Glamming up The New World of SwapTech chapter 6 by swapticon

The bathroom looked like it belonged in a five-star resort: massive skylights flooding the space with golden evening light, tall green plants climbing out of porcelain pots, twin rainfall showers behind glass panels that steamed over just from the warmth in the air. Everything smelled faintly of coconut and eucalyptus.

Tom stepped inside first, awkward in his borrowed skin. The silky robe clung to his—Tiffany’s—hips, and he kept catching glimpses of long tan legs in the mirrored walls as he walked, which only made his brain stall harder.

Behind him, Jordan sauntered in like he’d lived here for weeks. “Okay,” he said, stretching his arms overhead. “If I had to be trapped in a reality show, this is not the worst possible outcome.”

“We’re not trapped,” Tom snapped. “We just haven’t figured out how to leave yet.”

“Semantics.” Jordan grinned and dropped his robe in one lazy motion. “Anyway, I need to shower before dinner. I feel sticky. In a… fascinating way.”

Tom tried not to look. He really did. But the sound of the robe hitting the tile—followed by Jordan’s pleased whistle at his own reflection—made it impossible not to glance.

Taylor’s body was ridiculous. Every curve looked sculpted, her breasts full and high, her waist narrow, hips flaring out in that impossible hourglass that real humans weren’t supposed to have. She (he?) was blonde, glossy, smooth all over. It looked like a swimsuit model had come to life.

“Jesus,” Tom muttered, turning away. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“You haven’t even looked at yourself yet,” Jordan said, stepping into the nearest shower and twisting the knob until the water crashed on. “You might be hotter than me.”

“I don’t want to be hot,” Tom groaned, clutching his robe shut like it was armor. “I want to be me again.”

But it was hot. And humid. And sticky. He could feel a trickle of sweat between his breasts—which was still a phrase his brain rejected every time it surfaced. Tom sighed and unbelted the robe.

The second it slipped off, he felt completely exposed. The air hit his skin like a touch, brushing over flat stomach, toned thighs, bare breasts tipped with sensitive, very real nipples. He stepped into the other shower before he could second-guess it, fumbled with the controls, and a wave of warm water spilled down over his head.

His first reaction was to curse. His second was to moan. Just a little.

The water wasn’t just warm—it felt amazing. Every nerve along his skin lit up like static. The way it ran between his legs made him tense involuntarily. Hair—long, fine, shampoo-commercial-blonde hair—plastered to his back and shoulders. He reached up instinctively, fingers gliding through the wet strands.

“This is…” he whispered, then stopped himself. No. He wasn’t going to go there.

Next stall over, Jordan was humming to himself. “You know,” he called, “I can’t stop looking down. Like, I know this is all temporary, but—damn. I’ve got curves I never even knew to fantasize about.”

“I’m trying very hard not to hear that,” Tom muttered, rubbing some anonymous luxury shampoo into his scalp.

“Oh come on. You seriously haven’t looked in the mirror?”

“Nope. Not until I have pants on. Maybe not even then.”

Jordan laughed. “Dude. Tiffany’s got those supermodel proportions. Like, tall and toned, with those long ballet legs and boobs that are somehow bouncy and perky?"

"So do you!" Tom said.

"And that is precisely why I am touching myself and staring constantly. You are wasted on misery right now.”

Tom braced both hands on the tiled wall and let the water run down his back. “This is so stupid. I’m trapped in someone else’s body. A girl’s body. And everything’s so… sensitive. I can't move without jiggling.”

Jordan’s voice dropped into a mock-serious tone. “Tom. Friend. Brother. You’ve been gifted front-row seats to the feminine experience—and backstage passes.”

Tom turned off the water, scowling. “You’re an idiot.”

“An idiot with first-class tits.”

Ten minutes later, they were in front of the twin vanities, steam curling around the mirrors. Jordan was already toweling off with zero modesty, admiring every angle of his borrowed reflection like a guy trying on a sports car he couldn’t afford.

Tom moved slower, dabbing water from Tiffany’s curves as if being too rough would snap the illusion. When he finally looked up—really looked—he saw a woman that could've graced the cover of any magazine. Long neck, perfect cheekbones, a chest he kept trying not to acknowledge but couldn’t stop feeling shift with every movement. It was deeply weird. And, on some level he didn’t want to admit, kind of fascinating.

Jordan caught him staring.

“See?” he said, stepping closer and flexing in front of the mirror. “Not so bad, right?”

Tom wrapped the towel tighter around himself. “I’m not making peace with this. I’m surviving it.”

“Suit yourself.” Jordan winked. “But I’m gonna make Taylor win tonight’s dinner shoot, even if I have to flirt with every other girl at the table.”

Tom groaned. “God help me if we end up in some weird fake-lesbian drama arc.”

Jordan struck a pose. “Oh, we’re not faking anything.”