The Antidote to Brandon

— Hey… what the hell?! — the busty girl exclaimed anxiously, raising her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the blazing sun. Her eyes, used to luxurious offices, widened in shock as she saw the snow-white yacht Nirvana slowly drifting away from the shore. — Hey! Come back! That’s my yacht!

A few people on the beach turned at her shout — some out of curiosity, others in disapproval. One girl even snorted loudly when she noticed her boyfriend eyeing the figure in the white bikini with interest.

— What the fuck! That wasn’t the deal! — she yelled again, feeling her heavy tits tremble with outrage, nearly bursting out of the tight top.

She clenched her fists but quickly pulled her hand back as her long nails dug painfully into her palm.

— Fuck! These damn nails! — she cursed, nervously running her fingers along her wide hips that seemed even broader now than just a couple of minutes ago. — And this too! I need to call that bastard... fuuuck!

The realization that none of the things around her actually belonged to her hit harder than any sunstroke. Immersive experience, they said. To truly feel yourself in this body. So now, all she had was that sad little purse lying in the sand beside her, holding documents under the name Marianne Torres and a set of keys to some random apartment. And of course, her phone — which didn’t have a single contact for Brandon Myers, the owner of Nirvana and, at the moment, the owner of her body.

— Damn it, — she whispered, feeling her cheeks burn red with despair and the sting of humiliation. This was supposed to be just a short hour-long experiment. To play someone else’s life. To feel like... someone different. After all, all that constant fuss with millions, yachts, and endless meetings gets unbearably dull sometimes. And this... in Brandon’s imagination, this seemed way cooler than any of his trips to exclusive brothels.

— Mary? Why are you yelling like a fish on dry sand? — came a calm but commanding voice from behind her. — Who pissed you off? Point him out. I’ll handle it.

She spun around sharply. In front of her stood a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing dark sunglasses. He looked down at her, his face carrying a silent question — why was his best employee, the one bringing him the biggest profit, acting like a total hysteric?

— I... I... — she stammered, trying to compose her face into something resembling calmness. It didn’t work very well. — My yacht... it’s sailing away.

The man took off his sunglasses and squinted, peering out at the sea.

— What yacht, Mary? You’ve overheated, haven’t you? — he said, walking closer, while Marianne — Brandon — tried to pull herself together, feeling the wave of panic rising stronger and stronger.

— That one! Over there! The white one! — she shouted, pointing toward the vessel disappearing beyond the horizon. — And I’m not Mary! I’m Brandon Myers! We...

She faltered, remembering the terms of the contract, the secret body-swapping device, the gray walls of that facility near the beach, and the stern, emotionless eyes of the man in the white coat who conducted the procedure. “No one should know about the deal. It’s just a game. For both of you. Come back in an hour.”

— ...we just agreed for an hour, — she finished more quietly, feeling her jaw tighten with tension.

The man stepped even closer, now standing so near that she was completely in his shadow.

— Alright. Marianne, I get it, you’re tripping, — he said, his tone turning even more commanding. — What did you take? Ecstasy? Meth? Coke? I told you not to mix shit with alcohol while on a job.

— I didn’t take anything! — she tried to protest, but her voice sounded pathetically weak.

— Ah, right, — he laughed, — Brandon Myers. And I’m the President of the United States. Mary, that’s enough. Let’s go. The plane’s waiting. Hope you’ll sober up by the time we land.

He grabbed her by the slender wrist, his fingers wrapping around her arm so easily she felt as light as a feather. He pulled her along, and she stumbled after him, feeling hundreds of eyes on her. Her big tits bounced with every step, and her hips swayed, pulling her left and right.

— Listen, you... — she started, but he stopped abruptly and turned to face her.

— Quiet, Marianne. Right now, — his gaze was cold as steel. — I pay you to do what I say. Not to turn this place into a damn circus.

— I’m not Marianne! I’m— — her words were cut short by his new, icy stare that instantly shut her up. And for the first time in a very long while, Brandon Myers felt fear. Not the kind tied to money or reputation — but the raw, primal kind, the fear of someone stronger than you. In her current body, in her current position.

— That Brandon’s a weird fucker, — he said, pulling her further toward the road where a black sedan was already waiting for them. — Paid a shitload of money for you, and for what? So you’d spend five minutes with him and then wander around the beach? I knew he was trying to drug you with something!

He shouted the last word so loudly that Brandon — trapped in Marianne’s body — ducked his head even lower.

— I’m not drugged on anything, — she whispered, but her voice was too quiet to be heard.

The man ignored her words completely, shoved her into the car, and slid in beside her, slamming the door shut. The driver, without a word, pulled away from the curb.

— Alright, — he said, taking off his sunglasses, — start from the beginning. And only the truth. What happened?

Brandon took a deep breath, feeling how, under the thin bikini fabric, her nipples stiffened from nervous tension. Or from the cold air of the AC. Or... something else.

— We need to go back. There. Where you took her— I mean, me. Right now, — she forced the words out, realizing it was the only way. — There. We need to meet that scientist. He... he has the antidote, yeah! The antidote! From what I took, that’s it!

“God, what the hell am I saying? But I’ve already said too much...” flashed through her mind as she desperately tried to find a way out.

The man stared at her without blinking, his gaze growing heavier, more probing.

— The antidote... to Brandon Myers? — he said slowly, his eyes running down her body, lingering on her full breasts before meeting her eyes again. — Hm. Funny. To me, and for you, the best cure for him is good sex and a fat wallet.

His hand slid onto her knee, and Brandon felt an icy heat spread through her entire body. He couldn’t tell what scared him more: the fact that the yacht — with his body and Marianne — was sailing away somewhere out there, or what was happening right now in this car under the watchful eyes of her pimp. And what would happen next.