You Can Touch Me

Alex’s fingers, now Chloe’s, long and slender, instinctively reached up to trace the delicate strap of the bikini. Stop! Don’t touch me! Chloe’s mind shrieked, but her hand continued, pulled by a will not her own. The smooth, cool fabric, stretched taut over her—her—breast, felt impossibly soft. Alex shifted, and the top dipped slightly, hinting at the swell beneath. He’s enjoying this. He’s feeling it. The realization sent a fresh wave of nausea through Chloe’s trapped consciousness. It was a body Alex had seen a thousand times, watched from the periphery at family barbecues or beach outings, but now he inhabited it. He felt it from the inside. The sheer foreignness of his control over her intimate self, coupled with the deeply inappropriate familiarity, sent a jolt through him, a profound and unsettling revelation.

It began subtly, Alex mused, his thoughts flowing through Chloe’s mind, a vile, invasive presence that Chloe was forced to endure. A quiet fascination, dismissed at first as paternal affection for my friend’s child. But then… she started to change. He’d observed her over the years, at birthday parties, at family gatherings, a peripheral figure in her vibrant young life. He’d seen the awkwardness of childhood give way to the burgeoning grace of adolescence. The way her movements became more fluid, the easy confidence that settled over her as she shed childhood’s ungainliness.

Slowly, deliberately, Alex let Chloe’s hand—his hand, the hand of an adult man now controlling a young woman’s body—slide down the side of her torso. No! Stop it! Chloe screamed internally, but her hand continued, pulled by a will not her own. The skin was smooth, surprisingly firm, imbued with the vitality of youth. Alex felt the gentle curve of her ribcage, the subtle indentation of her waist. The bikini top, snug and revealing, seemed to invite the touch, accentuating every movement. Alex arched Chloe’s back slightly, feeling the stretch, the subtle shift of muscle, and watched the curve of her hip blossom in the glass. It was her body, responding to his will.

Alex’s fingers, still tracing the line of Chloe’s ribs, drifted higher, returning to the edge of the emerald bikini top. His thumb brushed the sensitive underside of her—her—breast, pressing lightly, just enough to feel the yielding flesh beneath the fabric. The vibrant green of the material seemed to heighten the awareness of the skin it barely concealed, pulling his male gaze to its new, voluptuous reality.

“It’s… it’s okay, Alex,” he murmured, Chloe’s voice, a soft, almost vulnerable tone.

The words, forced from her own lips by him, “You can… you can touch me. It’s okay.”

He let Chloe’s head loll slightly to the side, exposing her neck, a gesture of assumed surrender. He watched the effect in the mirror, a twisted satisfaction blooming in his eyes. Chloe, trapped and screaming internally, was powerless, made to be the instrument of her own defilement.