Rosa’s Voodoo Repository
Second (Final) Part
by Lin Dale

PART TWO - BEN’S STORY

Chapter 1: The Morning After the Miracle Before

The first thing I became aware of was pain. A deep, throbbing ache in my lower back, as if I’d spent the night sleeping on a bag of spanners. The second thing was weight. A profound, forward-pulling weight on my chest. The third thing was the smell. Not the clean, minimalist scent of my own loft, but something rich and complex – cinnamon, dried flowers, and something else… earth, maybe?

My eyes snapped open. The ceiling was wrong. A water stain shaped like Tasmania.

Memory returned not as a trickle, but as a tidal wave. A normal evening in. Look at my emails, send a few in return, watch Strictly on catch-up (just to see the gorgeous girls in their fabulous costumes), spend a little time chatting to Annabel on the phone. Prepare for bed. Then, the dizziness, the pulling sensation, the blackness.

And then… this. I opened my eyes but I was in her. In Rosa.

A sound halfway between a whimper and a curse escaped my lips—her lips. The voice was hers, a husky alto that felt utterly foreign vibrating in my own throat. I pushed myself up, a manoeuvre that required a surprising amount of core strength to counteract the drag of… well, everything on my front. I looked down.

It was still a shock. The landscape of my body had been replaced by something entirely different. Soft, generous curves where there had been angles and planes. And my chest… God, my chest. Two truly magnificent, alarmingly heavy breasts. I’d admired them, of course, from a distance. Up close, they were a logistical nightmare. I cupped one experimentally. It was heavy, warm, undeniably… impressive. A jolt, entirely inappropriate, went through me. This was so, so wrong. And yet…

I swung my—her—legs out of bed. They were shorter, sturdier than my own. The chafe of her thighs as I walked was a new and peculiar sensation. I stumbled into the small bathroom and faced the mirror.

Rosa’s face stared back, but it was a canvas of my own panic. Her beautiful, wide-set brown eyes were wide with terror. Her full lips were parted in a perfect ‘O’ of shock. Her hair, a glorious crown of tight curls, was flattened on one side. I was a ghost in her machine, a stowaway in her skin.

The doorbell rang. A frantic, terrified part of me hoped it was a dream, that answering it would break the spell. I pulled on her silk kimono—a sensuous slide of fabric against skin that was hypersensitive—and went downstairs.

It was me. Or rather, it was me, Ben, standing on her doorstep. Seeing my own body from the outside was a cognitive car crash. I looked… tall. Assured. Handsome, I supposed, in a generic sort of way. But the eyes were all Rosa—shrewd, knowing, and filled with a disconcerting amount of pity.

He—I—she asked if the shop was open. I stammered something about being unwell and slammed the door. My heart was hammering against Rosa’s ribs, a frantic bird in a soft, fleshy cage.

The next few hours were a masterclass in humiliation and physical discomfort. My back really hurt. Just standing was an effort. I tried to make tea and nearly scalded myself because I misjudged the reach of these shorter arms. The world seemed… louder, closer, more intrusive. When Rosa—in my body—returned and explained the ‘twenty-four-hour perspective’ thing, I wanted to throttle her. Perspective? This was torture.

Then the customers started coming. Mrs. Higgins and her bloody cats. I fumbled with the herbs, my hands—Rosa’s capable, clever hands—shaking like leaves. I felt like a fraud, an imposter in my own life, except it wasn’t my life. It was hers. And I was terrible at it.

The low point was Annabel’s arrival. Seeing her, lithe and perfect and radiating concern, while I was trapped in this… this voluptuous prison, was agony. The look on her face—the dawning suspicion, the cold dismissal—was a knife to the heart. Or it would have been, if I could feel anything through the sheer, overwhelming panic and the bloody backache.

After she left, I collapsed. The world had ended. She thought I—Ben—was shagging Rosa. The injustice of it was breathtaking.

But then, something shifted. Huddled on the floor of her shop, surrounded by the evidence of her real, tangible power—jars of things I couldn’t name, the ancient book, the very air thrumming with a quiet energy—my self-pity began to curdle into something else. Curiosity.

Rosa made tea. We talked. Actually talked. Not the flirty, surface-level banter we’d had on our dates, but a real conversation. I saw the intelligence in her eyes—my eyes, currently—as she explained the constant calculations women make. The tax on their energy. The ‘male gaze’ wasn’t just a thing I’d read about in a Guardian article; it was a physical pressure I had felt for a few hours, and it was exhausting.

