"Sorry Mr. Solomon, we won't be moving forward with your application at this time."
Wait! Isn't there anything we can do? I... I need this job."
The HR lady shuffled papers indifferently as my soul was crushed. I tried to hold it together as best I could.
"Have a nice day." The zoom call clicked closed.
I held my head in my hands. A thousand applications. Four interviews, zero offers. After spending four years getting a PhD in neuroscience, nothing.
I looked around at the shitty apartment I lived in. This was supposed to be the path to success. My parents had kicked me out of their basement, telling me I needed a job, and a girl. God knows I'd been trying.
That fucking HR girl's face of smug indifference was burned into my memory. Gatekeeping roles from more accomplished people than her had given her a false sense of superiority. A quick linkedin search showed she was a communications major at some southern school. Of course.
A google search brought up her instagram and I scrolled through. While I had been toiling away for 4 years mapping brainwaves, she'd had everything handed to her. Her job was probably nothing more than clicking through emails and going to zoom meetings from her couch. And in the name of fairness, paid the same as a programmer despite being infinitely replaceable.
Her Instagram was a carefully curated highlight reel — oat-milk lattes, golden-hour selfies in silk robes, the occasional "hustle" caption over a laptop and candle. But the comments told a different story. Under her recent activity, I could see she'd left some mean comments. "So brave for wearing that top!", "I wish I was confident enough to wear my hair like that." Another post, older, showed her with a group of interns. The caption read "so proud of this team." Half of them weren’t following her anymore.
I kept scrolling. Same pattern. Soft lighting, perfect hair, and a quiet trail of people who’d clearly been stepped on.
To be honest, it burned me even more to see how hot she was. Even in her worksuit I could see her enormous jugs straining and begging for release. Her slick, straight hair perfectly done. Not only could I never have a job, I could never have a girl like her.
I stood up and walked outside. Just to get some air. "Might be one of the last times I ever get to do this", I thought to myself as I looped the block. Cold wind and fog hit my arms as I wondered why life was so unfair. I walked past coffeeshops, staring at friends laughing together through the window. Why couldn't my life be so carefree and simple?
I started to go through the next options. I could move out to the suburbs, find a rat hole out there to live in. I guess driving uber was the only option I had.
Or, I could take over her body and MAKE her give me the job. And have a little fun and humiliation while in there.
I'd had this theory for a long time, but never tried it. Maybe now was the time for something drastic.
Brainwaves were my thing. I'd perfected a technique during my studies called the brainwave detection and overwrite. Basically, thoughts are made up of patterns of synchronized neuron activation. With enough sensors, you could detect the waveforms that made up thought.
So I went to work in my apartment. No way I could make rent this month, not in San Francisco. This was it, the only way out.
I played with wires and antennas, building something. I'd had a theory, still untested. If you could blast someone hard enough with radio frequencies, you could fry their brain and put the waves of activation on hold for a split second. And if you could time that up with another blast with exactly the right frequencies aimed at the right places, you could implant the patterns of one person into the head of another.
Essentially, taking over their body. Possession.
As long as the broadcast waves were going, the regulatory part of the brain would think the host's own thoughts are going on, won't fire anything up to create a conflict. But once my transmission ends, it would kick in, waking them up again.
I worked nonstop over the next several days, barely eating and sleeping. When I slept, I'd drift off thinking of possessing that hot HR lady. Gripping her tits in my hands was enough to make me practically salivate.
Finally, I was ready. I gathered my materials, throwing them in the back of my shitty car. From her linkedin and instagram it was easy to track down where she lived. I parked my car outside her place, fired up the machine, and put my plan into action. Enough of a pulse to knock down her consciousness for an hour. During that time I'd broadcast my thought waves into her head. I'd basically be driving her body like it were my own.
Instantly I slammed back into consciousness in an unfamiliar room. I was on my back, staring at a computer. Just below that were tits. Huge tits.
I sat up. This body was so different than my own. Tits and hair settled over my shoulders. The hips felt impossibly wide. Everything smelled fruity and girly.
I was in. It fucking worked.
I had to get to a mirror. I threw the computer to the side. When I stood, everything felt out of place. Her hips were so wide and the tits pulled me forward.
The sensation was overwhelming. A dizzying loop of tactile feedback where I was both the one touching and the one being touched.
