Emma

The afternoon sun slants through the blinds of the small apartment kitchen, casting warm golden bars across the countertop. Nick stands at the island, a bowl of freshly washed strawberries glistening beside a double boiler of melted dark chocolate. The air smells sweet — rich cocoa mingling with the bright tang of ripe fruit. On the counter next to him sits a sleek, matte-black device about the size of a TV remote, with a single glowing blue button on its face. They'd bought it three weeks ago from a pop-up online retailer that had since vanished from the internet, and after days of testing it on other objects, they'd confirmed it worked exactly as advertised.

Emma stands across from him, arms folded, her short brown hair curled atop her head. She's wearing an oversized lavender t-shirt and grey cotton shorts, her bare feet shifting on the cool tile floor. Her hazel eyes keep darting between the bowl of strawberries and the device in Nick's hand, her lower lip caught between her teeth. She'd agreed to this — technically — after three nights of Nick carefully, gently, persistently explaining what the experience would be like. But now that the moment is here, her face has gone a shade paler than usual.

Emma: "Okay, so... just to be absolutely, one hundred percent clear — I'm going to be a strawberry. A literal strawberry. And you're going to... eat me."

She presses her fingertips against the countertop, steadying herself. Her nose wrinkles slightly, the way it always does when she's processing something that makes her stomach flip.

Emma: "And then I'm going to go through your whole... entire... digestive system. Stomach acid and intestines and all of that."

Her voice climbs half an octave on the last few words. She swallows hard, her throat bobbing visibly. Nick can see the goosebumps rising along her forearms despite the warm kitchen air. She unfolds her arms and then folds them again, tighter this time, hugging herself.

Nick can see the conflict playing out across her face — the part of her that loves him and wants to give him this, warring openly with the part that is already imagining the smell and the texture and the sheer biological reality of what she's agreed to. Her cheeks flush pink, and she exhales a shaky breath through puffed cheeks.

Emma: "And you promise — you swear — that the second I come out your... your butt... as... as your poop... you'll change me back right away? No waiting around? No 'oh let me leave her in the toilet and finish this game I was playing first'?"

She holds up a finger, her expression deadly serious despite the slight tremor in her hand. A strand of hair has escaped her bun and falls across her forehead, and she doesn't bother to push it back. Her eyes lock onto Nick's, searching for reassurance, for the absolute certainty she needs before she lets him press that blue button. The double boiler bubbles softly behind him, the chocolate staying perfectly liquid and warm, ready for dipping.