Office Retreat - Part 1

“Oh, come on, Jessica,” I said, tightening the robe around my waist, “You lost the challenge fair and square yesterday.”

“We never agreed, Jake. Swapping ends today,” she replied, voice smooth and commanding.

I flipped a stray lock of her blonde hair over my shoulder, feeling my pulse spike, “Bob stashed the swap device in his room last night.”

Bob—our officious middle manager who’d organized this ridiculous body-swap game during the three-day company retreat. 

“Everyone thinks we’re back to normal. It was just an icebreaker. Can we please switch back?” The sharp tilt of her jaw made her look impossibly sexy.

I forced myself to shrug, “Wouldn’t it be hilarious if nobody noticed?”

Her frown deepened, “We were supposed to hit the lake this morning. Are you seriously going to wear my bikini?”

Embarrassment heated my cheeks, “Well, you can be shirtless on the dock now that you’re a guy. Consider this… an experiment.”

“You’re crazy,” She hesitated, lips twitching into a reluctant grin, “Alright, fine. Could be fun.”

“They told us to meet up in, like, an hour, right?”

“Yeah. Guess we should, uh, get back.”

We separated at the landing, silent for a beat, and I watched Jessica—my own tall, broad-shouldered body—lope down the hallway toward the west wing.

It messed with my head, seeing myself from the outside. I shivered, tightening the robe, and padded barefoot to the guest room with Jessica’s name stenciled in Sharpie on a whiteboard star.

I closed the door and leaned against it, half-expecting the universe to short-circuit and revert.

My heart pounded. Me. Alone. In Jessica’s room. In Jessica’s smoking hot body.

God, I had always had such a ridiculous, doomed crush on her. It felt obscene to admit it, even now, even in my own head: the way she would stride into the office, high-heeled, all economy and intent, that low, throaty voice and the dry humor she reserved for the inner circle.

I was six months out of college, barely scraping by on an intern’s wage and the subsidized snacks in the breakroom. She was, as best I could tell, a legend—mid-thirties, works in ops, runs triathlons on weekends, never losing her composure, ever.

Not only was she intellectually gifted, but physically, as well. She had the perfect body, perfect breasts, and a perfect butt.

Our lives overlapped at the margins, but the gulf between intern and senior manager was unbridgeable, or so I’d thought. And yet, circumstance and a malfunctioning corporate “icebreaker” had landed me here.

Not just in her room but in her body.

I tugged the robe tighter, but it barely reached mid-thigh. I felt the strangeness of this new shape—I could feel the cool air on my legs, the shift and bounce of her breasts when I moved, the slight soreness in my calves from her compulsive morning runs.

I tried to inventory the facts: Jessica was married— as far as I could remember, to a man who sometimes visited the office for holiday parties, a guy with a close-cut beard. I was, technically, single, though my last relationship had ended so quietly it hardly counted as a breakup.

I actually hadn’t thought about Jessica’s husband during the swap yesterday; the whole thing had seemed temporary. I’ve never even spoken to him, I realized, glancing down at the slender hand that was now mine, noting the pale line at the base of the ring finger where the wedding band usually sat.

We were on a corporate retreat—no spouses, no outside world, no interruptions—just three days at the lodge, everyone allegedly “unplugged,” though my phone vibrated every hour with new Slack messages from Bob about the next mandatory fun.

I found the ring itself nestled by the bedside lamp, a slim gold loop. For some reason, I felt compelled to slip it on.

It settled into its groove on my borrowed finger like it belonged there, like the weight had always been mine to carry. I flexed my hand, marveling at how quickly the ring had become part of me.

It was honestly a miracle I hadn’t gotten caught last night. After the final round of shots and Bob’s tedious fireside speech, I’d slipped away from the group under the pretense of a headache, but really, I just wanted to be alone and revel in the insanity of having access to Jessica’s body for a handful of hours.

I was nearly trembling with a kind of giddy terror. I found myself staring, transfixed, at the breasts. They were incredible. Naked, heavy, perfect in the way I’d only glimpsed through sheer blouses and, once, during a wild moment at an office pool party when Jessica had cannonballed into the deep end and her swimsuit top had slipped. All those flashes, those brief, tantalizing moments, had not prepared me for the three-dimensional, private, and overwhelming reality of actually possessing them.

The curves, the tan lines, the way her hair fell over her shoulders. I tried on her perfume, dabbing it at the pulse points, and for a second, I could see how she might have felt, getting ready for a date night or one of those corporate galas.

But the real revelation happened in the shower. The water was hot, and the cedar-scented body wash filled the whole bathroom. I lathered every inch of skin, massaged shampoo through the long hair, and just luxuriated in the feeling of being new, exquisite, and completely unrecognizable.

Touching myself as Jessica was enthralling, so much so that I lost track of time. When I came, I had to stifle the sound against a towel, shaking and laughing at the absurdity of it.

After drying off, I spent a full hour just lying on the bed in the dark, caressing the new shape of my body, replaying every minute of the day. I fell asleep with the window cracked, the mountain air prickling my skin, and woke up with the sheets twisted between my legs and Jessica’s own scent clinging to me.