I apologised. And I meant it.

The rest of the day passed in a strange, liminal space. The initial terror receded, replaced by a weary acceptance and a dawning, grudging fascination. This body, for all its aches and unwieldiness, was… powerful. It was substantial. It commanded a room in a way my lanky frame never did. When I’d been Ben, I was often overlooked. As Rosa, I was seen. It was unnerving, but it was also… thrilling.

The swap back was as violent and disorienting as the first. A lurch, a dizzying whirl, and then I was… me. Back in my own skin. The relief was instantaneous. The lightness! The lack of pain! I patted my flat, familiar chest with something close to religious fervour.

I looked at Rosa, back in her own body, looking tired but profoundly settled. She seemed more there than ever before.

“Well,” I said, my voice my own again. “That was… educational.”

I left her shop a different man. I had seen the world through a different lens, and the picture was permanently altered.

Chapter 2: The Unravelling and the Itch

Ending things with Annabel was surprisingly easy. The old Ben would have prevaricated, made excuses, let it fizzle out. The new Ben, the one who had briefly inhabited a body that didn’t tolerate bullshit, did it cleanly.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” I said, over a very expensive, very awkward dinner.
“Isn’t it always?” she replied, with a sad little smile.
“No, honestly,” I said, leaning forward. “I’ve… had a perspective shift. A big one. And I think I need to be on my own for a bit to process it.”

She was hurt, of course. But she was also pragmatic. We’d been a good-looking couple, a convenient pairing. There was no great, passionate love affair to mourn. We finished our meal, I paid the bill, and we parted ways with a chaste kiss on the cheek. It felt like closing a book I’d only ever skimmed.

And then, I was free. But free for what?

My life returned to its comfortable, beige rhythm. Work at the firm was the same. Drinks with mates were the same. But I was different. My sterile loft felt emptier than ever. The conversations with my friends seemed more vapid. I kept thinking about Rosa’s shop. The smell. The chaos. The aliveness of it.

And I kept thinking about her body.

Not with the leering, fetishistic desire I’d had before. This was… different. It was a visceral, cellular memory. The weight of her breasts in my hands. The solid strength of her thighs. The way the world had seemed to bend around her, offering both challenge and reverence. The memory of that power was an itch under my skin, a thirst I couldn’t quench.

I started visiting her shop, not as a suitor, but as a… student. A penitent. I bought a prosperity charm for a friend starting a business. I asked questions about the herbs. I listened. Rosa was wary at first, then amused, then genuinely welcoming. We became… friends. Proper friends.

One evening, after helping her shift a heavy delivery of candles, we were sharing a bottle of wine in her flat above the shop. Barry the cat was purring on my lap, a minor miracle in itself.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” I admitted, the wine loosening my tongue. “The swap.”

She raised an eyebrow. “The backache not put you off for life?”

“That’s the thing,” I said, leaning forward. “It did. At first. But now… I miss it.”

She stared at me. “You miss having back pain and being stared at by creeps?”

“No. I miss the… the solidity. The presence. I miss the power of it, Rosa. My life is so… frictionless. Everything is easy. Yours is a constant negotiation, a battle. And you’re so bloody good at it. I just… I want to feel that again. Properly. Not for a panicked, chaotic day. But for a weekend. To really understand it.”

Rosa looked at me for a long, long time. Her expression was unreadable. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

She sighed, stood up, and went to the bookshelf, pulling down the terrifying skin-bound grimoire. “There are rules, Ben. More than just the ‘stone’s throw’ thing. The longer the duration, the more… permanent the connection can become. The body gets used to the new tenant.”

“I can handle it,” I said, too quickly.

She found the page, her finger tracing the spidery script. “It says here that for a prolonged swap of more than a single day-night cycle, the primary risk is… procreation.”

I blinked. “Procreation? What, like, having a baby?”

“Precisely. The spell creates a profound sympathetic link. If the body you are inhabiting should fall pregnant during the swap… the magic interprets that as a new soul choosing that specific vessel. It locks you in. You can’t return until the baby is born.”

The air went out of the room. A baby. A nine-month sentence. It was insane. Terrifying.

