I only joined the Zumba class for fun — ten minutes in, the bass dropped, the mirrors fogged, and suddenly that girl in the bright red set caught my eye. She smirked at me mid-spin, like she already knew something I didn’t. The next beat hit… and everything snapped. My vision dipped, my balance shifted, and when I looked down, the red bandeau and impossibly tight shorts were stretching over my new curves. Her long ponytail brushed my back, her hips responded to the rhythm automatically, and her warm, sweaty pulse echoed inside my chest. And across the room, she was testing my body like a toy — rolling my shoulders, flexing my arms, grinning at the strength she’d borrowed.

Then she sauntered toward me, wearing my face, giving my smile — slow, teasing. “You said you came here for fun, right?” she whispered through my lips. I felt her hand slide around the tiny waist I now had, pulling me closer until my borrowed hips bumped into her. The whole room kept dancing, but it felt like only the two of us existed. I was trapped in her body, heart racing, every sway exaggerated, every bounce distracting even to myself — and she was enjoying being me far too much. When the instructor yelled “freestyle!”, she nudged me forward with my own mischievous grin, letting me show off her body like she’d been waiting for this moment all along.