Revenge on the Boss

Michael and I met about five years ago. Back then, I was still an intern, aimlessly wandering the corridors of the marketing department with a stack of useless printouts, constantly forgetting where I'd been sent, and scared of every second glance-especially from the higher-ups. And he, already firmly on his feet in the analytics department, was one of those rare people who not only noticed I existed but, as it turned out later, was actually interested in me. Of course, it all started with coffee, awkward chats by the elevator, our late-night convos in the corporate chat after work… And then-it was us. A secret thing, hiding between reports, shared lunches, and the occasional touches under the table that made me glance around nervously.

We didn't tell our colleagues and tried, mostly because of me, to act like we were just regular coworkers. But as soon as night fell-oh, that was a whole different story. Those same hands that typed out spreadsheets and flipped through reports during the day touched me with such tenderness and hungry passion, like he'd been holding back the whole time we sat together in that damn conference room, playing indifferent. He'd rest his chin on my shoulder, breathe softly into my neck, and whisper:

- I can't take it anymore - and we'd end up at his place, where the walls knew more about us than anyone ever could.

Michael was a real man. Not in that superficial way they go on about in motivational videos, but in a deeper, almost forgotten one-he knew how to listen, never mocked my fears, never tried to boss me around, but could take charge when it mattered. And yeah, he was ready to protect. That's why I never told him that Jason-my boss-loved humiliating me, sometimes even in public, and sometimes even punishing me by withholding bonuses.

Why? I don't know. I always tried to do my job well, but I think it was because he liked me as… a woman. A woman who didn't give in. And that pissed him off-not in the way a man gets hurt by rejection, but like some alpha prick who can't handle someone being hotter than him… and not his.

But Michael figured it out anyway-from that very first moment when I came out of that meeting in tears, trying to hide my face behind a folder, and he, like it was nothing, happened to be passing by but stopped, looking straight into my eyes like no one ever had. It wasn't just a look of support-it was a challenge. He didn't say anything then, just gently took the folder from my hands, squeezed my wrist, and led me away, like it didn't matter anymore who we were to each other officially or who saw us together. And a few days later, that damn remote appeared-the one we found at my place, like it had always been there.

At first, we were in shock. The thing actually worked! It could do the impossible-switch bodies, gender, appearance, voice, anything you wanted. At first, it was just dumb games. One time, I became Michael for half an hour-his walk, his voice, his confidence… like a heavy suit I suddenly felt trapped in, almost terrified. And then he-he became me. Well, almost.

We laughed like teenagers that first morning he woke up in a female body we'd created and named "Madison"-with messy dark hair, a completely lost expression on his face, and in my pajamas that, despite being pretty roomy, barely stayed on his new, very noticeable boobs. He sat there for like five minutes just touching himself-not in a dirty way, but with real shock and this weirdly intense curiosity:

- They're… heavy. How the hell do you even walk around with these?

We even... tried sleeping together after switching bodies. Oh God. I couldn’t look him in the eye for a week after that. That’s just not who I am. But he was gentle. Careful. Even though I saw how much his own reflection in the mirror was messing with his head—especially in my lingerie.

But one day, when he was already strutting around the kitchen in my leggings without a hint of shame, pulling his hair back and puffing a strand off his face, he suddenly said:

– You know, I could go to the office like this.

– What? — I almost dropped my cup.

– Yeah. Just like I’m Madison. Michael’s taking a vacation. Your Jason’s looking for a new intern, and I know everything in his field anyway. And I already figured out how to handle the documents. I want to destroy him—using his own fucking weapon.

He said it with the same tone you'd use to suggest buying a new toothbrush. But in his eyes—and by that point, I was already starting to read them—there was something else: a thrill. Especially at the end of the sentence.

And then he put on that zip-up top I once bought hoping to feel “bold and confident,” but never dared to wear, and a black skirt that hugged his—now her—new hips like it was made for them. I tried convincing him this was stupid, that it wouldn’t work, but he acted like he was listening... Of course he wasn’t.

– Oh, Mister Miller, is that a new tie? — Madison practically purred, tilting her chin up and blinking innocently, as if she wasn’t actually touching his tie, just pretending to examine it.

I froze, mouth wide open. My throat went dry. This was already the second week. The second fucking week of Michael—or Madison—walking through the office like she’d always been there. Like it wasn’t him—my Michael, the man I shared a bed and love with—but her, insanely confident, absurdly seductive, with this hypnotic charm no one could escape.

