Club Girl Jerry The Remote of Transformation chapter 4 by ThePanswapticon

Jerry slipped deeper into the club, heels clicking against the sticky floor. The bass rolled through his ribs like thunder. Everything felt too much. The dress clung like a second skin, the silky fabric dragging against his nipples in a way that made his breath hitch. His hips swayed without asking his permission, each step pulling his thighs against each other, smooth and strange.

A guy brushed past and his hand skimmed Jerry’s lower back. The casual touch sent a weird electric buzz up his spine. No one ever touched Jerry Phelps like that.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice coming out as a husky purr.

He pushed through the crowd until he found the bathrooms. The ladies’ line was a disaster—ten girls, all gossiping and scrolling their phones—but Jerry didn’t hesitate. He flashed a tight smile, murmured “Excuse me,” and they just let him pass. No suspicious looks, no second-guessing. Like his face alone was a VIP badge.

Inside the bathroom, the noise dulled. Harsh white lights flickered overhead, making the red dress glow. Jerry stopped dead in front of the mirror.

She was gorgeous. Long legs, tanned and toned. A face with sharp cheekbones and lips glossed just enough to catch the light. Big brown eyes framed by lashes that curled like black feathers. And that chest—God, he couldn’t look straight at it without feeling a jolt of heat.

“This is insane,” he whispered, cupping a breast in each hand. The double-Ds felt heavy and soft, yet firm under his grip, like warm fruit wrapped in silk. The way they shifted when he squeezed—he swallowed hard, his pulse spiking.

A woman at the sinks side-eyed him. “Uh… you good?”

“Yeah, just—new bra,” he mumbled, dropping his hands and turning to a stall before she could stare any longer.

He locked the door, leaned against it, and tried to breathe. Every nerve in his body was lit up. Sitting down just felt wrong and weirdly right at the same time, the hem of the dress riding high as his thighs pressed together.

He had to know who she was.

Fishing through the tiny black clutch purse dangling from his wrist, Jerry found a phone, a lipstick, gum, and a slim wallet. He flipped it open.

ID: Rachel Vega.
Age: 23.

The photo was her—him—smiling, hair perfect, teeth white enough to blind someone.

“Rachel,” he said aloud, trying the name on his tongue. It sounded sharp, confident. Hot.

A text buzzed across the phone screen:

Kelsey: ‘Girl, where u at? Shots waiting at bar!!!’

Jerry grinned. She had friends here. Which meant… he could walk right into her life, at least for tonight.

He leaned back, letting the dress ride up even more as he traced a finger along the smooth line of Rachel’s thigh. The sensation made his stomach flip—hot, tingly, like static crawling under his skin. Was it possible to get turned on by your own stolen body?

Someone banged on the stall door. “Hurry up, bitch, some of us gotta pee!”

Jerry jumped, yanked the dress down, and stood. His reflection in the mirror smirked back at him as he adjusted the straps on the dress and pushed out the bathroom door.