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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1906531-The-Bodyswap-Company/cid/JC5MJ8GF4-something-goes-wrong-with-the-transfer
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by Lord23 Author IconMail Icon
Rated: 18+ · Interactive · Other · #1906531

A company that switches the bodies of their clients

This choice: something goes wrong with the transfer  •  Go Back...
Chapter #3

something goes wrong with the transfer

    by: Bratman Author IconMail Icon
Brittany snapped her gum as she double-checked the consent forms. “Alrighty! Transfer initiated—swapping in 3… 2…”

Michelle squinted at the blinking lights on the machine and clutched her purse like it might stop her soul from getting vacuumed out. Justin was vibrating with joy, already imagining his first mirror selfie in his mother’s lacy lingerie.

The machine hissed. The air went sharp. Something stung behind both their eyes.

Then—
Darkness.
Then—

Screaming.

But not in stereo.

Only one voice.

Michelle’s.

She sat up on the floor, clutching her sides. She was still Michelle. Her long legs, her acrylic nails, her silk blouse. She felt her face—thank God, still cheekbones.

She turned, breath catching.

On the other bed, another Michelle sat up.

Her same face. Her same everything—down to the smudged eyeliner and faint reek of menthol.

Justin opened his mouth to speak, but it came out in her voice. “Wait—what the hell?!”

Michelle gasped. “What. Did. You. Do.”

Brittany blinked at the monitor. “Uhhhhh…”

She leaned closer.

“Oh wow. That’s… new.”

“What’s new?!” Michelle hissed.

“So… the consciousness transfer… like, duplicated instead of swapped. It copied you into both bodies.”

“…I’m in two bodies?!”

“Technically, yeah. You’re like, dual-booting right now. Two Michelles. No more Justin.”

Michelle spun toward her twin, who was now pawing at her chest like a boy who'd just won a prize.

“I have boobs! Oh my God, they bounce!”

“Stop that! I can see what you're doing!” Michelle slapped at her own chest, then recoiled in horror as she realized she could feel the echo of the fondling in her own skin.

“Oh my God!” she cried. “I feel what she feels?!”

Justin-Michelle’s eyes lit up like Christmas. “So do I. Oh, this is gonna be FUN.”

Michelle lunged at Brittany. “Undo it. Now!”

Brittany shrugged, flipping through her tablet like she was browsing brunch options. “Not really an undo button, Mrs. Farmer. Kinda have to wait for the server to reindex identities and purge duplicates. Couple weeks. Maybe months. Also—uh—your insurance policy said ‘no reversals if minor is consenting party.’ So…”

Michelle stared at her in horror. “You mean I’m stuck like this—with a perverted copy of my son groping himself in my body?!”

Justin-Michelle was now running fingers through her hair, giggling. “I am you, Mom. And you’re me. We’re both Michelle now. Just one of us isn’t a total buzzkill.”

She watched, dumbfounded, as her doppelgänger flounced over to the mirror and struck a pose. “Look at this ass! How did I not notice this before? You should’ve been showing this thing off, not covering it in yoga pants and regret.”

Michelle staggered backward like she’d been slapped. “You little monster…”

“Correction,” the copy purred, glancing over one shoulder with a smirk. “I’m a MILF now.”

The original Michelle dry-heaved. Somewhere inside her skull, Justin’s former voice was laughing and smoking a phantom cigarette.

“And you—” Justin-Michelle said, pointing at her with a freshly manicured nail, “you’re stuck being Mom Classic. All the chores, the stretch marks, the decaf coffee, the husband who only touches you during tax season.”

Michelle’s blood turned to ice. “The husband…”

“Oh yeah.” The twin waggled her eyebrows. “He’s gonna get a surprise tonight.”

“NO!”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll go easy on him. Just a little teasing. Maybe a long bath. Maybe a bottle of your wine. And if he starts getting frisky…” She shrugged. “Hey. You said I could be you as long as I wanted. Maybe forever.”

Michelle lunged—but tripped. Her own body was laughing, sauntering toward the exit, hips swaying like she’d trained for this. Brittany tossed her a set of car keys.

“Have fun, Mrs. Farmer!”

“Which one?” Michelle croaked.

“Whichever one knows how to use a tampon,” Brittany quipped, then turned back to her phone.

Michelle collapsed to the ground, breathing hard, helpless in her own nightmare. The other Michelle waved from the doorway. “See ya, roomie. Try not to eat too much ice cream. These hips are my problem now.”

And just like that, she was gone—her life skipping down the sidewalk in her heels, her curls bouncing, her husband waiting at home.

And Michelle sat there in the swap chair, hearing echoes in her bones of herself laughing through a stolen throat.

THE END.

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