TG October: Day 18 – Suit

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Julian Vale could not stand wrinkles.

That morning one of his maids stumbled in the hallway of the residence. In a reflexive attempt not to fall, she leaned on his shoulder for a second. The hand left a barely visible mark on the lapel of the Italian suit the staff had just ironed. Julian looked at her as if she had committed a crime. He shoved her against the wall and slapped her hard enough to make her lip bleed, staring at her with eyes full of hatred, as if she had insulted him endlessly.

“Useless,” he spat, adjusting his jacket. “Have someone replace her before she touches me again. I don’t want her dirty hands touching anything else.”

Richard Vale found out before noon. He feared for his son. That same month he had had similar episodes; he was out of control. Richard came from a humble family and had hoped to raise his son with those values. But it had already gone too far, and the boy knew nothing of the real world.

The next day he ordered him to his office to talk. He told him a story of how, before having so much money, he had lived working at whatever he could, how he had joined the right people—humble, hardworking people—and how thanks to them he had gotten where he was. Julian did not seem very interested and, in an act of arrogance, distracted himself with his phone, leaving his own father talking alone. Richard grew furious and said in a firm tone:

“Three days,” he told his son in the office. “No last name, no black card, no butler. You’re going to live on the outskirts with the bare minimum and two security men. When you come back we’ll talk about whether you still deserve to sign with my name.”

Although Julian wanted to protest, seeing that look on his father’s face made him fall silent, and he accepted without complaint.

Julian arrived at the two-room apartment seething. The guards, Marcos and Elías, barely spoke. On the third night, tired of the misery, he went down to a nearby bar just to feel that he still controlled something.

There she was.

Sofía Reyes had the look of someone who had calculated every move. She approached him without asking permission, touched his tie, and told him that a man with that bearing shouldn’t drink alone. Julian, used to everything falling into his lap, accepted the insinuation as just another tribute. The progression of the night and the continuous flattery became a direct invitation for Julian to feel like the king of everything once more. They ended up in the bed of the apartment. She mounted him, guided him, used him with a precision that to him seemed like pure desire. Too bad it was something else. At dawn, while he was still sleeping off the hangover, Sofía dressed calmly.

On the table she left a device the size of a phone.

She activated it.

Julian woke up in the wrong body.

Breasts. Hips. A higher voice. The reflection of a thirty-one-year-old woman who had worked too hard. In front of the bed, in his original body, Sofía was buttoning the shirt he had worn the night before.

“Your family stole our research eighteen years ago, you know?” she said without raising her voice. “They patented it. Built their fortune on top of it. My mother got sick. My father turned to alcohol. I was left with the records they didn’t take and with the half-finished prototype. You might not know this because you were born in a golden cradle of stolen money, but money doesn’t grow on trees. It took me a lot of time and effort, I spent everything I had, but I finally finished it. This is the first portable full-transfer unit. There’s no going back without the key… and I’m keeping the key.”

She smiled slightly.

“You lived in silk. I lived in hell. Thank your daddy for handing me his son on a silver platter. Welcome to real life, bitch.”

She left. The guards followed her as if nothing had changed. And even through the shock of the events, Julian could do nothing.

The following months were a freefall without a net.

Julian, in Sofía’s body, didn’t know how to do anything that generated real money. He sold what little was left of the apartment. He borrowed. He accepted jobs he wouldn’t even have looked at before. Every bad decision pushed him further down. When the rent was late for the third time, he started selling the only resource he had left: the body he now inhabited.

That was when that older man appeared.

The smell of cheap alcohol and strong cologne. He seemed to have a lustful smile the moment he saw him, but unlike what was expected he made a different proposal. He offered roof, food, and “protection” in exchange for one single thing: obedience.

“You remind me a lot of my daughter, pretty one,” he said. “As a little girl she liked dressing up, and I think you’ll like doing it too. Every night a different one—I choose. You put it on. Or if you want, stay living like a whore while I look for another one who’ll call me daddy.”