I felt the heavy, dense weight of them pressing against the lace of a bra that felt far too tight, the underwire digging into the ribs of a body that wasn't mine. I slid my palms upward, cupping the undersides, marveling at the sheer mass of them. They were like warm, soft boulders of flesh that defied gravity only because of the synthetic fabric holding them in place. With a sudden, frantic impulse, I hooked my fingers under the strap and yanked it down, letting them spill out of the bra, it still strapped and awkwardly sitting atop them. They didn't just drop; they bounced, a heavy, rhythmic jiggle that sent a shockwave of pleasure straight to my new brain.
I spent the next few minutes just experimenting with the physics of it, watching them sway and bounce as I shifted my weight. I reached out and flicked the nipples, watching them harden instantly.
The jolt of electricity from that touch shot through the chest and settled deep in the pelvis, a sensation so visceral it made my knees shake. I leaned over, staring down at the pale, expansive curves, unable to believe that this, this biological jackpot, was now my personal property.
I hopped, running to the mirror, tits and hair bouncing everywhere and fixing my bra and shirt back in place to calm the frantic jiggling. When I stared, she stared back.
My invention actually worked! I almost forgot I was a hot chick for a second as I went through the implications. I had genuinely invented a way to control the bodies of others with radio waves.
But... I was actually inside the body of that snooty HR lady. And I could make her do whatever I wanted.
I started with the tits. I'd basically had a hand on one since I got in here. They jiggled everywhere and were fucking huge. Even grabbing them made my belly tingle, a weird feeling I'd never had as a guy. Holy shit - was that her getting horny?
Some business to attend to before I went all in with exploration. Dropping my tits, I walked back to the living room. The tingly feeling got even stronger, denial fueling the growing need within me.
I grabbed her laptop. "Looks like I'll be getting the job after all." I said in her voice to her empty apartment.
But on the lockscreen, I was stymied. Her password. Shit. I had none of her memories.
Well, if I couldn't do my job, she couldn't do hers. I took her laptop and folded it open, going past the resistance until it bent and snapped off.
"Have fun working from home now, you spoiled bitch."
Now, time for some fun with her pussy.
I wandered into the small office nook off the living room. Her desk was as tidy as the rest of the place — until I opened the bottom drawer. Inside was a printed spreadsheet of candidates from the last hiring round, with handwritten notes in the margins.
"Not worth hiring. Overseas candidate cheaper."
"Lacking in EQ."
"Cute but no. We already have enough of those people."
And next to my own name, in neat blue ink: "Position to be filled by boss's daughter. Holding interviews for compliance reasons."
I stared at the page for a long moment, anger well inside me. Then I smiled with her mouth, folded the paper carefully, and ripped it up.
As I walked to her room, I let my arm run along her kitchen island, knocking cups and plates off and onto the floor. Some shattered, making me laugh to myself. Her apartment was genuinely immaculate and decorated so intricately. Ruining it was a perverted delight as violating as wearing her body as my own.
I laid down on the bed, the mattress plush and smelling of expensive vanilla, and stared up at the ceiling for a moment, letting the sheer absurdity of the situation sink in. Then, my hands drifted back to my chest. The bra was a restrictive, lacy thing that fought to keep the masses of flesh contained. I lifted my tits out, nipples just visible over the lip of the bra. With a thin finger, I toyed with the nipple. The faster I rubbed, the more pleasure I got.
Just to try it, I reached my hands back and slapped my tits hard. Pain flashed, but was replaced by a surge of righteous pleasure. My big, juicy, stolen tits ached. She'd feel that later. Good, she deserved it.
As I continued to toy with the peaks of her breasts, I noticed a strange, magnetic pull directing my focus downward. It wasn't just a psychological desire; it was a physical circuit. Every time I squeezed the heavy mounds or flicked the nipples, a warm, thrumming pulse traveled south, bypassing the stomach and landing with a wet, heavy thud right between my thighs. As a man, pleasure had always been localized, a direct line from the organ to the brain. But this was a network. The connection between the breasts and the pussy was a shimmering, invisible wire of nerve endings, and I was the one flipping the switch.
The focus shifted downward, the heavy sway of my chest acting as a curtain for the exploration below. I slipped off her silk panties, my fingers met a humid warmth as I cupped my pussy. "My pussy" I thought to myself. The thought was an absolute delight, sending a small gush of lubricating liquid forward as I rubbed my hand down the seam.
I closed my eyes, letting my head sink into the plush pillow as I synchronized the rhythms of my two hands. The tactile feedback was overwhelming, a dual pleasure that my virgin male brain could barely process. I gripped both breasts, squeezing them firmly, molding the soft, heavy mass of them until they were crushed against my ribs. Every time I squeezed, the pressure translated into a dull, satisfying ache that seemed to fuel the fire building between my legs. I began to knead them, rolling the nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, creating a frantic, pulsing tension that mirrored the drumming of my heart.
