The next day, I was scared. For the first time ever, I didn’t want to go back in. But the pull to be her was too strong.
When she went to take a bath, I snapped back like a rubber band. I possessed her again.
I squeezed and pinched her nipples, biting my lip as I took in the sight of them. I ran my hands greedily over her breasts, delighting in their weight, their fullness. The curve of her hips, the gentle swell of her thighs — I marveled at the way I practically owned this body now. I knew it intimately, more than anyone else ever could. Surely more than Dad at this point.
It should have been easy, like before.
But as soon as I was inside her, I felt that same consuming rush. Her overwhelming love for Dad crashed into me.
I thought this would be an escape, a fix I desperately needed. I thought I could possess her and make it all mine. But her feelings for Dad were there, waiting for me. I barely had time to take her in before they began to rise up and consume me again, a tidal wave of emotion that threatened to drown me.
They were stronger than before. It was like the longer this went on, the more power they had over my own emotions.
I stayed in her, even though I knew I shouldn’t. Even when I wasn’t with Dad, it felt good to be her.
I sank back into the bath water and her contentment spread through me. It was suffocating but sweet.
I could feel my own thoughts dimming beneath hers.
A part of me wanted to fight it, but another part—a part that was getting harder to ignore—wanted to give in.
So I gave in and let her consume me as I lay there. Every bit of her identity and love and life pressed into me, and I did nothing to stop it.
Because a part of me wanted to be her more than I wanted to be myself.
I let my hands roam over her naked body. I was losing myself in her—losing myself to her—and I didn’t care.
I felt the danger of it—the danger and the thrill—and instead of pulling away like I should have, I let my mother’s consciousness fold over mine like a blanket wrapping me up.
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