Arithmetic Progression

'This is getting downright humiliating…' Brad thought to himself, sitting on the cold toilet lid, his skirt pulled down to his knees, a thin burgundy string of a thong cutting into his skin. His feet, awkwardly squeezed into stilettos, hurt so much he just wanted to kick them off and throw them the hell into the corner. But he only curled his toes tighter and looked down at the gray tiles of the restroom. The women’s restroom. Where he sat, trying to do something that usually never took him more than thirty seconds, but now he couldn’t even focus, even though his body was desperate. His muscles strained, his lower belly throbbed, but his brain resisted, as if protesting against giving in and letting it go like a woman.

— Fuck… come on… — he hissed, pressing his elbows to his knees and clasping his hands in front of his face.

The long, burgundy, offensively shiny nails on his thin fingers dug painfully into his palm when he tried to clench his hands into fists. Brad stared at those defenselessly feminine hands, as if they didn’t belong to him but to some kind of living mockery. He tried to squeeze harder, but they only dug even deeper, sharper into the tender skin.

'God… I can’t even make a proper fist…'

Inside, the pressure grew stronger, and he felt that in just a few more seconds, his body would do it on its own. Brad shut his eyes, his breath grew short, his breasts rose painfully, tightening the lace of the bra — but at that moment, a fist banged on the door.

— Cass? — hurried clicking of heels and the voice of a friend. — You in there? Clarkson will be here in five minutes, Layla’s already losing it!

Cass. Cassidy Monroe — an event manager in Miami, a PR girl with a calendar stuffed with parties and presentations. Somewhere across the country, in Milwaukee, her mind was now inside his massive warehouse-shifter’s body. For some strange reason, the two of them had started switching bodies a few weeks ago. First it was a minute, then two, then three… and now here he was, stuck in her body for more than two hours.

— I’ll be right out! — Brad barked, wincing at Cassidy’s sultry voice, and felt the hot stream break loose with a loud, mocking splash into the water.

He nearly bit his lip from the shock. A wave of hot relief shot through his lower belly, his muscles finally relaxed, and the body let out a soft, all-too-feminine sigh of release. Brad froze, feeling the heavy breasts jolt with his breathing, trembling inside the lace bra, while the string of the thong slid uncomfortably between his thighs.

'God, I’m pissing like a woman… sitting here, skirt around my knees, heels sticking out, and it’s just pouring out of me…' — the panicked thought drowned out everything for a moment.

The knocking on the door came again.

— Cassidy, are you serious? — her friend was clearly nervous. Her voice rang with irritation. — Layla’s about to explode, and Mr. Clarkson won’t wait. You know what he’s like!

Brad clenched his teeth, unable to answer right away. He yanked at the roll of paper in a rush, not even understanding why he was doing it. It was a conditioned reflex. The body’s muscle memory. He gripped a piece of paper in his hand, twisted his face, and felt how this ridiculous, embarrassing motion drove him to rage. The paper stuck softly to his fingers, and his skirt-pinned knees made it hard to move properly. Brad dragged in a heavy breath through his teeth, feeling the humiliation become unbearable.

'Goddamn it… I’m a fucking man! I’m not gonna wipe this… pussy!' — Brad clenched his teeth so hard that his temples rang.

— Cass! — Hailey’s voice outside was almost breaking into a scream.

Brad jerked his head sharply, as if her voice had shocked him.

— I’m coming, I’m coming! — he shouted, automatically lowering his hand with the paper and dabbing himself, as if he had been doing it forever. The soft paper slid over the tender skin there, where he had sworn he’d never do that.

The heat in his face grew, his cheeks burned. He hastily crumpled the paper, tossed it into the toilet, pulled the flush without thinking, and jumped up. The skirt slid over his thighs, the thong cut in deeper, his breasts bounced and settled again, painfully swaying inside the bra.

His hand slid the stall latch, the cold metal clicked, and Brad stepped out, moving gracefully in heels as if he had done it his whole life. Hailey was already waiting, her hands on her hips like a strict teacher.

— Finally! — she hissed and instantly grabbed his arm. — You want us thrown out of the project? Let’s go! — she yanked him into the hallway without giving him a chance to gather himself.

Brad barely managed to suck in his stomach, not even knowing why he was doing it. His heels clacked loudly on the tiles, his breasts swung in rhythm with each step, and his skirt seemed to crawl higher with every stride.

In his head flashed a picture from half an hour ago — the call. His own voice, low and harsh, but coming from the phone speaker, already belonged not to him, but to Cassidy in his body. She was begging him, though it sounded less like a plea and more like a threat:

'Listen, man, I’m begging you, don’t screw this up. You’ve got that meeting with Clarkson today. That asshole with millions of followers. You just need to smile and act like you’re in the loop. Got it? Just don’t be an idiot.'

He still hated himself for the fact that, in her body, he couldn’t even answer roughly, not even to “himself.” All he managed was a slightly angry 'Fine,' which came out more like sulky than like a firm, manly agreement. Brad could still feel that stupid tone vibrating in his chest, and it made his insides boil.

— God, Cass, you’re gonna put me in the grave! — Hailey rolled her eyes and yanked his arm again, not even letting him step aside.

Brad wanted to snap back, to say something sharp, man-to-man biting, but his tongue felt glued to his palate. Instead, all he breathed out was:

— Come on… I’m trying here…

The words sounded soft, almost apologetic, and inside he instantly howled. 'Trying? Goddamn it! I’ve never told anyone I’m trying. I either did it or I didn’t. And now… Jesus, I’m like some girl making excuses.'

— Exactly, try! — Hailey stopped abruptly, turning to face him. — You don’t have the right to screw this up right now. This is your client, your project, your style, Cassidy. I get that you’re nervous, but for fuck’s sake, pull it together!

Brad pressed his lips tight, but then instantly caught himself: they had curled not into a fierce male snarl, but into that exact “feminine” pout, with the corner trembling just slightly, and a soft look from under the lashes. He even noticed how Hailey’s irritation softened, as if the gesture worked on her automatically.

'No… no, no, no! That’s not me! I don’t look like that, I don’t move like that! These are her stupid tricks, her habits!'

But the body seemed to know how to act on its own. Muscle memory, foreign reflexes. Or maybe not so foreign anymore? After all, the last switch lasted 12 hours, and by all logic this one should last 24… Probably, yeah — unless this was the last time.