Swapping Desks

  Swapping Desks

  Amanda Carver

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  First Edition

  ©2017

  Swapping Desks

  "Excuse me, sir, do you think I can talk to you for a moment?"

  Reluctantly, I look up from my desk, wondering what this distraction is going to be. Yes, I do enjoy having Amy around because she is caught. I love the way that she dresses, always in barely appropriate slacks and tight little blouses. Of course, there's nothing for one of the jerks from human resources to complain about, but she knows how to please me.

  Except at moments like this.

  Exhaling through my teeth, I turn away from my monitor.

  Timid, Amy is standing there in the doorway to my office. "What is it?"

  "I was hoping that we could talk about my evaluation. It's on your schedule," she adds.

  "Amy, I'm busy," I tell her.

  That should be the end of it, but this girl isn't terribly bright. Sure, lots of stereotypes are wrong, but Amy seems determined to prove every cliché about blondes and inherent stupidity.

  "Yes, I understand that," she starts to say.

  I raise one finger. "No. No excuses. We both know that I'm important. I have decisions to make and a unit to run. You, on the other hand, should be fetching coffee and making copies. You know, grunt work."

  Other employees would know better. They would turn around and run away. They would retreat to their little desks or the copy room. And maybe, yeah, they would complain to their colleagues or whatever, but I don't care about any of that. Why would I?

  As far as I'm concerned, Amy is just an office slave. Hell, the girl doesn't even get stock options!

  But she is still standing there, her arms crossed.

  "I'm sure whatever you're doing is very important," she begins again, doing her best to be diplomatic but resolute. I'm pretty sure she has practiced these words in front of a mirror.

  "Get out," I say. "I'm busy."

  She starts moving, but not out of the room. Instead, she crosses the space between my desk and the doorway. She grabs my monitor and turns it, pivoting it so she can see the screen. I stand up, dumbfounded. I start tell her that she can't do this, but her eyes are now locked on the images before her.

  It's a video. Two girls are making out, each one wearing a bikini. They're both blonde. In fact, one of them actually looks a little bit like Amy with that wavy hair, those blue eyes, and those delightfully big breasts.

  "This is what you're doing? Really?"

  I sit down, smirking. Sure, my heart is pounding a little bit faster, especially because it almost feels like I've been caught doing something inappropriate. But this is perfectly okay, I remind myself. I can do this because I'm a manager. Not only that, my unit has some of the best sales in the entire company.

  "Yes, this is what I'm doing. And Amy, you're fired. Now get out."

  She doesn't. Instead, she puts her hands on her hips, and she looks irritated, like a big sister or a babysitter who is pissed off because her charge did something particularly annoying. Not bad, not important, just annoying.

  "No. I don't think I'm going to be doing that anytime soon."

  "What?" I arch an eyebrow, mildly amused.

  "I'm not leaving. You and I are going to have a conversation, Kevin."

  "Really?" I asked, rolling my chair back. I lifted one leg, crossing it over my knee. Then I touched a finger to my cheek and pressed the pad of my thumb to the underside of my chin. I'm sure I looked like studied interest, though she must have understood the disdain that was radiating off of me.

  "Okay, Amy. Tell me what you think is going to happen now. What are we going to talk about? Enlighten me."

  "We’re going to talk about the way you treat your employees."

  "You mean the office slaves?" Yes, I said those words aloud. This company really is a meritocracy. Get your numbers high enough, you can do whatever you want. That's how it works. That's how it has always worked.

  "How dare you?"

  "Amy, this might be hard for you to understand, but I really am better than you. I'm smarter. I'm stronger. I make better decisions."

  Her eyes narrowed. "No, you're an arrogant jerk who got lucky. You think that you're the reason why the sales go up every quarter? Yeah, right. I hear the salespeople talk about you all the time. You strut around here like some idiot peacock, bragging about everything you do. But what do you do again exactly? What strategies or initiatives have you devised to that really make the sales go up?"

  As she says those words, I can feel the heat gather around my cheeks.

  I'm tempted to jump up, to grab her, to bend her over my desk. And what?

  What would I do?

  I like the idea of spanking her. Oh yes, I would spank her. I would bring my hand down hard against her ass. She would feel every stinging blow through her panties and her tight yoga pants.

  Or maybe I would just pull those pants down. Maybe I would tear off her panties and come at her from behind. She would whimper and squirm and call out, but it wouldn't do any good. I would make sure that she would feel my hands through her hair. I would pull her head back as I plunged into her.

  Those thoughts make me hard, but I know that I'm not going to do anything like that. I'm a gentleman, after all.

  "Amy, you don't understand how business works. You are just as some dumb blonde bimbo. Now get out before I call security."

  "No," she says.

