The second message from the author arrived at dawn, though Sam didn’t see it until hours later. He had slept uneasily, half-dreaming of silk and whispered voices, and when he finally rolled out of bed his body felt heavier than usual, as though he’d been dancing in his sleep.
The message was simple: Part Two is ready. Read when you’re dressed for it.
He frowned at the phrasing. Dressed for it? He wasn’t wearing anything special, just an old t-shirt and loose shorts. He padded to the kitchen for coffee, sat down at his laptop, and clicked the file.
The story opened with a description so vivid it startled him: She wore a fishnet pantyhose under a pleated skirt, her blonde locks pouring over her body. Her feet pointed in platform boots though awaiting a beat to march along to with grace.
Sam blinked and reread the sentence. Fishnets? Blonde? He hadn’t asked for this. It wasn’t what he’d described in his request. He almost closed the file, but curiosity kept him reading.
The narrative followed “her”—always her—moving gracefully through a room, back arched, arms lifted. The language was intoxicating, delicate, even reverent. He could almost feel the tight pull of the fabric against his skin, the swish of the skirt, the whisper of silk thread where the pantyhose rubbed together.
Shivering, he tore his eyes from the screen. That was when he saw himself in the mirror across the room. He froze.
The reflection was dressed in the exact outfit described in the story, and more alarmingly, long blonde hair cascaded over his shoulders. He stared, heart hammering. He hadn’t put these on. He didn’t even own anything like that. Yet there he was, legs encased in fishnets, towering in platform boots, every line of text brought to life in his own skin. He stumbled back from the mirror, hands clutching at the unfamiliar fabric. It was real. The material stretched under his fingers, the waistband snug at his waist. His breath quickened. He hadn’t blacked out. He remembered waking up in his t-shirt and shorts. He hadn’t changed. And yet—
The laptop chimed. A new line had appeared in the file, though he hadn’t seen it typed. Don’t be afraid. This is only the beginning. He slammed the lid shut, his pulse wild. The words burned in his head. He sat on the edge of his bed, clutching his thighs, feeling the tension of the tights beneath his grip. The sensation was undeniable, the scent of fresh fabric still clinging. No matter how much he told himself it was impossible, the outfit was on him – the hair was real.
Hours passed before he dared undress. By then the room smelled faintly of roses.. He stuffed the clothing into the laundry hamper, hoping they’d vanish. But deep down he knew better. The story had moved past him. It was moving through him.
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