's bike chained to the railing. The front door flew open before I killed the engine.
Annie—15 now, all elbows and knees—came barreling out in mismatched socks and an oversized hoodie that used to be mine. Her braces flashed in the porch light. "You're late! Mom's been stressing about the chili burning."
I climbed out, slung the duffel over my shoulder. "Traffic. And I had to say goodbye to the apartment. It's officially dead to me till January."
She rolled her eyes—classic teenage disdain—but hugged me anyway, quick and awkward, like she wasn't sure if she was too old for it. "You smell like beer and bad decisions."
"Accurate." I ruffled her hair—messy ponytail, still smelled like strawberry shampoo. "Heard you made varsity cheer. That's huge, squirt."
"Yeah, well…" She shrugged, suddenly shy, kicking at a loose pebble on the driveway. "Tryouts were brutal. Coach made us do like a million toe touches. My thighs are dead."
"You'll survive. You always do." I bumped her shoulder. "Show me the routine later?"
"Maybe. If you don't make it weird."
"Deal."
Inside: chili simmering on the stove, cornbread cooling on the counter, Mom already fussing. "You're too thin—did you eat at school?" Dad clapped my back, handed me a beer. Normal. Safe. Annie darted upstairs to "change out of her gross socks," yelling down about some TikTok dance she wanted to show me later.
I sat at the kitchen table—same scratched oak from my childhood—sipping the beer, letting the warmth of home settle around the cold revenge scheming in my head.
Gina's face flashed again—laughing on that selfie, thin and cruel.
Soon. Very soon. I'd be back in the city after break. And she'd never see me coming.
The drive home had been a blur of gray highways and fading radio signals, but pulling into the familiar driveway felt like stepping into a time capsule—comforting, yet oddly distant. The suburban house hadn't changed much on the outside: same faded blue shutters framing the windows, same maple tree in the front yard, now bare and skeletal against the November sky, same cracked driveway where I'd learned to ride a bike. But inside my head, everything felt… altered. The power had rewritten how I saw the world—bodies as vessels, minds as playgrounds, distance as irrelevant. This quiet cul-de-sac, once a boring refuge from campus chaos, now seemed like untapped potential. Neighbors I'd known since childhood, old friends from high school, even my family— all within reach if I wanted. The thought sent a dirty thrill through me: what if I slipped into Mrs. Hargrove next door, the nosy widow who baked cookies every Christmas? Or Coach Ramirez from Annie's school, just to feel the bulk of a guy's body again? The suburb hadn't changed, but I had. It felt smaller. More conquerable.
I unloaded the duffel from the trunk and headed inside, the front door creaking in that familiar way. The smell hit first: Dad's chili bubbling on the stove, mingled with the faint pine from the early Christmas tree Mom always insisted on putting up right after Thanksgiving. "Honey, is that you?" Mom's voice called from the kitchen, warm and a little harried.
"Yeah, Mom. Home sweet home."
She bustled out—apron dusted with flour, hair pulled back in a ponytail that showed the gray streaks she'd stopped dyeing last year. Hugged me tight, like I'd been gone years instead of months. "You look tired. School wearing you out?"
"Just finals. All done now." I hugged back, feeling the familiar softness of her body—mid-forties, still fit from yoga classes, but with the comfortable curves of someone who enjoyed her own cooking.
Dad appeared from the living room, remote in hand, pausing whatever football game he'd been watching. "Son! Good to have you back." He clapped my shoulder—strong grip, calluses from his mechanic job. "Help me set the table? Your sister's upstairs on that damn phone again."
I spent the next hour settling in: dropping the duffel in my old room (posters still up from high school, bed made with the same faded quilt), catching up on small talk while helping Dad with plates. The house felt cozy—fire crackling in the living room, Annie's music faintly thumping from upstairs—but my mind wandered to the changes. The power made everything feel… temporary. Like I could rewrite any moment if I wanted. Slip into Dad during his nap later? Or Annie's friend who'd probably come over for homework? No—not Annie. She was off-limits, even in my twisted head. But the suburb itself? It had evolved in subtle ways since I left for college: new families moving in, the old corner store now a chain coffee shop, kids I used to babysit now driving their own cars. It felt smaller, yes, but ripe. Full of bodies waiting to be explored.
"Dinner!" Mom called from the kitchen, right on cue. The table was set family-style: big pot of chili steaming in the center, cornbread sliced thick, shredded cheese and sour cream in bowls, a simple green salad on the side (Mom's attempt at "balance"). Annie thudded down the stairs—phone in hand, earbuds dangling around her neck—plopping into her seat with a dramatic sigh.
"Finally. I'm starving."
Dad chuckled, serving himself a heaping bowl. "How was the drive, kid? Traffic bad?"
