John Falter, talentless underachiever

As it turns out, most people shifted into bodies close to them. Family members, neighbors, coworkers, that sort of thing. Shifts across oceans or continents were less common; they just got a lot more attention.

Yours is one of these so-called "local" shifts. Easily sorted out by the government once everyone decided there was no way to change back. At least on paper. Adjusting to your new life is going to be another story entirely.

You were already at work when it happened. You're a temporary staffer at a software engineering firm downtown. You'd signed up for temp work just to get out of the house and get your parents off your back. Since then, you'd been dropped from one assignment after the other, with each supervisor reporting that your performance was unsatisfactory.

This assignment was the most humiliatingly mundane yet. You fetched coffee and snacks for the engineers. They were all highly paid professionals, and one of their office perks was that they'd have anything they wanted brought right to them as they worked. That's your job. Running in and out of the building all day on tiny errands to fetch whatever your superiors want.

Apparently you're cheaper than having each item delivered separately or stocking the large break room with a variety of snacks and drinks. It wouldn't be so bad except that the boss is a total bitch and seems to have it out for you, personally. Georgia Valentina. One of only a few woman in the whole office, she just loves throwing her authority around. One of those self-hating feminists, you guess, whose whole existence was validated only by outperforming men at "male" things. Her being able to pick on you was just icing on her cake, such as enforcing a special dress code for "all temp workers" even though you're the only one. She forces you to wear ridiculously tight pants and shirts that show off your fairly muscular body and other assets.

The shift could have whisked you somewhere else, given you a new start at life. But it didn't. Instead, you black out to the horrifying realization that as you fall, you dump her ice mocha out all over her designer blouse, probably ruining it forever.

Then you wake up and suddenly you're the one covered in ice mocha.

"What the fuck, John?" Your own body awakens next to you on the floor, hand to his head. "I swear, this time I'll really..." he trailed off, staring at you. "Wait... what the fuck?" He looks down at himself in shock.

You look down at your own body. Your boss's body. Her large breasts—now yours—which always displayed a carefully measured and admittedly distracting length of cleavage, are suddenly very visible from your angle and due to the soaked fabric of the blouse.

You swallow nervously as Georgia climbs to his feet, glaring at you. "The fuck did you do this time, idiot? And stop ogling my tits. I see you. Don't you dare get handsy. Get off the floor, you're making me look foolish enough already." He marches over to his desk to pick up the phone, hardly missing a beat as a result of the sudden body swap, leaving you bewildered and struggling to climb to your feet in Gorgia's high heel shoes.

Between those and the tight pencil skirt, you're incredibly awkward about it, needing to cling to the side of the desk to manage it at all.