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– Polya! What’s taking you so long? Dinner won’t serve itself, – Marek’s voice called from the kitchen. It was impatient, with a slight edge of irritation, as if he was already used to having his wife always ready to cater to his needs. – I’ve been dreaming about your stew all day! Come on, I’m starving here!
I swallowed hard and clenched my teeth, feeling a fresh wave of anger and humiliation washing over me. “Dreaming, huh? Sure… Keep dreaming.” I almost muttered it under my breath but stopped myself in time. The cameras. Those damn cameras! I forced myself to stay composed, reminding myself that this was only temporary and… dammit, no, it wasn’t worth it.
I headed to the kitchen, feeling how the tight skirt clung to my hips, restricting every step. The fabric was stretched so taut it seemed ready to rip, and the waistband dug into my waist, making me feel like I was trapped in a corset. My breasts, swaying with every movement, pulled me forward, while the bra straps bit painfully into my shoulders. Absentmindedly, I ran a hand through my hair, brushing back the long strands that kept falling into my face. My nails—now long and neatly manicured—scraped against my palms as I clenched my fists. This body was tormenting me.
– Apolonia, where are you? – Marek called again, closer this time. I walked into the kitchen to see him standing by the table, hands planted on the edge, staring at the pot of stew as if deciding whether to start eating straight from it. – What, did you forget how to serve dinner? Or do you expect me to eat it straight from the pot? – he added with a faint smirk.
– Just a second… – I exhaled, trying not to snap, though my voice still came out shaky. High-pitched. Too feminine. I turned away quickly to hide the expression on my face, which definitely didn’t fit the image of a dutiful wife.
I reached for the plates, only to realize the top shelf of the cabinet was too high. “God, I’m so small in this damn body,” I thought as I rose onto my tiptoes, stretching out a hand. My breasts leaned forward with me, pressing softly against the cabinet door and giving me a strange, unpleasant sensation, like someone else was touching me. Meanwhile, the skirt stretched even tighter over my hips, binding me further, as if to remind me that I wasn’t just stuck in someone else’s body but also in this restrictive clothing.
– This is just ridiculous… – I muttered under my breath, staring at the unreachable plate, trying to grasp it with my awkwardly long nails.
– Need some help? – Marek’s voice came from behind me. His warm breath brushed against my ear, and I flinched, spinning around. “How the hell did he get that close so quietly?!” I barely had time to think before I felt my breasts press against his chest. I froze, feeling the soft flesh of my own body against Marek’s firm, warm torso. My skin burned with sensations I couldn’t control. My breasts seemed to have a mind of their own, while my brain screamed, “No, no, no, this isn’t me!”
Marek smirked slightly at my discomfort and slowly raised his arm to grab the plate from the top shelf. His hand moved above my head, and I felt him lean down a bit to adjust for the height difference, pressing his chest against me even more.
– It’s all good, Polya, – he said in his low, calm voice, as if he didn’t notice my awkwardness. – You’re a bit scatterbrained today. – He placed the plate on the table, but his gaze stayed fixed on me.
– I… I could’ve done it myself, – I managed to stammer, stepping aside. But as I did, my breasts betrayed me again, reacting to the motion differently than the rest of me. The soft fabric of my blouse stretched and slid over my skin, rubbing against Marek’s firm chest and sparking yet another alien sensation. My whole body shuddered as if trying to reject the contact, but my breasts, annoyingly responsive, seemed to have their own agenda.
I turned away to hide the blush spreading across my face, but damn it, I could feel the heat radiating from my cheeks.
– Yeah, I saw how you “could’ve,” – Marek replied with a smirk, setting the plates on the table and taking his usual seat.
– Well, Polya, come on, serve it up! I’m starving, – he commanded, leaning back in his chair and lazily tapping the table.
I shot him a glare full of irritation. He sat there, casually crossing one leg over the other, a faint smile on his face as he waited for me to obey. “Great. Now I’m not just the wife but the waitress too,” I thought bitterly but said aloud:
– Yeah, just a moment, – trying to sound neutral. But my voice was so soft and melodic that I winced. It wasn’t me—it was some other… woman.
I walked to the stove to grab the pot. It was heavy, and my now more fragile arms immediately protested with tension. “How inconvenient,” I muttered to myself mentally, gripping it with both hands and trying not to spill the hot stew.
I turned toward the table, feeling the pot sway precariously in my grasp. My breasts bounced in rhythm with my steps, sending another wave of discomfort through me, and I silently prayed nothing would spill. Marek, already reclined in his chair, watched me intently. His gaze felt analytical, almost scrutinizing.
– You’re acting weird today, Polya, – he remarked, tilting his head slightly. His voice was calm, but there was a trace of suspicion in it. – Nervous about something? Or are you feeling unwell?