Oliver stood at the edge of the dance floor, his palms sweaty as he watched the Indian celebration swirl before him in a riot of color and sound. The heavy scent of marigolds hung in the air, mingling with the tantalizing aroma of spices from the nearby feast. His heartbeat quickened as his gaze fell upon Priya, her slender form gracefully moving to the music in a shimmering blue saree. She caught his eye and beckoned him onto the dance floor with a coy smile. Oliver hesitated, suddenly feeling very out of place in his faded jeans and t-shirt. But he couldn’t refuse Priya. Not when he’d been nursing a secret crush on her for months. Steeling himself, he stepped forward into the fray.
At first, his movements were awkward and stilted, a poor imitation of the fluid grace of the other dancers. But as the music swelled, he felt a strange tingling warmth suffuse his body, centering in his groin. His limbs began to move of their own accord, his hips moving in circles as he fell into the provocative rhythm. Alarm bells went off in his head as he realized he was no longer in control. But any thoughts of resistance were powerless against the intoxicating beat. As he spun and twisted, hands roaming his body, he caught a glimpse of himself in the ornate mirrors lining the room. His reflection somehow seemed blurred, shifting like a heat mirage. With each grinding thrust of his hips, each sensual caress, his body transformed. His skin darkened, his waist nipped in, his ass swelled into a ripe peach, his hair grew and darkened until it fell in a silky black curtain down his back. But most alarming of all was the aching emptiness between his legs, his manhood replaced by a dripping, needy cunt.
Oliver tried to cry out, to stop the inexorable change, but his voice emerged as a melodic moan, dripping with need. Dainty brownhands flew to his chest. His chest? No, these soft pillowy tits straining under a strangely silky top weren’t his, nor was the caramel skin or the doe eyes heavy with lust. He was becoming the spitting image of Priya… no, not quite. As he stared at his new face, a name drifted into his mind. Divya. Priya’s younger sister.
He tried to remember who he’d been, tried to cling to the fading vestiges of his own masculinity. But each roll of his womanly hips, each throb of his starved pussy drove Oliver further away. Memories of a life he’d never lived filled his mind: childhood games with Priya, the first blooms of womanhood, stolen glances at handsome boys, furtive explorations of his developing body, the heady scent of arousal on his fingers. Divya’s memories, Divya’s needs.
The music built to a fevered crescendo and Divya lost herself in the dance, her movements the embodiment of sensual Indian grace. The saree she now wore felt like a second skin as it clung to her curves, gold jewelry chiming with each twist. She was now aware of Priya dancing beside her, their steps perfectly synchronized, their shared joy radiant. As the last notes faded away, Divya stumbled, disoriented. Priya caught her in a warm embrace, her jasmine perfume enveloping Divya like a comforting memory. “Easy there, little sister,” Priya murmured, her voice full of affection. “You danced so beautifully tonight.”
Divya looked up at Priya, tears springing to her eyes. “I… I don’t…” she stammered, first in English but then in the Hindi that so felt familiar on her tongue.
Priya smiled knowingly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Divya’s ear. “Hush now. It’s alright. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”
And as Divya melted into her sister’s arms, she knew it was true. This was her life, her body, her truth. Oliver was nothing more than a fading bad dream, lost in the echoes of the music. She was Divya, now and forever.
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