And yet, the itch under my skin intensified. The risk was part of the thrill. It was real, it was consequential. Unlike anything in my safe, predictable life.

“We’d be careful,” I said, my voice low. “Extremely careful. It’s just a weekend.”

Rosa looked from the book to me, her eyes narrowed. I could see the calculations going on behind them. The risk. The sheer, unadulterated weirdness of it all. Then, a slow, wicked smile spread across her face. It was the same smile she’d had when she’d first cast the spell.

“Alright, Ben,” she said, closing the book with a soft thud. “A weekend it is. But remember… you break it, you bought it. My body, my rules. And if you get me pregnant, you’re staying put for the long haul.”

My heart was pounding. With fear. With anticipation. “Deal.”

Chapter 3: The Deliberate Descent

The second time was different. There was no surprise, no panic. Only a focused, humming anticipation. We stood in the centre of her living room, the silver bowl between us on the floor. We’d agreed on a Friday evening to a Sunday evening swap. Forty-eight hours.

I’d brought a bag with a change of clothes for myself—for her—and my toiletries. It felt bizarre, packing for a trip into another person’s body.

Rosa had already prepared the potion. The air was thick with the smell of bitter herbs. She was calm, a captain preparing to steer her ship into a known, but still dangerous, storm.

“Ready?” she asked, her voice steady.

“Ready,” I said, my own voice sounding thin in comparison.

She began to chant. The words were ancient, powerful. I felt them in my bones. She sprinkled the powder onto the water. This time, I kept my eyes open, watching her. I focused my intent, just as she’d told me. Not on fear, not on curiosity, but on a deep, yearning desire to know. To feel the world as she felt it.

The dizziness hit, but I was ready for it. I embraced the pull, the sensation of my essence being siphoned away. The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of colour and sound, and then…

…I was back.

The weight. The ache. The rich, comforting smell of her home.

I opened my eyes. I was standing in Rosa’s living room, looking out through her eyes. I looked down at my hands—her hands—and flexed the fingers. I took a deep, deliberate breath, feeling the expansive stretch of her lungs, the familiar drag on my chest.

I was here. And this time, I was not a victim. I was an explorer.

I looked across at myself. Ben’s body stood there, slack-jawed for a moment, before Rosa’s consciousness snapped into place behind his eyes. He—she—blinked, looked down at his—her—hands, and then a wide, boyish grin spread across my face.

“Wow,” she said, in my voice. “It’s still so… light.” She did a little jump, laughing as my body easily cleared the floor. “This is brilliant!”

I laughed, a rich, throaty sound that was hers. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one carrying the equivalent of a rucksack on your chest.”

We spent the first hour acclimatising. I showed her—in my body—where I’d left the bag of clothes and the list I’d made of my weekend commitments (a total lie, I had none). She was like a kid in a candy store, stretching my limbs, marvelling at the reach.

“Right,” Rosa said, clapping my hands together. “I’m off to experience the thrilling excitement of your beige flat and a takeaway for one. You… have fun. And remember the rules.”

“The rules,” I confirmed. “No dodgy food that’ll give you indigestion. No trying to cut my hair. And absolutely, under no circumstances, get this body pregnant.”

“You have no idea how bizarre it is to hear you say that from my mouth,” she said, shaking my head. With a final, jaunty wave, she headed out, leaving me alone in her skin, in her life.

The silence she left behind was different. It wasn’t frightening. It was… pregnant with possibility.

My first mission was sartorial. Last time, I’d been stuck in a kimono. This time, I had the run of her wardrobe. I opened the doors to a riot of colour and texture. Silks, velvets, bold prints, flowing dresses, and jeans that looked like they’d require a team of engineers to get into. It was the antithesis of my wardrobe of neutrals.

I settled on a pair of soft, stretchy leggings and a long, emerald-green tunic that felt fabulous against my skin. Then came the bra. The Everest of the endeavour. I stared at the formidable piece of engineering with its myriad of hooks and eyes. It took me a good five minutes of contortion, swearing, and near-dislocation of my shoulder, but I finally managed to fasten it. Hoisting the weight into the cups was a moment of pure, unadulterated triumph. I felt like I’d scaled a mountain.

I looked in the full-length mirror. Rosa stared back, but this time, the expression was one of quiet confidence. My confidence. She looked… incredible. The green made her skin glow. The clothes hugged her curves in a way that was both comfortable and powerfully alluring. I felt a surge of something that was part pride, part possessiveness. This was my vessel for the weekend. And I was going to take good care of it.