Julian accepted because his stomach no longer had pride; the nausea that man produced in him had nothing on the nausea hunger gave him.

The first night was the maid outfit: short apron, black stockings, nothing underneath. The man made him kneel and serve dinner before taking him on the table.

He couldn’t help thinking that everything had started with that maid, while they were giving it to him hard from behind he wondered if he had been one too, though it was already too late for regret. It was only to be expected that someday his behavior would catch up with him; he used to live as if that rule didn’t apply to him, but life is crueler than fantasy. And Julian learned it the hard way.

The second night, nurse: tight white skirt, impossible cleavage. He forced him to “examine” him on his knees. The third, bunny: ears, tail, heels. He mounted him in front of the mirror so he could see exactly what he was now.

Every night a new outfit. Different from the ones he used to wear.

Every night the same surrender.

Schoolgirl. Cheerleader. Nun. The limit was that pig’s imagination. He had a warehouse full of outfits of every kind, ready to be used.

And every morning, on the man’s old phone, the news showed “Julian Vale” signing contracts, giving interviews, living the life that had been torn from him.

Sofía hadn’t only stolen his body. She was using his name better than he ever could. While he had to offer his body if he wanted to live.

One night the man received a call. He spoke little. When he hung up he looked at Julian, who was waiting on the sofa already wearing that night’s outfit—a black secretary dress that was far too short.

“Tonight we have a visitor.”

The door opened.

“Daddy?”

Sofía walked in, in Julian’s body. Impeccable. Behind her came his father, Mr. Vale—or so it seemed—and then the same man who had been fucking him without mercy every night… but he no longer looked the same; he seemed surprised. When they entered the room they sat him down and tied him to a chair. That was when they told him everything.

“Actually it’s my father,” Sofía answered. “Since I kept your body I thought my father could keep yours. Tricking him was easier than tricking you; both of you are far too stupid.”

The exchange had happened minutes earlier.

Richard Vale, now trapped in the alcoholic, aged body of Sofía’s father—the same man who gave him shameful outfits and made him moan every night—had always been the father of the woman whose body he now occupied. When he turned his gaze he could see how his hands trembled. His eyes, the same hard eyes as always, recognized his son in the wrong body and with the secretary dress open. His lament as a father became evident; so much so that he couldn’t articulate a single word and only among the noises could one faintly distinguish the words “I’m so sorry, son.”

“My father was always a little too ‘affectionate’ with me,” Sofía said. “When I told him I had taken your body and that he could do whatever he wanted with mine, he accepted more than gladly and turned you into a perfect whore for me.”

Sofía approached Julian, lifted his chin and kissed him slowly, possessively. Then she turned him toward the chair where Richard was.

“Look at him, ‘Dad,’” she said to Mr. Vale. “Looks like the little bitch learned the lesson in humility. He’s no longer rude, just another little slut in the pile, and you’re the one responsible, hahahahaha.”

She pulled down the expensive suit pants she now wore and pushed Julian to his knees against the edge of the bed. She penetrated him calmly, deeply, while the secretary dress rode up over the hips. Julian gasped. The body he inhabited responded with an ease he hated.

Richard, from the old man’s body, couldn’t look away.

He was watching his own original body—his son’s, the heir’s, the one that was supposed to carry the family name—fucking a woman who was, in reality, his son. Every thrust, every moan, every brush of the cheap dress against the skin was a lesson he himself had started the day he decided to teach him humility.

Sofía gasped against Julian’s ear, without stopping looking at Richard:

“He took my life with a patent. I took his son for a suit. Which one do you think sounds more ridiculous?”

And now both of you can see the exact price.

Julian closed his eyes. The secretary dress stuck to his skin with sweat. There was no longer a last name that could save him. There was no longer a father who could order his return. Only the cheap fabric remained that marked, night after night, how far he had fallen… and the certainty that someone else occupied his place with far more elegance than he had ever possessed. He had lost everything, and all because of a damn suit.

At least now he had received a lesson in humility.

The End.