Clothes! Oh, and some other stuff.

You have to stop in the doorway to the bedroom and gape at the terrible, terrible bedspread. It was an overly-noisy floral quilt that looked like something stolen from someone's grandmother in the 70's. William—whoever that was, but who seemed to have decided everything in your house—has such awful taste. It's almost depressing. "Tch. Gross. At least it looks clean."

Laid out neatly on top of the bed was a dress. The first thing you've seen in the apartment that felt like it may have actually been yours. You pick it up and examine it. It's not exactly fashionable, but it is a pretty blue color and the material is exquisite. And the style is a wrap dress that will definitely fit you. You're glad for that, but you don't see anything else to wear. No shoes, no underwear. Nothing. Well, there is a nice-looking smart watch, but that doesn't count.

Grateful for any clothing at all, you slip your arms into the dress and tie it about your body. The material feels incredible on your bare skin, exciting your nipples immediately. You let out a soft, delighted sigh. You had no idea your skin was so sensitive. It feels very good. Running your hands down your body, your perfect moment is interrupted by the absolutely unacceptable presence of men's boxers around your hips. They ruin the lines of the dress and the fabric is dreadful. Quickly, you slip your hands up under the dress and slide the boxers down your legs to kick them across the room.

So much better.

With another sigh, you **** yourself to refocus on the things in front of you, starting with a fresh letter left with the dress.

I know this is less than ideal, but I don't know your size or measurements for anything. If you'd prefer not to sort this out yourself, just make a note of all your sizes (dress, shoe, bra, etc.) and I'll supply a small assortment for you to go out in. Just remember: don't have any orgasms if you're trying to change back into me.

You scratch your head. Okay, that got very weird. Why was he writing about your orgasms? Change back? With a groan you return to the first letter and make yourself read the boring bits you skimmed. William claims that the two of you share a body, that you will remain in charge for approximately 24 hours and then "turn back" into him in an event he refers to as a handoff. Turn back? Something about that does make sense, but it's fuzzy.

Ah, there, a couple sentences later.

This handoff will take place after 24 hours, but will be delayed another 12 hours each time you experience an orgasm. The watch will keep track for you. Please wear it.

You stare at the paper. This is the most confusing day of your life. You look down at your naked body and realize you don't even know what your sizes or measurements are to make a note, not that you'd just hand that information over to this William person even if you did. You're going to have to go out and buy your own things.

Thankfully, you note with delight, there's a fat stack of cash here for you. Maybe William isn't so bad after all.

Aside from the dress, smart watch, and cash, there is a deluxe gift box containing a variety of desirable soaps, lotions, and other high-end toiletries. Oh, and a scented candle!

You light that straightaway to start burning away the musty man-smell in your room. From the first whiff of the pleasing scent of lavender, you relax considerably. Even just that tiny gesture of ownership helps you feel more at home.

There's not much else to read in the letters, so you decide to poke around a bit. Some of the apartment is a total blank in your memory, like the closet which turns out to be exactly half-full, and everything in there is for a man much larger than you. Fuckin' William again. You notice one particularly heinous shirt, covered with silhouettes of busty women in various lewd positions. You grab it with a grimace. "That's going straight into the trash. I don't want that in my house. Tsk, tsk. Bad, Billy. Bad."