The Weather Girl The New World of SwapTech chapter 5 by deleted_user

The TV flickered as Vic thumbed through channels, past infomercials for miracle knee braces and yet another rerun of Wheel of Fortune. The remote felt heavier now, almost expectant, after Hal’s brief, mind-blowing stint inside Victor Newman. None of them had spoken much since Marge yanked Hal back; the air in the common room was thick with unspoken want.

Vic stopped on Channel 11—local news, 5 o’clock hour, the one they always caught because it came on right after the early-bird specials were cleared away.

The anchor was droning about a water-main break downtown when the camera cut to the weather desk.

There she was: Kaitlyn Voss, mid-30s, Channel 11’s evening meteorologist. Blonde hair swept into a sleek low ponytail, green eyes bright under studio lights, smile practiced but warm. She wore the standard TV-news-lady outfit—a fitted navy sheath dress that hugged her hourglass figure without crossing into scandalous, hem just above the knee, modest V-neck showing the faintest hint of cleavage when she gestured toward the green screen. Tonight the map behind her swirled with incoming rain bands, but no one in the common room was looking at the forecast.

Hal let out a low whistle. “There’s my girl.”

Vic leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Every damn night at five. Like clockwork.”

Marge snorted, arms crossed over her chest. “You two are pathetic. She’s half your age, wearing more makeup than a drag queen, and you act like she invented sex. It’s the same dress every week—just different colors. You think she doesn’t know you’re staring?”

“She knows,” Hal said dreamily. “She always looks right at the camera like she’s talking to me personally.”

“That’s her job, Hal,” Marge said. “It’s called ‘connecting with the audience.’ You’re not special.”

Vic ignored her, eyes glued to the screen. Kaitlyn was pointing at a cold front sliding down from the mountains, her arm lifting just enough to pull the fabric tight across her breasts. The motion was innocent. The effect was not.

“Goddamn,” Vic muttered. “Look at that. Confidence. Legs for days. Bet she smells like vanilla and expensive shampoo.”

Marge rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. “You’re both one step away from writing her love letters on the back of a bingo card. She’s reading the weather, not stripping.”

Hal grinned, wicked. “Yet.”

On screen, Kaitlyn smiled wider, dimples flashing. “And that’s your seven-day outlook—rain moving in tomorrow afternoon, so grab your umbrellas, folks. Back to you, Mark.”

The camera lingered a beat too long as she turned to sit, the dress shifting over the curve of her hip. Then the shot cut away.

Silence in the common room. Only the low hum of the TV and someone’s oxygen concentrator wheezing in the hallway.

Hal broke it first. “We could… you know. Find out what it’s like.”

Vic’s head snapped toward him. “You mean—”

“The remote,” Hal said, nodding at the sleek black device still lying on the arm of Marge’s chair. “She’s right there. Fully grown. Consenting adult. On live television. No soap-opera drama, no billionaires—just a regular, gorgeous woman doing her job. Imagine slipping inside that skin for a minute. Feeling those heels. That dress. The way the lights hit her. The way the whole damn city is watching.”

Marge’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. “You want to possess the weathergirl? On the news? While she’s live?”

“Why not?” Vic said, voice rough. “Better than some scripted bedroom scene. This is real-time. She’s breathing, moving, talking right now. We could feel what it’s like to be… desired. Looked at. Young and beautiful and in control of a room without even trying.”

Marge stared at the remote like it might bite her. “You’re insane. All of you. What if she feels you in there? What if you make her say something stupid on air? Or—or trip? The whole station would notice.”

Hal shrugged. “Then we hit Return. Emergency button’s right there. We’ve done it once. Worked fine.”

Vic’s eyes hadn’t left the screen. The news had moved to sports, but he was still seeing Kaitlyn—imagining her body from the inside: the sway of hips when she walked to the green screen, the brush of silk lining against thighs, the faint ache in calves from standing in heels all afternoon, the secret thrill of knowing thousands of eyes (including two dirty old men in a retirement home) were watching every move.

Marge sighed, long and suffering. But she didn’t put the remote down.

“Fine,” she said at last. “But if we’re doing this, we do it smart. No jumping in mid-segment. Wait till she’s done, maybe during commercial. Or when she’s alone at the desk wrapping up. And only one of us. I’m not cleaning up after both of you idiots faint at the same time.”

Hal and Vic exchanged a look—two old rogues suddenly twenty-five again in spirit, if not in body.

The news cut to commercial: a jingle for a local car dealership.

Kaitlyn’s face appeared again in the little box-in-box preview, smiling, waiting for the break to end.

The remote sat between them like a loaded gun.