Cherry

The hot midday sun reflected off the asphalt, creating a wave of heat that covered the intersection where a heavy bike stood, its engine growling. Leather jacket, worn jeans, fingerless gloves—everything about this man screamed his disdain for the rest of the world. Viktor. Yeah, Viktor had always been like this. Rough, harsh, a true master of the road who didn’t give a damn about weaklings or trembling women.

His irritation reached its peak when a small red car stalled at the traffic light in front of him. Behind the wheel was a girl, completely flustered, her fingers shaking as she tried to start the engine again.

— What a dumb chick, — Viktor grumbled, banging his fist on the roof of her car. — Learn to drive, you idiot!

The girl looked at him in fright, hunching down further into her seat. She wanted to say something, but the words seemed to stick in her throat.

— Don’t be scared, princess, — Viktor growled, thudding his fist against the roof again.

The girl flinched, her delicate fingers trembling on the ignition key. She tried again to start the engine, but it stalled again. Viktor snorted, curled his lips into a smirk, and was about to rev off when suddenly, a voice came from behind him:

— Aren’t you being a bit rude to ladies? — a woman’s voice sounded from the other side, dripping with contempt.

Viktor squinted. By the side of the road stood a woman—tall, with dark hair braided in a complex style, dressed in a simple black skirt and loose blouse. She looked completely ordinary, but there was something in her gaze that made a strange, unpleasant feeling twist in Viktor’s gut.

— Fuck off, bitch, — he muttered, putting on his helmet and placing his hands back on the bike’s handlebars, ready to take off. — Another defender of stupid chicks behind the wheel. You all cover for each other, huh?

He had almost started moving, revving the engine, when he heard the woman with dark hair say something. Viktor didn’t even catch the words—the helmet muffled them. He blinked.

And in the next moment, the world flipped upside down.

…

Viktor was still sitting, leaning forward, ready to grip the handlebars... but there were no handlebars. No bike. Instead of the wind in his face, there was the warm light from surrounding lamps, blinding him to the point where he squinted. His legs were shaking, feeling the softness of a furry carpet beneath them. Something heavy weighed on his chest, pulling him down. His arms...

He blinked again.

— W-What the fuck? — his voice cracked, but instead of his usual deep growl, it came out as a high, sultry half-whisper.

Viktor straightened up sharply, feeling his heavy breasts bounce, belatedly following the motion of his body. Warm, foreign, wrapped in something thin and almost weightless—it was so strange that his fingers reflexively twitched, squeezing the soft skin... and then quickly let go when the thought finally clicked in his brain: breasts. A woman’s. On his body.

— What the fuck?! — a soft yet loud voice, with a strange accent, escaped his mouth.

He blinked again, panic flooding his mind. He licked his lips—they were plump, soft. His gaze darted downward. Real tits. His. Big, heavy, and real. The fabric that clung to them could hardly be called underwear—more like some weird netting in neon yellow from which his nipples were visible. His skin was perfectly smooth, his hips unusually wide, with a narrow waist, long nails... fuck. Viktor touched one of his breasts, feeling how the soft, pliable flesh easily fit into his small hand, and squeezed slightly, feeling goosebumps run across the skin.

— Cherry, sweetheart, this is just gorgeous! — a man’s voice called from behind. — Now lick them!

Viktor spun around quickly—or rather, Vika did. Because Viktor was no longer in existence.

She saw a man sitting in a director’s chair. A bearded guy, about forty, with a gold chain around his neck and a self-satisfied smirk, lazily eyeing her new breasts. Behind him stood two others— a cameraman with a camera and a guy who was obviously an actor, already stretching his arms and preparing for the scene.

Vika’s heart skipped a beat. She opened her mouth, but all that came out was a hoarse gasp.

— Well? — the director clapped his hands, urging her on. — Don’t stall, baby, you’re a pro.

Vika swallowed hard. Everything she was feeling wasn’t a dream. Her breasts really were pulling down, her ass felt inexplicably big and soft, and the thin straps of the ridiculous, almost non-existent lingerie were digging into her skin, causing a strange tingling sensation.

— No, no, no... — her thoughts raced, trying to grasp onto something logical. The last thing she remembered was the traffic light, the motorcycle, and that damn witch with her contemptuous look. Her words. That damn bitch...

Vika squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. Panic was swallowing her whole. A foreign, soft, female body, the feeling of warmth, something sweet on her lips—lip gloss? Her lips?! She wanted to scream, but only a pitiful, high-pitched sound came out.