  With exaggerated reluctance, I reach out toward the intercom on my desk. I am about to touch a button when I hear the strange sounds.

  At first, I don't recognize the noises, mostly because they sound wrong. There's something happening, this alien noise permeating the air. It makes my skin twitch. It makes my eyes start to water.

  And then I look up, and I see her mouth moving, but she might not be the source? I can't quite tell. The sounds emanating onto the air seem arrhythmic, like they don't or can't or won't match anything I'm seeing.

  Yes, I hear Amy's voice, but the words are distorted. They don't feel like they make sense. They don't feel like they're the words any human tongue could make.

  What's happening?

  Then I looked down at my hand, realizing something. I can't touch the button. I just need to press the small key, and then I can talk to
security and they will send someone up here to take care of Amy.

  But that doesn't happen. My hand is frozen, locked in place.

  "There we go," she says.

  My eyes work, but the rest of my body doesn't. Amy strolls up to me, and she puts her hands on my chair. She rolls me back, away from my desk.

  From there, she sits up on the desk, crossing her legs. She has on black sandals. Her toenails are bright red. She wiggles her toes in front of me.

  "Kevin, Kevin, Kevin," she says, shaking her head from side to side. And now, I direct my eyes toward her. And there's something about her, something different. It's her bearing, the air she wears. "You're not a very interesting boy. Seriously, you're this arrogant jerk. You spend all of your time sitting in here, watching dirty videos and pleasuring yourself, all while you congratulate yourself on being the master of the universe. You think you're so smart, so creative, so commanding. You go out, and girls hit on you because they think you can buy them stuff. You assume that makes you interesting. It doesn't."

  I try to get my lips to move, but I can't!

  It feels like I'm frozen in place. I can't relax or tense up. My heart continues to beat and my lungs continue to pump, but they do it all on their own, like I'm just riding along in this strange vehicle.

  "No, Kevin. You’re really boring. You’re boring, you’re kind of dumb, and you don't really understand how people work. You don't realize that you need to motivate people. You have to be kind. You need to be more gentle. Maybe more feminine?" She touches a finger to the corner of her mouth, her eyes drifting up toward the ceiling, like she's trying to figure out an idea.

  "Interesting," she says to herself. Then she nods, like she's made a decision. "So this is what's going to happen. I'm going to cast another spell."

  She still talking, but I can barely register the words. A spell? As in magic? Something like that should be completely, utterly impossible. And yet, I can't move.

  For a few seconds, I tell myself that this has to be some sort of drug or something. Maybe she put something in my coffee?

  No, that doesn't fit. I drank my coffee hours ago. The effects should have kicked in long before this. Not only that, how would she have been able to time this so precisely?

  It must be something else.

  Those words, the strange, alien words she had chanted.

  This really is magic, I realize. Within the span of just a few seconds, I believe in the arcane.

  "This is going to be a little bit more complicated spell. It's going to take a lot of focus and concentration on my part. But don't worry. You aren't going to be able to interrupt me." She smirks again. "In fact, you won't be able to move until I snap my fingers. That's fine."

  Amy grabs my hair and pulls my head back.

  With her eyes locked on mine, she starts to speak again. She chants another set of strange, otherworldly syllables. Those sounds ripple on the air.

  I want to look away, to flee. Yes, I would run if given the choice. But she doesn't let me. I'm still trapped at my desk, my body frozen.

  Amy doesn't look away. Her eyes start to glow. Yes, they actually glow, lit with this strange, golden light.

  Then she leans in, and she kisses me. For a few moments, I regain some control over my body. I kiss her, my body excited. She puts one hand on the back of my neck, and I try to pull away, only I can't. I try to resist what she's doing to me, only it doesn't make any difference. She continues to kiss, probing me, her teeth and tongue running along my bottom lip.

  It feels like I'm being used. I've never felt so helpless before!

  And then everything stops.

  My mouth tastes funny. I run my tongue along my teeth, blinking my eyes open. Immediately, I pick up on the sounds of distant conversation. "Any plans for your weekend?"

  "Nothing interesting," says another voice, one I distantly recognize.

  My teeth feel weird. What is it about them? They don't hurt or anything, but the shapes are off? How could that be?

  Then I realize that I'm sitting outside of my office, at Amy's desk. What am I doing here?

  I start to stand, only to stumble forward. The weight of my body is off.

  I look down, first seeing my toes. But they aren't my toes. My nails have been painted bright red. I wiggle them, thinking of this has to be some kind of illusion or something. Maybe I'm dreaming? Yeah, I have to be dreaming. And yet, my hand goes down and I touch the desktop, and it is smooth and cool to the touch.

  No, this definitely isn't a dream. Dreams can be intense, but they don't feel like this. They have a different texture.

