Working as a Wife

The warm breeze gently brushed against her bare shoulders, as if reminding Stefan once again of something he already knew — that this was no longer his body. The feeling hit especially hard now, when he bent forward, just trying to collect his thoughts, and rested his forehead in his palm — immediately feeling that horrible pull of gravity dragging her breasts downward with such relentless weight, it made him want to rip off those two huge sacks of warm flesh that, apparently, would now be with him — or rather, with her — forever.

— God, God, God... seriously? This is it? — he whispered, biting his lip, and instantly tasting the lipstick again — cherry with a minty note. The voice sounded stupid — high-pitched, with a sultry tone, like she was about to moan into a camera, not curse over the shattered crystal on the floor.

Fucking trinket. Last night, a bit tipsy, he had laughed while spinning the thing in his hands and loudly told his buddy, "Everything the other way around — let them try being us now! And me, fine, I’ll be the one to work as a wife like they say!" — and smacked the crystal base like it was a toast. A joke. It was supposed to be just a joke.

But the next morning, he woke up and instantly knew something was wrong — first of all, he had no idea where he was: the bed was too soft, the pillow too high, and the sheets smelled of something sweet and cloying, like vanilla body oil. Second, there was pressure. Pressure from the front, the sides, like someone had strapped two heavy warm water bags to his chest. He sat up suddenly, but immediately whimpered — not from pain, but from shock: the breasts bounced and painfully tugged at the skin, and the friction of her nipples against the thin fabric of the top made him squeeze his eyes shut.

'No-no-no-no...' — it pounded in his head like a nail. He yanked off the blanket and stared in horror down at the body — not someone else’s anymore — the waist, the hips, the legs, and fuck, those feet with painted nails, neatly coated in some ridiculous pearly pink.

And now, after finding that damned crystal, she hadn’t been able to hold onto it — too nervous — and dropped it so hard there was nothing left. It had shattered into dust, now floating away on even the gentlest breeze. Behind her, the TV kept playing like nothing had happened, murmuring some ad, as if this whole reality was just another episode of a talk show.

— Stefania, baby, you okay? — came a man’s voice from behind, making Stefan — apparently now Stefania — flinch from the shock, her breasts swinging heavily again, reminding her not just of their weight but of their annoying independence — like they were living their own life, not giving a damn about her opinion.

She turned around sharply, too sharply, almost unnaturally, and her hair — too thick, too long, too perfectly styled — swished against her back. And just then she realized everything was only getting worse.

On the bed, shifting the sheets a bit, sat a fat, glossy man with a towel around his waist — which, to her horror, he had already started to unwrap. His thick stomach, damp and flushed from a hot shower, hung over his hips, and his gaze — that look — was possessive, lazy, like he owned not just the room, but her too.

— Who the hell are you?! — she burst out. — What are you doing here?! Why are you... naked?!

He wasn’t even embarrassed. On the contrary, he laughed — low and raspy, like he’d heard this a thousand times before.

— You serious, Stefania? — he stretched like a cat after a big dinner, arms spread wide. — You playing that game again? Funny. Alright. I’ll give you a couple minutes. You probably forgot how much you drank last night.

— I... — she wanted to say "I don’t know who you are," but her tongue twisted, because inside, somehow, she did know — but how the hell?! Why the fuck did this man feel important to her?

— Explain. Everything. Right now.

He sighed like he was already tired of repeating the same shit.

– Stefania... Seriously?

He tossed the towel over the back of the chair — now he was completely naked. Not shy, not hiding. His body made her sick to her core, but it wasn’t just him that disgusted her — the whole world around, the atmosphere in the room, soaked with his scent and his so-called rights, already felt humiliating, even though Stefania barely started to guess the rules of this fucked-up game.

– I get it, it happens. You girls get like that sometimes. Especially if you used to be with your little pretty boys, – he smirked, stepping closer. – But please, don’t start this shit. The agency won’t be happy about it.

– Wh-what... – she tried to step back, but the heels — God knows why she was even wearing them when she woke up — slipped under her.

– Sweetheart, you’ve got a contract. – He said it plainly. Not as a threat. Just like a reminder. Like she’d forgotten today was Tuesday. – And you’ve still got two years and eight months left. So either you go along with it, or... well, you know. The Center's not made of rubber.

Stefania stayed silent, swallowing the lump in her throat. She didn’t know what was worse — what he was saying, or how he said it: with the lazy confidence of a man who’d already proven his right once before.

– And by the way, – he added, turning away, – tomorrow you’ve got that clinic appointment, right? Don’t tell me you forgot. The stimulation. We’re already falling behind schedule for conception.

Her head spun a little.

– What... what stimulation?

He turned to her with a squint:

– Jesus, what the fuck... First year — pregnancy. Second — breastfeeding. And in the meantime, like all the other wives — smile, cook, be sweet. You know the drill. After that — we’ll see. If I like you, I’ll extend it. If not — I’ll send you back to the agency, and then you know what that means: back to the distribution center, waiting for a new husband... And there... – he yawned, like it was the most obvious thing in the world – there, well you told me yourself. Twenty girls crammed into one room, some powder shit instead of food, two spare robes for clothes, training on how to take care of a man, some practice crap on all your chick bullshit — you know, the usual boring female crap. But then again, what else can you bitches really offer? Either you work as a wife and at least serve some fucking purpose, or you rot in there. So quit the drama.

She didn’t reply. Her throat was dry. He smirked:

– That’s my good girl. Don’t know what the hell that was just now. – He slapped his knee and jerked his head toward himself. – Come on, come on, let’s get to work. Come here and give me a hug.