The director smirked.

— Why are you staring like that? Forgot where you are, Cherry?

Vika jerked back, hitting the soft, furry carpet, and immediately gasped, feeling her breasts bounce again, the pull in her chest a sharp reminder of her discomfort.

— What the hell do you mean, Cherry?! — finally, gathering her courage, Vika screamed. Her voice was sharp, but hysterical, like it was reminding her who she was now.

The director raised an eyebrow, lazily glancing at the cameraman. He just shrugged.

— Oh, so you’ve got some imagination, huh? — the director smirked as his big frame slowly rose from the chair. — Cherry, darling, what’s this new persona? Sweetheart, don’t make this harder, or I’ll have to dock it from your pay.

Pay.

The word got stuck in her head, making no sense at all. Her breasts, soft, foreign, heavy, swayed with every movement. Her hips felt a strange warmth, spreading in her stomach, making her feel disgusted. And the worst part — her lips. They were bitten, chewed until they itched, like… like she…

Vika swallowed, struggling to catch her breath.

— What… What the hell are you talking about?! — She tried to stand, but her thin, weak legs tangled together, and she fell back onto the seat with a dull thud, feeling her big, soft ass act like a cushion beneath her.

— Alright, I guess the warm-up’s done. Take off your bra, Cherry, and let’s begin.

The director looked at her with lazy expectation, as if she were not a person but just a prop on the set.

She clenched her fists.

— You… I… I’m not Cherry, okay?! You don’t even know who I am.

— Cherry, sweetheart, don’t overthink it, — the director chuckled, stepping closer. — You’re the best find in this studio, our hot star. Your tits are dynamite, your mouth — a sight to behold. Come on, don’t play hard to get.

He reached out, his fingers gripping her chin. At that moment, Vika froze, feeling the director’s fingers tighten on her chin. His breath, hot and heavy, scorched her skin. In her mind, flashes of memories began to race. She saw herself — no, not herself, but her — a little girl in a provincial town where everyone knew everyone. Her mother, always drunk, yelled at her, and her father, who had left before she was born, was just a shadow in old photos. School, where they teased her for developing too early, for looking 18 when she was just 13. Then the escape from home, the bus to Los Angeles, where she, hungry and alone, wandered the streets until she came across an ad: "Looking for girls for movie work."

She remembered her first time. She was 16, and he was over 40. He promised her a role but led her into a small room with a sticky carpet and the smell of cigarettes. She cried, but he said: “You wanted to be a star, didn’t you?” The second time was with the cameraman, the third with the director. By the tenth, she stopped crying, by the hundredth — she didn’t even blink, and she began to enjoy shooting those kinds of films. Cherry. That name became her pseudonym, her mask, her prison.

And through all those frames — laughter. That laugh, from the intersection. The witch in the black skirt, her fingers snapping. “Well, biker, who’s the slut now?” — it was like the wind whispered in Vika’s ear.

— Cherry, get undressed already, — the director’s voice snapped her back to reality. — You’re kind of lost in thought today.

Vika couldn’t do anything. There was too much new data in her head, too many new memories, too many of her lives.

Not his. Hers.

Vika breathed heavily, feeling how her new, damn foreign body trembled, succumbing to the habits those memories had forced on her. Cherry. That’s what they called her here. No, that’s what she called herself here, her pseudonym at the studio.

— I’m not Cherry, — she whispered, but even that sounded fake, like she didn’t believe it herself. — I’m not her…

The director, the same bearded man with the golden chain, now known to her as Mark, smirked. His eyes slid down her body, like he was appraising a piece of merchandise.

— Alright, Cherry, stop messing around, — he waved a hand dismissively as if he were brushing off her words. — You know how this works. We feed you, we dress you, and you do what you’re best at. So come on, don’t make me wait.

Vika felt her legs buckle. She wanted to run, but where? This body, this place, these people — it was all now part of her life, all too familiar. She looked at the cameraman, the guy standing behind the camera. His name was Dan, and he was watching her with some strange pity, but he didn’t intervene. The actor who was supposed to shoot with her — Jake — was already taking off his shirt, showing off his muscular torso. He smiled, but there was nothing kind in his smile. She knew them all, and she knew exactly what to do, like she’d done it a hundred times before. She knew she couldn’t leave, too much was tied up with this — her money, her life, her debts…

It was all because of that strange bitch at the intersection, and it was clear, but now she needed to work, or everything would only get worse.