Patreon Request: The Investment (Body Swap, Sci Fi, Preg)

(PATRON FIC)Also since there’s a Patreon fic queue here’s that prompt you wanted me to remind you about. A man volunteers for a new program where participants swap bodies with pregnant women and carry the babies to term for them. As his wife helps him through the pregnancy she finds herself strangely attracted to his new body.
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What would you do for money?

No. Seriously think on it. Don’t just come at me with “anything”, fucking everyone says that.

What would you do for money?
Would you bleed?

People, when they hear that question, they start laughing. They start pricing their dignity off. They would sell their ass for this much. Their mouth for this. A kidney can fetch you anywhere from ten to thirty grand if you’re in good health. A lung, a little more. A heart can fetch you millions of dollars. The thing with all this is though, it’s not us we’re selling or buying. It’s convenience. We’re selling the convenience of a painless existence. We’re buying the ignorance of having to face certain death.

Truth is, if someone wants that convenience bad enough, they’ll pay anything. Money, blood. Their time-all of it, if they got to.
I tell myself sometimes I took this job for money.
But sitting here, my finger tracing the stretch marks, I’m not sure anymore.

So I want to ask you again.
What would you do for money?

Anything?
Do you really mean that?
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My name isn’t important. It’s dead, even though I still get called that. By my doctor, by my wife when she’s angry. The name doesn’t matter, and nothing else up to this point really does either. You want some fucking background? Some exposition?

Hi. I needed money. I was willing to bleed for it. When you’re in that deep, job hunting is like stepping to the deli. Only you’re the one getting weighed.
There you go. Like I said, the rest is irrelevant now. I’m here to tell you about the doctor.

Charles Marcroft the Third. Or Doctor Marcroft. He’d be sure to tell you that title with a firm grip. His hands were soft, but had the strength of a day laborer. He took my hand just like that, right into his own. His eyes met mine and flicked from earlobe to chin. From neck to chest to waist. Then back up, right at my own. He sat down behind his desk-this solid black, minimalist affair-and typed at his computer. His fingers moved so fast Hermes would have broke a sweat. Then they came to a pause, and he turned to me. With his hands latticed together and the city skyline behind him, he looked more at home as a CEO.

Which, in a way, he was. Head doctor, head butcher. I’d been referred to him all the same, and he didn’t mince words as he spoke.

“Harold,” he said, “What are you willing to part with? Your bloodwork came back clean. IQ test was over a hundred, which is good. No heart disease, no lung damage. Have you ever had a drop of alcohol? Even once?”

“Not that I can remember,” I said.

Doc Marcroft smiled, and nodded. “I know. I just wanted to see you say it. So many in your position turn to drugs, tobacco, drink. It’s to ease stressors-but they fail to see the damage they’re doing to their investment. And that’s what your body is-an investment,”

Marcroft spread his palms towards me, and smiled. “I’m happy to say your portfolio is rich. The only question left is what to liquidate. So. Harold. How much do you need?”
I swallowed hard, my tongue sandpaper against the roof of my mouth. I’d thought about it-mine and my wife’s debt. I thought about it for months, all through the car ride here. But asked point blank like that, I choked. It wasn’t as much as most-but it was enough. It had only swelled over the last few months with interest.

My mouth turned to a thin line, and I took a deep breath. “As much as I can-but I don’t want to terminate,”
Marcroft winced, but gave a nod. He turned back to his computer, without so much as a hair moving from his head. His fingers raced the keys, tens of clacks per second. Another brief pause, and the doc brought his hand to his chin. He leaned back in his office chair, the springs squealing as he stared at the screen. His eyes cut to me, then back.

“Tell me Harold-do you have any children?” he said.
My heart sank at the words. I squirmed in my seat, and shook my head. “No sir, no I don’t,” I said.
Marcroft nodded, his eyes still on the screen before him.
“Any opinions on parenthood?”

“It would be nice,” I said. I swallowed another lump, and then added “I guess,”
Marcroft nodded, and hit a few more keys. He twisted the screen towards me, and tapped at the glass.

“Tell me-what do you think of this? It’s exploratory psy-med, but the buyer is willing to pay. As much as you’re worth, at that,”

I glanced over the words, this plea formed into a medical necessity. It wasn’t-not really.
But that wasn’t the market I was in.
I read over it in full, then looked at Marcroft. I gave a nod, and the doctor turned his computer back around. He struck the keys again, and a moment later reached into a desk. Something whirred in the room, and I saw him reach into another drawer.
When he pulled out a sheet of paper-real, actual paper-I felt my eyes widen. Marcroft looked at me, and smiled. He opened another drawer, and brought out an inkpen. Nothing fancy-just one of the countless disposables people had found. They weren’t uncommon, but it was still eerie seeing it. Marcroft pushed the paper and pen towards me, and laced his fingers back together.

“I know, I know. But it’s the only foolproof method. A witness-me-watching you sign. So old fashioned, isn’t it?” said the doctor.

It took me a full minute to remember how to write my name.
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Liza, she had some choice words about it. But when the hospital paid out-in cash, with an escort, right do our door? She suddenly decided she could deal. She’s a good lady, my wife. But she always thinks she knows best. To tell you the truth, she does. Most of the time. But overdue statements don’t disappear just because you don’t look at them.