  I blink again, looking down. And that's when I notice the other, far more important detail.

  My breasts.

  I touch my waist. It's smaller than it should be. I bring my fingers up along the white blouse I'm wearing, and I touch my breasts, and I feel those mounds, soft and giving.

  Yes, I have breasts.

  This can't be happening. I take another step forward, only to start to trip again because the sandals I'm wearing have wedged heels.

  Quickly, I kick them off. As I do so, I fall back to the ground, and the rest of the office looks weird.

  What is it?

  I'm shorter. That has to be it. I'm shorter by several inches at least.

  Panic starts to nibble at the edge of my perception. There is something horribly, disgustingly wrong about all of this. Slowly, I take a couple of steps forward, and I walk between the different banks of cubicles. The computers are all off. Ahead of me, a couple of the office slaves are heading back toward the elevators. It's Friday evening. It's time for them to go home, to their sad little houses and their pathetic little families.

  What about me?

  I head straight toward the bathrooms. I need to see myself.

  Distantly, I know exactly what I'm going to find when I look at my reflection, but some part of me demands proof, actual evidence. I need to see this with my own eyes!

  I take quick, dainty little steps. Then I start to swing my arms, and I begin to run. As I do so, I hear someone call out. "Hey, Amy! Where you going in such a rush!"

  I get to the bathrooms, and I open the door. As I do so, another guy is heading out. He works in my unit, though I never bothered to learn his name. When he sees me, he looks really confused. But he wants to go home, so he just pushes by me.

  Why did he look at me like that?

  I step across the cool, tiled floors. Then I stand in front of the mirrors bolted above the sinks.

  I'm not looking at myself. This isn’t me. This isn’t my face, those aren't my shoulders, and this isn’t my body.

  My lips slowly part, opening because I can't figure this out.

  "No way," I whisper. My voice rises slightly, getting just a little bit louder. "No, no way!" I want to say more, but my hands immediately fly up to my mouth, touching my lips. And that's when I feel something, something that smears. I looked down at my hand, and there's red lipstick.

  Quickly, I start to wash my hands. But that doesn't really provide me with any sort of relief either.

  The lipstick quickly washes away, but I see my hands, my long nails, and my small, lovely fingertips.

  These aren't a man's hands. These are the hands of a girl!

  Quivering out from one breath after another, I need to figure out what I can do, how I can change back!

  I splash some water on my face, and that helps, at least until I opened my eyes. Because I recognize the face in front of me. It's Amy's.

  "This can't be happening," I say, my voice echoing between the ceramic tiles on the walls. I fight to lower my voice, to sound like myself.

  It doesn't work. Every time I say anything at all, my voice is breathy, high-pitched, and sultry. I sound just like her, just like Amy.

  Inhaling and exhaling, I feel like I'm about to freak out. Every puff of air comes in a quick little gasp, like I'm going to grab something and throw it down against the ground. Or maybe I will jump up and down. I want t
o throw a tantrum. I want to lift a computer above my head and slam it into the floor, just to hear it crash open.

  Wait a second.

  After a few more moments, I begin to settle down and the reality of my situation settles in.

  If I'm in Amy, where am I? Where's my body?

  This is a bizarrely unusual thought, but it seems to give me direction, and I'm grateful for that.

  Exhaling again, I turn around and walk toward the door. I step out into the hallway again. Another office worker, Sheryl maybe, steps by me. "Are you okay?"

  "Fine," I answer.

  Apparently, that's good enough for Cheryl or whatever her name is. She heads toward the elevators, eager to get away from the office.

  I walk into the large, cavernous room where most of the people work. I step between the cubicles, feeling my bare feet against the industrial carpet. At the same time, I marvel at that slightly different angle. A few inches really shouldn't change anything, but it does. In spite of myself, I feel small, almost like a mouse creeping in a land of giants. It's only a few inches, I tell myself, but that seems to make a real difference.

  I go back to Amy's desk.

  There are the sandals, discarded a few feet away. At the same time, I glance over at my office door. Normally, I see it, and it fills me with a sense of power and control. Most people don't get real offices. They don't get walls. I do.

  I'm important; I'm powerful.

  I start to puff out my chest, but that doesn't help because I feel them again, those extra weights right there on my chest.

  I'm going to go confront Amy.

  I'm going to tell her that this illusion or magic trick, whatever it is, needs to stop right now.

  I go forward, and I turn the doorknob. I pull, and then I see someone sitting at my desk. But it's not Amy.

  For some reason, I expected a duplicate, like Amy just made me look like her. We could be twins or something.

  Instead, there's a man seated at my desk. He's tall with a little bit of stumble along his jaw line. His hair slicked back, and he turns to me. He starts to grin right away, standing.