Simultaneously, my other hand was buried deep in that humid warmth, my fingers working in a frantic, sliding motion. I found the clitoris, a tiny, electric nerve center. Each flick sent a jagged bolt of lightning straight up my spine, colliding with the sensation of my breasts being crushed in my other hand. The synergy was explosive; the more I manipulated my chest, the more intense the clitoral stimulation became, creating a feedback loop of escalating heat that made my breath come in ragged, high-pitched whimpers.
The buildup detonated. The world narrowed down to a single, white-hot point of convergence between my chest and my crotch. I arched my back, my spine curving, as a tidal wave of release crashed through the pelvis, radiating outward in concentric circles of shimmering heat.
My vision blurred, the edges of the room dissolving into a haze of vanilla-scented static, and my breath hitched in a strangled, high-pitched keen that echoed off the walls of the bedroom. The contractions were rhythmic and violent, pulling my hips upward in an involuntary dance, while my breasts heaved with every frantic gasp.
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the sound of my own ragged, feminine breathing. I lay there, limbs splayed across the silk sheets, feeling the slow, rhythmic thrum of a heart that didn't belong to me. I looked up at the ceiling, a smug grin spreading across a face that had once looked down on me with indifference. I had stripped her of her autonomy, her dignity, and her career in a single afternoon. The thought of her laptop, snapped in half on the living room floor, brought a fresh surge of satisfaction.
I leaned forward, peering down to see the anatomy of my conquest. Using my fingers, I carefully spread open the pussy, peeling back the soft, pink folds to expose the glistening, swollen center. Seeing the wetness, the raw openness of it, and the pulsing vulnerability of the clitoris made the reality of the situation hit me all over again. I spent a long time just staring, fascinated by the way it moved and squelched under my touch.
The clock was ticking. I felt a sudden sense of urgency. My hour of borrowed sovereignty was winding down.
I stood up from the bed, the cool air of the apartment hitting my damp skin. I didn't bother with the clothes; there was something profoundly liberating about being completely exposed in a space that was designed for curated, professional perfection. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror, the wide hips, the heavy, swinging tits. I decided to cause a bit more mayhem before leaving.
I started in the kitchen. I didn't just want to break things; I wanted to dismantle the image of the "perfect" woman she played. I grabbed a bottle of expensive champagne from the counter and didn't bother with the cork; I smashed the neck against the granite, laughing as the glass shattered and the liquid sprayed across the white cabinetry.
I tore through her vanity in the hallway, sweeping high-end perfumes and designer makeup onto the floor, watching the expensive oils seep into the expensive rug, creating dark, permanent stains.
Every crash was a middle finger to the woman who had rejected me with a flicker of her eyes on a Zoom call. I wasn't just trashing a room; I was erasing her carefully constructed life, one broken object at a time.
As the humming in my head grew louder, signaling the imminent end of the transfer, I made my way back to the living room. I stood over the remains of her laptop, the plastic chassis snapped and useless. I looked down at the body I was inhabiting, the skin flushed from the adrenaline and the previous exertion. I felt a strange, lingering warmth in the chest and pelvis, a ghost of the pleasure that was still humming through the nerves. I took a deep breath, savoring the scent of expensive vanilla mixed with the sharp smell of spilled alcohol and broken glass.
Suddenly, I heard jiggling at the door. Who was that? My face turned into a scowl as the door opened, revealing a man.
His eyes burst open at the sight of the wreckage. "Julie... what the hell happened here?"
I opened my mouth to reply, but before the words could escape it...
I was back in my car outside, satellite dish pointed at the wall. I laughed maniacally. I'd actually fucking ruined her! Holy shit, my life had changed. The unemployed man-child could now hack the mind of anyone. I might not have gotten the job, but I got something better. A golden ticket into the life of anyone I could find with a satellite dish.
And God, how fucking good was that orgasm! Being a man didn't even compare. I was sporting a serious boner now, realizing that despite my crazy, leg quake of an orgasm as a woman, I hadn't gotten my own body off.
"Shit. Why didn't I take any pictures?" I berated myself. "Wait..." I saw the satellite dish sitting there. I knew one way to get some.
I considered jumping back in. But the HR lady's position was not an enviable one to be in. Luckily, there was a new target.
I fired up the machine. Time to take the plunge.