Chapter 4: The Sensual World

The next morning, I woke up with the dawn. The backache was there, a dull, familiar companion, but it was manageable. I felt… good. Rested. I stretched, a long, luxurious stretch that ended with me wrapping my own arms around myself, marvelling at the soft, warm solidity of my body.

I decided to make breakfast. Cooking in Rosa’s kitchen was a tactile joy. The cool smoothness of the countertops under my fingertips, the weight of the cast-iron skillet, the vibrant colours of the peppers and tomatoes I chopped. I made an omelette, something I never bothered with for myself. I ate it at her small table, savouring every bite. Food tasted… more. The textures were richer, the flavours deeper. Was this her, or was it me, finally taking the time to actually experience something?

After cleaning up, I decided to open the shop. I was nervous, but the paralysing fear from the first time was gone. I was an apprentice, not an imposter.

I turned the sign to ‘Open’ and breathed in the scent of the place. It felt like mine. My first customer was a nervous young man looking for a charm to help him in a job interview.

“Something for confidence,” he mumbled, not meeting my eyes.

Last time, I’d have frozen. This time, I felt a wave of calm authority. I was Rosa. This is what she did.

“I have just the thing,” I said, my voice a warm, reassuring hum. I put together a small sachet of basil for luck, a piece of tiger’s eye for courage, and a sprinkle of cinnamon for passion. As I worked, I talked to him, asking about the job, calming his nerves. I charged him a tenner. He left looking taller, a real smile on his face.

A profound sense of satisfaction settled over me. I had done that. I had helped. It was a better high than closing any property deal.

The day unfolded in a series of small, sensual discoveries. The warmth of the sun on my arms as I stepped outside to get some air. The way my hips had a natural, swaying rhythm when I walked that felt innately powerful. The feeling of the breeze against my neck, a surprisingly intimate caress.

Men looked, of course. But my reaction was different. Instead of feeling like prey, I felt like a queen tolerating the gaze of her subjects. I met their looks with a level, unflinching gaze of my own. Most looked away, chastened. It was a game, and for the first time, I understood the rules and knew I held the better cards.

That evening, I ran a deep, hot bath. I lit candles, adding a few drops of sandalwood oil to the water. Sinking into the tub was a revelation. The water buoyed the weight of my chest, relieving the constant ache in my back. It was bliss. I soaped my skin, learning the new geography of my body with a slow, deliberate curiosity. The soft swell of my stomach, the powerful curve of my hips, the surprising sensitivity of my nipples as the soapy cloth passed over them. It wasn’t arousal, not exactly. It was a deep, appreciative fascination. This body was a temple, and I was its reverent custodian.

After the bath, wrapped in a soft towel, I stood before the mirror again. The steam had curled the tiny hairs at my nape. My skin was flushed and glowing. I looked… beautiful. Truly, earthily beautiful. And it was a beauty I had earned, not by being born with the right bones, but by embracing its reality, its weight, its power.

I slipped into a soft, silky nightdress and went to bed. As I drifted off to sleep, the feel of the sheets against my skin was a whisper, a secret pleasure all my own. This was more than an experiment. It was a transformation.

Chapter 5: The Edge of the Precipice

Sunday arrived, the final day of my tenure. There was a bittersweet quality to the morning. I’d grown accustomed to this skin, to this life. The thought of returning to my own body, to the easy, frictionless existence, felt… bland. Like switching from a full-bodied, complex red wine to water.

Rosa—in my body—came over in the afternoon. She looked relaxed, happy.

“So?” she asked, dropping onto my sofa with a familiarity that was now comfortable. “How was the grand tour?”

“Incredible,” I said, and I meant it. I told her about the shop, the bath, the feeling of walking down the street like I owned it. “I get it now, Rosa. I really do. It’s not a burden. It’s a source of power. You have to be stronger, smarter, and more resilient just to get through the day. And it makes you… more.”

She smiled, a genuine, warm smile. “Took you long enough.” She looked at me, her head tilted. “You look good in there. Comfortable.”

“I am,” I said. And then, the thought I’d been pushing away all weekend surfaced. “I don’t want to give it back.”

Her smile faded. “Ben. The deal was a weekend.”