She sat on our couch across from me. Our shabby coffee table-a piece of plastic over two cardboard boxes-had the pay on top. Spread out in neat little stacks. Actual, paper money. The buyer still used it, which meant they wanted it kept quiet. Fine. We could do quiet.
Except when it was the two of us. Like now.

Liza, she means well. But she’s already got her tea in her hands. She’s pursed her lips and blown on it. Her eyes haven’t left the stack of money, save to look at me. Whoever I am now, with my full belly. With my swollen feet, and ass far too large for this plastic chair. I watch as my wife’s mouth turns into a thin line.
When she speaks, it’s almost at a whisper.

“So when are you getting your body back?”
“I guess after,” I say.
Liza nods, then takes a deep breath. “And you should get it back? You talked to the doctor about if something goes wrong?”
I nod, wincing as the child in my belly kicks. I place my palm on my stomach, and shift in the chair. She-the buyer, I mean-she didn’t want to give birth. She wanted her child, just not the blood. The smell of shit and urine and screaming.

She had wanted to skip all that.
So she’s experiencing having a dick for the first time instead.

Liza lifts her cup, and sips noiselessly at her tea. She swallows loud, then looks back at me. “Well, alright then. This is-“
“Enough to pay everything in full, and put some back for retirement. That’s why I signed, Liza. This could-” I stop, clenching my jaw at another kick in my gut. It only adds to the headache-the one I’d had since I woke up in the hospital.

It hadn’t gone away. I wondered if it would.

Liza watches me, her teacup still in her hand as I shift. She takes another sip, then puts her cup down on the table. She begins to gather the stacks, one after another. When her arms are full, she walks back to our bedroom. I hear the closet door open, the smack of money tossed on the ground. Then she comes back, and gets more. All the while I’m sweating, gasping. I’m trying to breathe, trying to deal with the tempest in my gut. When she finishes, Liza comes back into the living room. She sticks out her arm, and I look up at her.

“C’mon,” she says, “Let’s get you comfy, alright?”

I take her arm, and step by step we make our way back into the bedroom. I clutch at the walls, and try to stay steady.
Liza lowers me to the mattress. She tugs away at my shoes, and tosses them to the side. I turn my head, and glance towards the closet.
The bills stack so high they brush the hem of our clothes.

My wife, she reaches up under my skirt. She tugs at the panties there, and pulls them over my swollen thighs. Over my feet. off, and to the side with my shoes. She gets a pillow, and places it under my head. Her face fills my sightline, and she says “You need to rest,”
“Yeah, I think I can manage that,”
“Need anything?” she asks.
“Not-not right now,” I stutter back.

Liza nods, and turns. She hits the switch to our bedroom, and the light goes out. I blink twice.
Then I fade away.
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She’s laughing. Liza, she’s laughing as her hands roll over my swollen breasts. I squirm and shiver against her touch, hot water smattering against us.
Water. We actually had water in the house again. So we decided to celebrate with a shower. We were going to take separate ones-until we realized I couldn’t bend. So we both squeezed in, Liza right behind me. Her hands washing every soft curve as she giggled.

“These things are huge. Christ,” she said as she cupped my breasts again. I’d given a gasp the first time-and she hadn’t let up since. Her touch drifted, the soap slick over my stomach. My hips. My thighs, my ass. I stood there with my palms against the shower as she washed me, and tried not to shake. Marcroft said it would be a different world.
I’d totally, absolutely underestimated him.

I thanked whatever passed for a god Liza couldn’t tell I was dripping. That had been a whole weird new experience.
I wondered if the buyer had got hard yet.

Liza leans forward. Her hands wrap around my stomach. Her fingers caress it as she kisses the back of my neck, and laughs again.
“You know-we could still have some fun. I mean, you totally know they are, right? Like why WOULDN’T they?” she says. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I try to form words. Really, I do. But then Liza nips at my earlobe as her hand slips between my legs. Her finger rolls against the clit-mine-as her lips press against my neck. Her free hand cups my breast, squeezing and tugging at my nipple.
I don’t have to tell her I’m dripping. She figures it out on her own.
Tastes it, even.

Not for the last time, either.


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Marcroft sits behind his desk, his eyebrow arced. I bust out laughing, and look over at me. The old me, with a smirk across its face. It’s in a suit, it’s hand in another man’s.
I gotta say, I look pretty good. More importantly though-I look happy. I turn to Liza, and kiss her cheek.

“So-you’re absolutely sure you want to change the terms? I mean, I’ve no issue with it, so long as we understand the parental rights are-“
“Yes,” I say. Old me, it nods. I watch as it squeezes the man’s hand.
“Yes, we get it, and we consent,” says Liza from beside me.

Marcroft throws up his hands. He lets out a loose chuckle, and turns back to his computer. As he clacks hundreds of times in a single minute, he says “You know, I’m okay with this as well. With it being an exploratory procedure, anything could have happened in reverse. And with both of your portfolios being in relatively similar conditions-“

There’s a whir in the room. Marcroft opens his desk, and pulls out a sheet of paper. Real, actual paper. He opens another drawer-and pulls out a fountain pen. Not a disposable. He lays both on the table and pushes them towards us. Me, the buyer, our spouses.
“I don’t see any reason, I suppose, why both our investors can’t be happy,”

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