Secret meeting - part 3

Part 2: https://www.patreon.com/posts/94983184

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The receptionist recoiled slightly, his cheeks flushing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ma’am, please… refrain,” he stammered, straightening his tie with forced professionalism. “This is a certified body exchange facility, not a… a nightclub.”

Benjamin’s stomach churned. Refrain?! He wanted to scream, but his vocal cords betrayed him again, pitching into a saccharine giggle. “Oopsie! Like, totally my bad! Must be the, um, lingering vibes from this body, right? Tee-hee!” He batted his lashes, twirling a strand of blonde hair around a manicured finger. Inside, his mind raged: I’m going to incinerate this place. Slowly. With a flamethrower.

Benjamin leaned against the reception desk, his—no, her—manicured nails tapping impatiently. The receptionist’s eyes flickered downward for a split second, lingering on Tiffany’s plunging neckline. A surge of rage boiled inside Benjamin, but his lips betrayed him, erupting into a giggle as he twirled a blonde curl. “Like, someone’s being a naughty boy, huh?” he purred, batting his lashes. “Better focus on your job, Mr.… um… Mr. Cutie-Pants!”

The receptionist cleared his throat, cheeks flushing. “Ah, yes, Miss Pembroke. Your file indicates you have 12 hours remaining in the Tiffany synthetic persona. Would you like to terminate early?”

Pembroke? Benjamin’s internal scream nearly shattered his skull. His real surname was Smith. Tiffany’s must’ve been Pembroke—another layer of this cursed charade. “Ugh, like, duh!” he squealed, hips swaying as if operated by invisible strings. “I wanna be me again, like, yesterday! This whole giggly-booby thing is so last season!”

“Room 3-C, then.” The receptionist gestured down the hall, avoiding eye contact.

As Benjamin strutted past a door labeled 2-C, he froze. Through the glass, he glimpsed his own muscular frame—his body—slumped in a cryopod, face serene. “Hey, that’s—!” he began, but a technician materialized, blocking his view.

“Nuh-uh, sweetcheeks,” the tech said, chewing gum. “3-C’s yours. 2-C’s… occupied.”

Benjamin opened his mouth to argue, but he already wanted to finish it all quickly and find himself in his body, planning how he would destroy this place later, so these words of Tiffany flew out of his mouth again: “Oopsie! Silly me! Tee-hee!” He stomped into 3-C, fists clenched, nails digging into palms.

The exchange chamber hummed to life, its walls glowing neon blue. A technician in a lab coat scanned a tablet. “Terminating Tiffany persona. Initiating reintegration for… Emily Pembroke. Thanks for using our premium bimbo package!”

Emily?! Benjamin’s mind short-circuited. “Wait, I’m not—!” he tried, but his tongue tangled itself. “I’m Bennnifany! I mean—ugh! Just put me back in—”

The technician slammed the chamber door. “Relax, sugar. You’ll wake up you in no time. Mostly.”

Cold vapor flooded the pod. Benjamin’s vision blurred, Tiffany’s shrill voice echoing as consciousness faded: “Mostly?! What’s that supposed to—

Click.

Darkness.