She was standing right up in Jason’s space, clearly overstepping all personal boundaries, and her hand—with long, ridiculously red nails—was now resting on his chest, between the buttons. He flinched for a second, but didn’t step back. Of course he didn’t. That bastard couldn’t have pulled away if he wanted to—because standing in front of him was the walking embodiment of his fantasies: tall, tits pushing out from under the top so hard I felt awkward even from where I was sitting, hips under the skirt drawn like they were sketched in. No woman in that office looked like that. Not even me.

– Yeah… uh… thanks — Jason coughed, not knowing where to look—his eyes bouncing between her bulging tits and those eyes that seemed to stare straight into the filthiest corners of his mind.

– It really suits you. Brings out… your charisma — she tilted her head and exhaled with a slight rasp. Michael always knew how to use his voice—but now, with that feminine tone, it sounded like the dirtiest fucking flirt.

Just 2 pathetic weeks, and Michael—Madison—had already planted a trojan on his computer and gained access to his schedule, his documents, his late-night meetings with “specially trusted female employees,” to stuff that would never make it into the reports. You’d think that’d be enough. So why the hell was she—he, my Michael—still strutting around the office like it was his new stage, like he’d been waiting his whole damn life to slip into a pencil skirt, glue on lashes, and mess with men’s lust, swinging those new hips to the rhythm of heels loud enough to drown out common sense?

But for me, those two weeks were hell. And with each day, it only got worse. Especially after Madison told me a few days ago that “for the mission,” we shouldn’t see each other in the evenings.

And now, looking at all of this, I snapped.

– Madison! — I blurted out, louder than I should have, standing up so fast I knocked over the stapler. It hit the floor with a dull thud, but I didn’t pick it up.

Madison turned her head slowly, with that same smooth motion you see in perfume commercials. Her hair—dark, heavy, with that careless wave that actually takes twenty minutes with a blow dryer and the skill to make it look “effortless”—fell over her shoulder. She smiled that strange, feminine smile of hers that, I swear to God, was already starting to drive me insane.

– Five minutes — she mouthed and nodded toward the conference room, letting Jason go.

I nodded silently. And we walked.

I still couldn’t get used to her walk. Not because it looked ridiculous—quite the opposite. Madison moved like a woman who knows she’s being watched. Heels clicking, hips swaying with every step like she was measuring out every damn inch of movement to make the skirt tighten just enough and let the hem flirt with the edge of decency. And her boobs… fuck, those tits. They were bigger than mine, and somehow I could almost feel how they bounced with every step, how they pulled at the straps of the top, how heat gathered underneath them. It was too much. Too real. Too feminine.

I entered the conference room first. Closed the door. Leaned against the table.

– Why are you doing this, Michael? — I whispered when he... she—walked in and shut the door behind herself. — This isn’t a joke anymore. It’s not a game. You saw how he looks at you.

– Exactly — she smirked and sat on the edge of the table, crossing her legs. — He thinks he’s in control. Thinks I’m just his next toy. Let him think that.

– But… — I hesitated. Didn’t know how to say it without sounding like a woman. Like someone jealous. — You’re too into it… You flirt with him. Way too naturally.

Madison raised an eyebrow. Smiled, almost genuinely, and tilted her head.

– Um, do you seriously think I get turned on by that asshole?

I stayed silent. She sighed. Placed her hands on her knees and then… changed. Not on the outside—the body was still the same: tight, feminine, straining under the clothes. But the gestures. Her back straightened, shoulders slumped slightly, arms now resting in that careless, almost manly way.

– Ugh, alright, Em. You want the truth? — Madison said, her voice still feminine, but with that husky, desperate undertone I knew so well. — I’m not enjoying this, not really. Sure, at first it was fun, but... These tits, these heels, those fucking stares. I can feel him undressing me with his eyes. All the time. My back hurts from the boobs. I want out. But if we give up now, it’ll all be for nothing.

I looked at her... at him. And something in my heart stirred. He was still there. My Michael. Underneath that mask.

'I just missed him…'

– I’m scared — I whispered, stepping closer. — Scared you’ll forget who you are. That you’ll start wanting to be her… to stay. You see how you move. How you look. You… it’s like you’re becoming her. Not just for now. For good.

Madison smirked, softly, faintly. Then she pulled the hair tie from her head, ran a hand over her crown, and exhaled:

– Honestly? Sometimes I scare myself with how good I am at this. How easy it is. But trust me… I want to go back. I want to be a man. I want to be with you. Just… let me finish this. One final blow.

– What kind?

– Tonight. He invited Madison to dinner. Secret dinner. At his place.

I went cold.

– You’re going?

– Of course. And I’ll find out everything. I’ll leak it all. And then—back. To you.

I didn’t say a word. Just nodded. I don’t know why, but I had a really bad feeling.