— Well, what a sleeping beauty, — cooed Stephanie Leclair, a 45-year-old woman, as she sat down on the edge of the bed in their townhouse in Portland, Oregon.

She lay on her back on a light blanket, in a tight sky-blue sweater and dark navy leggings with white stripes, like from a running club ad. One arm stretched to the side, the other bent the other way, her mouth slightly open… and a thin trail of drool slowly slid down toward her neck. Her face was relaxed, her breathing deep, and the heavy hemispheres of her breasts lifted the fabric a little, springing with every inhale and exhale.

Stephanie smiled wider, taking a tissue and gently wiping away the thin line of drool from her daughter’s chin.

— Well, you’re sleeping like the dead, Riley, — she whispered softly, adjusting the collar of the blue sweater on her. — I did warn you: morning runs at your pace are exhausting.

Riley shifted a little, her glasses—better suited for some nerd than for a girl with a body like that—slid down to the tip of her nose.

Stephanie sighed, looking at her daughter—or rather, at the one everyone around now believed to be her daughter.

— God, Riley, — she muttered, carefully tucking a stray lock of short chestnut hair behind her ear. — Why don’t you want to at least put on a little makeup? Or grow your hair out? With a body like that… and you still look like my son after an algebra exam.

She smiled faintly, though somewhere inside her she felt a strange pang: this scene seemed way too new, too unusual. But the thought slipped away and vanished, leaving only her usual motherly nagging.

If only Stephanie knew that just a few hours earlier her “daughter” had been sitting at a computer by an open window, in a stretched-out T-shirt and wrinkled pajama pants, staring into the dark sky… and saw a bright streak of a falling star slide across it.

Back then, still in the body of Ryan Leclair, a 27-year-old unemployed gamer, he...Full story (7 400 characters) is open to subscribers here or on Patreon

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