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The hot light streamed through a panel of amber stone, as if filling the room with some kind of magic. The air carried the scent of something salty and herbal, thick like after a sauna. He... now she, though she didn’t know it yet, was lying on a lounge chair, feeling like something was off. The masseur had left quite a while ago and still hadn’t come back.
— Um... Sorry— she hesitated, hearing her own voice and immediately cleared her throat — Kkh-kh! What the...
Propping herself up on her elbows, she suddenly felt her breasts—yes, breasts—gently sway. And her heart skipped a beat. She… no, he… although now “he” already sounded off… looked down and froze.
Two round shapes, tightly wrapped in a pink bikini top, rose and fell softly with each breath. They trembled to the rhythm of her heartbeat. Full, with a new kind of weight. She reached out, almost not believing it, and carefully touched the fabric, noticing long, manicured nails on her fingers. Her finger slid along the curve and pressed against the cup, and in that moment something stirred inside—like touching something both familiar and entirely new.
— What the fuck, is it already happening? What the hell is this realism?...
‘Psycho-experience. Deep immersion. Full simulation.’ She still thought it was just a program—one she, as a lead developer, was testing after the final trial phase. A very advanced program with neuro-plates, modulating the body through total detachment from reality—it felt like just a very, very good illusion. All she needed was to go through it, feel it, collect sensations. But when she moved again, leaning her back against the lounge chair, and the tight fabric of the bikini stretched across her nipples, almost winking at her nervous system, and when her abs responded not with the usual firmness but with some soft, feminine give—she suddenly realized she couldn’t find anything to grab onto to feel like herself. Her former “he” simply wasn’t here at all.
And then came the panic. She—or rather he, because the male “I” was still echoing in the head—reached toward her thigh. Grabbed it. Squeezed with her fingers—the skin was smooth, soft, like after an expensive spa treatment. The hips were wider than they should’ve been, and when she shifted her weight to sit up straight, she noticed how the whole body moved strangely—as if it already knew how it was supposed to move, and just did it without asking. A woman’s posture. A woman’s grace. She—or he—was sitting cross-legged, hands resting on her breasts, and couldn’t understand: how is she doing all this so calmly?
— Oh my God... — she exhaled, for the first time not just hearing but feeling the vibration of her voice. Thin. High. Almost melodic. — This… can’t be… I didn’t agree to this.
She grabbed her tits with both hands—not painfully, but firmly. Like trying to prove to herself that none of this was real. But the tits didn’t vanish. They breathed. Lived. Reacted to touch. Even through the bikini she could feel their inner pulsing—completely different from what he was used to, almost alien. And there was something terrifyingly intimate about it....