“I know, I know. It’s just… being you is… more real than being me.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon together, a bizarre and wonderful double act. We ordered pizza and ate it in her flat, me in her body, her in mine. It should have been weird, but it felt strangely natural. We talked about everything—her magic, my work, our families, our fears. The connection between us, forged in the fire of this insane experience, was deeper and more real than any relationship I’d ever had.

As evening drew in, a tension began to build. The swap-back was looming. The air in the room grew thick, charged with unspoken words.

I was standing by the window, looking out at the darkening street, when I felt her—in my body—come to stand behind me.

“It’s almost time,” she said softly.

I turned to face her. Seeing my own face, my own eyes, filled with Rosa’s fierce, beautiful spirit was still a jolt. “I know.”

We were close. Very close. The memory of every sensation from the last two days—the weight, the strength, the sensitivity—was a live wire under my skin. I could feel the warmth radiating from her—from my body. Or was it from me?

“Rosa,” I whispered, her name a prayer on my lips.

Her eyes—my eyes—widened slightly. She understood. The unspoken rule, the one about pregnancy, hung between us, not as a threat, but as a possibility. A terrifying, electrifying possibility.

I reached out, my hand—her hand—cupping the cheek of my own face. The skin was smooth, familiar, yet the consciousness behind it was entirely other. It was the most intimate, confusing moment of my life.

She didn’t pull away. She leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. Then she looked at me, and her gaze was clear, unwavering.

“Your choice, Ben,” she breathed. “But choose wisely. The spell doesn’t distinguish between carelessness and intent.”

It was a permission. A challenge. A leap of faith.

I leaned in. I closed my eyes. And I kissed me.

Or, I kissed her. It was impossible to tell where one of us ended and the other began. It was a kiss of shared secrets, of swapped souls, of profound, terrifying understanding. Her arms—my arms—wrapped around me, pulling her body—my body—tight against mine. It was a collision of worlds, a perfect, impossible symmetry.

We broke apart, breathless. The room was spinning, but not from magic. From something far more elemental.

“The spell…” I gasped.

“It will happen soon,” she said, her voice ragged. “With or without… that.”

I looked at her, at the woman who had shattered my world and put it back together in a brighter, more vivid configuration. I thought of the risk. Nine months. A lifetime. The ultimate perspective.

I made my choice.

Chapter 6: The Revelation

The transformation, when it began, was different. It wasn't a violent pull, but a slow, gentle unravelling. The colours in the room began to soften and blend, the edges of the world turning fuzzy. I felt a profound sense of peace, of rightness. I kept my eyes on Rosa—in my body—until the very last second, until the world dissolved into a warm, golden light.

The lurch was softer this time. A gentle settling. Like slipping into a familiar, but now slightly ill-fitting, suit.

I was back. Standing in my own loft. The ceiling was pristine. The air smelled of lemon polish. I was… me. Lanky. Light. Ache-free.

I flexed my fingers. My fingers. I looked across the room. Rosa was there, back in her own body. She was breathing heavily, her hands pressed to her stomach, a look of stunned wonder on her face.

We stood in silence for a full minute, just breathing, re-acclimatising.

“Well,” I said, my voice my own again. It felt thin, reedy. “That was…”

“Different,” she finished for me, her voice a welcome, husky melody.

I walked over to her. The space between us felt charged. The memory of the kiss was a phantom sensation on my lips.

“Rosa…” I began, my heart hammering against my ribs. “About what happened…”

She held up a hand, stopping me. A slow, mysterious smile played on her lips. It was the same smile she’d had when she’d first agreed to the weekend.

“The spell,” she said softly, her hand still resting on her lower abdomen. “It has a way of… confirming things.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Confirming what?”

She took my hand—my real, familiar, male hand—and gently placed it on her stomach. It was warm, soft, the curve of it familiar and yet entirely new.

“It seems,” she said, her eyes locking with mine, filled with a mixture of amusement, challenge, and something that looked terrifyingly like triumph, “that you’re not going anywhere for a while, Ben. It looks like you bought it, after all.”

The world tilted. Nine months. A lifetime. Trapped? Or home?

I looked at her, at this formidable, powerful, incredible woman. I thought of the weight, the strength, the sensation, the life growing within the body I had come to think of, for two glorious days, as my own.

A slow smile spread across my face. It felt like the first real smile of my life.

“Best deal I ever made,” I said.