But something about the ring—trivial, maybe, but illicit—felt more intimate. The ring was different. It said: I am Jessica. It said: I am the wife, the professional, the person who deserves this.

For a moment, I just stood there, hand elevated like a nervous bride, the line of pale skin beneath the ring a tiny, mocking halo. My mind wandered to Jessica’s husband—what was his name? Adam? Alex? Something aggressively normal.

In a flash, I imagined being in a room with him, holding this hand, feeling his calluses graze the knuckle during dinner, the silent communication of a squeeze under the table. That man was out there, somewhere, presumably oblivious to the fact that his wife’s body was currently occupied by the office’s least valuable intern. I wondered what would happen if he called, if he FaceTimed, if he expected anything.

I caught my reflection in the oval mirror above the dresser. Jessica’s face—my face—was scrunched, lips pouting. But now the features were softer, almost amused. I practiced a few expressions: a calculated eye roll, a squint of disapproval, a tiny smirk.

My brain lit up with recognition. I’d seen these faces in meetings, across the conference table.

I extended my hand to the mirror.

"Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Jessica," I said, voice bright, projecting like I’d seen her do countless times, as if introducing myself to an important stranger.

I smoothed my—her—hair behind one ear, watched the steely confidence in my new eyes. Out of habit, I shifted weight to one hip and canted my head, giving the mirror a look equal parts challenge and invitation.

“Oh, my husband?” I said, letting the ring catch the bedroom light, “He’s incredible. Ten years together and he still can’t keep his hands off me.”

I twirled the band, rolling it up and down the smooth finger, then let it rest in its usual groove. For a moment, I pretended I was at the dry cleaner, the grocery store, the little bar where Jessica and her ops friends went after work—anywhere someone might make small talk and notice the ring. I practiced the smile she gave when talking about him, fond but a little guarded.

I leaned closer, examining the pores and faint freckles on my new nose, the way the lips—her lips, but my lips now—would curl, the flash of white teeth.

I had always assumed they had Sex, capital-S, the kind you brag about to your friends, but now I realized I’d never really considered what it felt like to be the object rather than the observer.

That thought hit me like a hangover: for once, I was the object. I was the body being admired, desired, held. The shame of it made me want to crawl out of my own—her own—skin, but the urge to keep playing the role was too strong. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe something more perverse, but I wanted to see how far I could take the charade.

I turned back to the mirror.

“Oh, my husband,” I repeated, this time smoothing my palms over the waist of the robe, letting it loosen just enough to hint at cleavage, “He’s absolutely insatiable. If it were up to him, we’d never leave the bedroom.”

Then my nipples puckered against the lining of the robe, a prickle of cold—or arousal—that made me reel in place, startled by the involuntary reaction. It was so distinctly un-me, so entirely Jessica, that it left me lightheaded.

The new sensation, the tension and ache and feathered pleasure, made it impossible not to smile. I was supposed to be mortified, but instead I felt—what? Possessed?

I turned away at last, laughing at my own melodrama, and let the robe fall to the floor. I took inventory again: the toned runner’s thighs, the long, elegant arms, the faint tan lines curving under the breasts. I rifled through the suitcase, searching for the infamous bikini.

I found it, a tiny scrap of glossy black lycra.

I held it up to the light, marveling at how little it covered. I stepped into the bottoms and wriggled them over my hips. The fabric hugged every curve. The top was even more absurd—a triangle of cloth, engineered to barely contain and perfectly enhance the chest.

I looked...well, I looked like a swimsuit model, and for a second I let myself bask in the narcissistic thrill.

I checked myself from every angle, struck a pose, flexed the abs.

A sudden knock at the door jolted me. I gasped, startled, and almost toppled into the nightstand.

“Jessica?” a voice called.

My voice. Jake’s voice. Except, of course, it wasn’t really mine anymore.

“Uh, yeah?” I stammered, fumbling with the robe, heart pounding in my throat.

The door swung open.

There I was—my original self—standing in the hallway.

My old body was holding two mugs of coffee. The borrowed eyes—Jessica’s real eyes—swept up and down, taking in the bikini and the open robe.

“Nice suit,” she said, smirking.

My cheeks flushed.

She grinned, but I could see the wheels spinning behind her expression. After a moment, she extended a mug, the one with the chipped Stanford logo. “Thought you might want caffeine before the next round of mandatory fun.”

“Thanks,” I said, accepting it.

“So,” she said, finally, “how’s it feel?”

“It’s wild. I don’t even know where to start.”

She laughed, real and honest, “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

She set her mug on the dresser and perched on the edge of the bed, watching me with a mixture of curiosity and something else—something like pride.

“You know, you’re better at this than you think,” she said quietly.

I shook my head, grinning, “You mean faking it?”

She shrugged, but there was a softness to her now, an ease I’d never seen at work, “I mean, maybe you’re not faking.”

Then she looked up at me, dark eyes shining, and said: “Let’s make this interesting. Let’s do the full three days.”