Dylan and Gwen had known each other since they were five years old.
They had grown up in the same neighborhood, shared secrets, fought and made up more times than they could count. They were one of those friendships that survive everything: adolescence, university, first jobs, and even changes in personality. To the rest of the world they were “like siblings.” To them, they were simply family.
At twenty-six, however, their lives could not have been more different.
Dylan had become a successful businessman. By the age of twenty he was already billing figures most people only dreamed of. He lived in a modern apartment, changed cars every year, and collected party nights and women who never stayed until breakfast. He was the typical playboy who never committed… and who, deep down, was starting to notice that something was missing.
Gwen, on the other hand, had studied Philosophy. She never practiced it. She married young to Greg, a serious and hardworking man, and since then her world revolved around the house and Mandy, her eight-month-old daughter. She loved her husband and adored her baby, but sometimes, when she was alone in the kitchen at three in the afternoon, she felt that something had slipped away from her. Parties. Trips. The feeling of not having to answer to anyone.
That afternoon Gwen had gone to visit Dylan like so many other times. Mandy was sleeping in her bassinet in the living room. They were sitting on the sofa, beers in hand, talking about how they had grown up.
“Sometimes I feel like I wasted my life,” Gwen confessed, looking at the bottle. “I’m happy with Greg, really… but I would have liked to go out partying more, travel, see the world. Now everything is diapers and nap schedules.”
Dylan looked at her with empathy. He knew that frustration. He, for his part, sometimes envied the stability she had.
“If Greg weren’t traveling… I’d invite you to disappear for a week with me,” he said half-jokingly. “But there’s no one to take care of Mandy.”
Gwen smiled with sadness.
“I know.”
At that moment the doorbell rang. Dylan got up and came back a minute later with a small package with no return address. When he opened it he found a dark stone figurine, the size of a hand, with an inscription in a language neither of them recognized.
“I bought it at an online auction weeks ago,” he explained. “Supposedly it grants wishes. I thought it was just decoration.”
Gwen took it in her hands, curious.
“And does it work?”
Dylan shrugged, smiling.
“Try it. Wish for something. The worst that can happen is that nothing happens.”
Gwen closed her eyes, still smiling, and whispered almost without thinking:
“I wish I could go wherever I wanted… without anything mattering. Without responsibilities. Just… be free.”
The figurine warmed between her fingers.
And the world turned upside down.
The change was instantaneous.
Dylan blinked and suddenly he was sitting in Gwen’s place. He felt the different weight of the body, the tug of a blouse that wasn’t his, and between his legs, an impossible absence. He looked down and found soft breasts inside a nursing bra and a belly that was still a little soft.
In front of him, in his own body, Gwen was staring at her large hands and flat chest with her mouth open.
“What the fuck…?”
“Gwen,” Dylan said in a high voice he didn’t recognize as his own. “It’s me. I’m in your body.”
They stared at each other in silence for several seconds. The initial panic turned into disbelief and then into a nervous laugh that they both shared. Mandy made a soft little noise in her bassinet, completely unaware.
Gwen (already in Dylan’s body) took the figurine from the table before he could react. Dylan jumped up — clumsy, still not used to the new hips — and tried to snatch it from her. She simply raised her arm. She was now considerably taller. The figurine stayed out of his reach, exactly like when they were children and he tried to take some toy from her.
“Seriously,” Gwen laughed, holding it above her head. “You’re still doing that?”
“Give it to me! We can wish to go back right now.”
Gwen shook her head, still smiling, but there was something more serious in her eyes.
“Not so fast.
Greg is traveling for a whole month. Thirty days. If we stay like this… I can use your life. Your money, your freedom, your nights. I can do everything I never could.
And you… you can take care of Mandy. No one is going to suspect. You’re ‘me.’”
Dylan opened his mouth to protest, but she interrupted him, lowering her voice a little:
“Don’t pretend you don’t want it.
Since we were fifteen you’ve talked about how one day you’d like to ‘settle down.’ About how you were curious to know what it felt like to take care of a real child. I know you, Dylan. This isn’t just a favor for me. It’s also the excuse you needed.”
He stayed silent. Because she was right. Deep down there had always been that curiosity, that secret envy toward Gwen’s stable life.
In the end he sighed and crossed his arms under the breasts that still felt foreign to him.
“Fine… one month.
But only one month. After that we use that thing and each of us goes back to our life.”
Gwen smiled, victorious, and put the figurine in the back pocket of Dylan’s pants.
“Deal.
And don’t worry… I’ll take care of it.”
Dylan looked at her with feigned resignation, although a part of him — a part he didn’t want to admit yet — was already starting to wonder what it would really feel like to live as Gwen for the next few weeks.
The first week was hell.
