Daniel Svensson wasn’t sexist, quite the opposite actually, he considered himself “one of the normal men”, unlike the others, someone who for the last five years had been insisting almost obsessively, both to himself and everyone around him, that he understood women perfectly, respected their problems, supported equality and generally, unlike “typical guys”, knew how to listen, empathize and be emotionally mature.
But at the same time, during almost every session, another topic always came up one way or another, brighter, more intense, more painfully relevant. And as illogical as it seemed from the perspective of Daniel’s views on women, if you looked at it through the eyes of Doctor Emilia Ross, inside his own head it felt completely natural and even obvious.
“I’m not saying they don’t have problems,” Daniel explained irritably, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “But you have to understand, it’s just fucking math. If a woman looks at least decent then that’s it. That’s it! People already help her, listen to her, forgive her weirdness. But a man has to... he just has to! Always and everywhere! Starting from the very first dates.”
Emilia calmly looked up.
“And you think women have easier lives?”
“Pff! Of course,” he answered immediately, then added while looking at her, “Just don’t start... don’t start defending ‘your own.’”
“I’m not defending anyone, Daniel,” she replied calmly, making a note in her notebook. “I already told you, I’m your therapist and I’m always on your side.”
Daniel exhaled loudly and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face with his palm. He looked around, not believing Emilia. For a second he closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. A lot had happened in this office and honestly, considering therapy had already been going on for three years and he still hadn’t found a girlfriend, all these attempts by Emilia to pretend she was on his side were starting to feel more like some kind of joke than anything truly serious. And that only made something inside him tighten even more.
He opened his eyes and saw Emilia’s attentive gaze. She was looking at him and staying silent. Looking and staying silent. Damn it, if he didn’t say something then they were really going to sit there in silence until the end of the session.
“Rich men’s wives.”
He suddenly said, cutting through the silence of the office.
Emilia raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Rich men’s wives?”
Daniel smirked, but nervously, almost bitterly.
“Yeah. Trophy wives or whatever. Basically, a girl just has to be hot and that’s it. Doesn’t matter if you’re some dumb broke nobody, if you’re gorgeous then you’ve got a huge chance to land a rich guy. And after that you just enjoy life. No work or responsibility, just stay pretty and fuck your husband.” He leaned forward, looking at Emilia like he’d finally gotten to the core of the problem. “Now imagine the opposite situation. Sugar babies exist, sure, but compared to rich men’s wives they’re a tiny percentage...”
“Tiny percentage... percentage... cent-cent-cent...” an electronic voice echoed, so inappropriate and sudden that Daniel jerked with his whole body and instantly jumped to his feet.
“What the?! Emilia, what kind of joke is this?!” he shouted at her in fear, but when he looked down at her he saw she hadn’t even reacted. It was like she hadn’t heard the sound at all, still sitting there staring at the chair Daniel had just been sitting in.
She sat motionless, frozen, as if someone had pressed pause.
“Emilia?..” Daniel said more quietly now, feeling cold crawl down his spine. “Emilia, this isn’t funny.”
“Hahaha...” a woman’s laugh rang out, only to immediately cut into another voice. Daniel’s voice. “Trophy wives... so happy... I wish I could become one of them...”
“HEY! What the hell?! What kind of bullshit is this?! I never said that! I... I...” Daniel felt his voice crack, as if someone in the middle of his sentence had grabbed an invisible slider and started raising it, making it softer, higher and strangely shaky at the same time.
He instantly grabbed his throat, but at that same moment invisible hands seized his wrists and pulled them apart.
“Hey! HEY!” Daniel shouted, nearly breaking into a squeal now, his rough soprano trembling as his whole body thrashed. “What’s happening?! What the fu...”
His words cut off again and for a moment he found himself in some kind of vacuum.
No sound, no sensations, no time.
But it didn’t last long. After a moment reality returned. And it returned with quiet, expensive, almost soothing music. Somewhere nearby a glass clinked. Soft male laughter followed.
Daniel sharply inhaled and immediately felt something heavy and soft rise together with his chest, stretching the fabric of his clothes in a strange way, clothes that clung far too tightly to his entire body, like someone had wrapped him in ribbon.
But the first thing he noticed was the man sitting across from him, wearing an expensive graphite-colored jacket and elegantly using a fork and knife. He looked about fifty years old and between them, besides the dishes, stood a bottle of wine and wine glasses. This definitely wasn’t Emilia and obviously not a therapist’s office.
Slowly, almost unwillingly, despite every internal protest, Daniel lowered his gaze.
And instantly froze, like he’d been punched in the stomach.
It was a woman’s breasts. And not just breasts. Perfect ones, with faint age pigmentation spots, heavy, high-set, squeezed tightly inside an expensive cream-colored dress so firmly that he could even feel the slight folds near the nipple beneath the fabric. Real breasts belonging to a mature woman in her forties. And they were... his.
Daniel sharply sucked in air and instantly felt something inside this new body clench unpleasantly with panic. His breasts rose heavily with the breath.
“No... no-no-no...” he whispered and immediately flinched at the sound of his own voice.
The voice was slightly low for a woman, but still soft, mature and far too beautiful.
Daniel suddenly grabbed his breasts through the fabric of the dress and immediately jerked from the sensation. Warm, soft skin beneath his fingers felt so real that his brain literally refused to accept it. He could feel the weight. Feel how his breasts strained against the tight dress, how his fingers slightly pressed into the dense expensive fabric, how panic made his nipples more sensitive as they pushed against the inner lining of the bra.
“Oh God...” he exhaled and once again shuddered from the sound of his own voice.
The man across from him finally slowly lifted his gaze from the plate.
“Dani?”
Daniel, or rather Daniella Hargrove now, forty-three-year-old trophy wife of Richard Hargrove, flinched and pulled her attention away from her breasts toward her husband. She looked at him like he was some bizarre exhibit brought into the Louvre from another reality.
“Are you alright, darling?”
“Darl...” she began, suddenly widening her eyes as if realizing something inside herself and instead quickly blurted out, like a racecar driver speeding toward the finish line, “trophy wife!”
She covered her mouth with her hand and squeezed her eyes shut, while Richard merely smirked and returned to his food.
He liked it. He liked when she started acting like she was someone else and honestly, he’d already begun missing her “episodes.”
‘Interesting... who does she think she is this time?’ he thought while chewing his salad and already preparing himself for the “show” that would drag on for weeks, maybe even months.