"Not too rough," I said, spooning chili into my bowl—rich with ground beef, beans, and that secret spice mix Dad guarded like a state secret. The first bite was home: warm, hearty, a little spicy. "Campus is a zoo right now—everyone scrambling for self-assignments before break."
Mom nodded, passing the cornbread. "And how are your classes going? You haven't said much about them lately. Still thinking psych major?"
"Yeah, sticking with it. Finals were brutal—stats especially. But I pulled through." I kept it vague—no need to mention the possessions that carried me. Annie snorted, mid-bite.
"Psych? So you're gonna be like a shrink? Analyzing us all the time?" She rolled her eyes, but there was a grin underneath—teasing, like always.
I shot her a mock-glare. "Careful, or I'll start with you. What's with the phone addiction? Boy trouble?"
"Shut up." She kicked me lightly under the table, cheeks pinking a little. "It's not boys. It's… cheer stuff. We have this group chat for routines, and Coach is being a total dictator about formations."
Dad raised an eyebrow. "Boys? What boys?"
"Nobody, Dad!" Annie groaned, burying her face in her hands dramatically. "God, you're worse than him."
Mom laughed, diffusing. "Leave her alone, you two. Annie's doing great—varsity at 15? We're proud. And you, honey—tell us more about school. Any… special someone? You've been quiet about that too."
The question landed like a casual bomb. Gina's face flashed—thin, laughing, cruel. I forced a shrug. "Nah. Single life's treating me fine. Focusing on grades."
Dad nodded approvingly. "Smart. Plenty of time for that later. How's the roommate? Jake, right? And his girlfriend?"
"Good. They're solid." I didn't mention possessing Sarah last night—fucking myself through her against the fence, bonding her deep. Or Jake snoring obliviously beside her. "They're heading to his folks for break."
The conversation meandered from there—Mom asking about dorm food ("You eating enough veggies?"), Dad grilling about my car's oil change ("Don't let it go too long"), Annie chiming in with school drama ("This girl on the squad is such a diva—thinks she's captain already"). It felt normal. Grounding. But underneath, the power whispered: I could slip into Mom right now, feel the weight of her body, the familiar kitchen from her eyes. Or Annie's cheer coach, just for the thrill of authority. The suburb hadn't changed much, but I had—seeing every person as a potential vessel made the coziness feel like a facade.
After dinner—bowls cleared, dishwasher humming—Mom grabbed her purse. "Your father and I are running to the store. Need anything? Milk? Snacks?"
"I'm good," I said, stretching. "Might nap. Long drive."
Dad nodded. "We'll be back in an hour. Annie—homework done?"
"Yes, Dad." Eye roll.
They left—car backing out, headlights sweeping the driveway. Annie vanished upstairs with a "Night!" I waited five minutes, then headed to my room. Locked the door. Lay on the bed—same lumpy mattress from high school—and closed my eyes.
The reach for Mom was effortless—affinity from family ties making it instant, like breathing. No anchor needed. Snap.
Mom's eyes opened in the passenger seat of the minivan. Her body felt… familiar yet new: mid-forties curves, softer than the young ones I'd worn, breasts heavier with a gentle sag under her bra, hips wide from two kids. The seat belt pressed between them, nipples brushing cotton with each bump. Inside: a faint ache in her lower back from standing in the kitchen, warmth low in her belly from… something. Hormones? Or just the quiet contentment of family dinner? The baby wasn't there, but the echo of Emily's pregnancy lingered in my mind—making this feel like a softer version, maternal rather than fertile.
Dad drove beside me—her—humming to the radio. "Good to have him home, huh?"
"Yeah," I said in Mom's voice—warm, a little tired. "He seems… different. More confident."
The store was a small local grocer—same fluorescent lights, same creaky carts. I made her body move with her usual efficiency: grabbing milk, bread, a carton of eggs. But inside: sensations deepened. The sway of her hips with each step, breasts shifting under the sweater, a subtle throb between her legs from the possession's intimacy. Dirty thought: what if I edged her here, in aisle 3, fingers slipping under jeans while Dad shopped produce?
Outside, the community knew her. Mrs. Jenkins from down the street waved at the register. "Mary! How's the family? Your boy home for break?"
I smiled with Mom's face—warm, neighborly. "Yes, just arrived. We're thrilled."
In the parking lot, Mr. Patel from the old hardware store nodded hello. "Evening, Mary. Tell your husband I've got those spark plugs he asked about."
"Will do, Raj. Thanks."
The cold air nipped her skin as we loaded bags—nipples peaking hard, goosebumps racing up arms. Inside: arousal stirred faint, hormones whispering. The suburb felt alive—neighbors waving, cars passing slow. Everyone knew Mom. Respected her. And here I was, wearing her like a second skin, no one the wiser.
Drove back—Dad chatting about work. I released her gently at the driveway—fade back to my napping body.
Opened my eyes in my room. Power humming stronger.
Home felt changed. More mine.