Dylan discovered that having breasts full of milk had nothing erotic about it. They hurt, they leaked, and Mandy seemed to smell his panic, because right then she would start crying asking for the breast. The first time he breastfed her he stared at the ceiling with his soul outside his body while the baby sucked hard. The housework didn’t help either: washing clothes with a nursing bra that dug into him, cooking with Mandy crawling between his legs, tripping over the furniture because the center of gravity was now different.
But on the seventh day something changed.
Suddenly he knew how to prepare a bottle with one hand. He knew how to rock Mandy so she would fall asleep in minutes. He no longer leaked milk every time he heard a cry. He had even learned to fasten the bra without help. And the strangest thing… he liked it.
He started seeing it as a vacation from his own life.
No more endless meetings. No more million-dollar decisions. No more empty nights in a bachelor apartment. Just a simple, warm, stable routine. Taking care of Mandy, keeping the house, existing without the world demanding that he be the successful playboy all the time. For the first time in years, he felt… still. And that stillness suited him well.
It was exactly on the eighth day when the door opened.
“Surprise!”
Greg walked in with his suitcase and a tired smile. The trip had been shortened. Dylan felt a chill in his stomach, but Mandy let out a little cry of happiness. Greg left the suitcase, hugged him naturally and kissed him on the mouth like someone returning home. Dylan forced himself to reciprocate.
“I missed you,” Greg murmured against his hair. “A lot.”
That night, after putting Mandy to bed, Greg had no patience.
He pushed him onto the marital bed and removed the nightgown with expert hands. His eyes immediately locked on Gwen’s breasts, still heavy with milk.
“Fuck, how I missed these tits…” he growled, trapping one with his mouth and sucking hard, not caring that a trickle of milk came out. Dylan arched his back out of reflex and had to bite his lip so as not to moan too loudly.
I’m doing it for Gwen, he repeated to himself. I’m just protecting my best friend’s marriage.
But his body disagreed.
Greg treated him exactly the way he had always treated his wife in intimacy: like a whore that belonged to him. He spread his legs roughly, spit on his pussy and pushed all the way in with a single thrust. There was no gentleness. Only deep, possessive thrusts while he spoke into his ear:
“So tight… such a whore when I fuck you hard. Tell me you like it.”
Dylan clenched his teeth. He wanted to stay silent. But Gwen’s body had memory and hunger. Every thrust tore higher and higher moans from him. When Greg grabbed his hair and forced him to look into his eyes, the phrase escaped on its own, in her voice:
“I like it… I like it when you use me like this…”
It’s for Gwen, he thought as he came with trembling legs. Only for Gwen.
But when Greg came inside and stayed on top of him, still throbbing, Dylan felt how his own body (hers) clung to him and asked for more.
The following days were a perfect double life.
During the day he was the ideal wife: breakfasts, diapers, smiles.
At night he was the whore Greg needed. He let himself be put on all fours, let his tits be slapped, let himself be filled over and over while repeating the same lie:
I’m doing it for my best friend.
Although every time he looked in the mirror in the morning, with marks on his neck and cum drying between his thighs, the lie sounded a little weaker.
The month ended on a Tuesday morning.
Dylan was in the kitchen, with Mandy sitting in the high chair and a coffee in his hand, when he heard the key turn in the lock. It wasn’t Greg. Greg had left early. The door opened and his own body walked in… with Gwen’s expression.
Gwen (in Dylan’s body) came in quickly, almost agitated. She was carrying a small suitcase and her hair was messy. As soon as she saw him, her face fell.
“Dylan… we have a problem.”
At the same time, Dylan put the coffee on the counter and spoke with her voice:
“Gwen… we have a problem.”
They stared at each other. The two sentences had come out in unison.
Gwen was the first to react. She took the two broken pieces of the figurine from her jacket pocket and dropped them on the table with trembling hands.
“It slipped. Three days ago. I was drunk on a rooftop in Lisbon and… it fell. I tried wishing to go back a thousand times and nothing happened. It’s broken. Completely broken.”
Dylan said nothing. He simply opened the cutlery drawer, took out the pregnancy test and placed it next to the pieces of stone.
Two clear pink lines.
Gwen froze. She opened her mouth. Closed it. The color drained from her face (Dylan’s face).
“No…
Don’t fuck with me…
Are you…?”
“Greg arrived after a week,” Dylan answered in a flat voice. “He fucked me almost every night. The way he likes it. Hard. Dirty. Like I was his whore.
And apparently… it worked.”
The silence that followed was so dense that even Mandy stopped banging on the high chair tray.
Gwen looked at the test.
Dylan looked at the broken figurine.
They both understood at the same time the magnitude of the disaster:
She had destroyed the only way back.
He was pregnant with his best friend’s husband.
Neither of them said “I’m sorry.”
Neither offered a solution.
They just looked down at the table, where the pregnancy test and the remains of the figurine were touching, and spoke at the same time, with exactly the same tone of defeat:
“Fuck.”
The End.
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