Crossing Lives

All characters and plots are fictional, any resemblance to real lives or people is purely coincidental.

Not to be replicated or copied elsewhere.

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Life Swap, a new social experimental TV show where couples could apply, for one weekend, to swap wives with complete strangers. And we've applied. You can see what they're looking for by the answers to the only questions on the application form:

Chris Watson

Police Officer

6ft 4

41 years old

7"

Amber Watson

Model

5ft 10

34 years old

30A

Obviously there are interviews and assessments we subsequently go through until, before I know it, it's the day of our pairing.

I still can't quite believe we're actually doing this, the day is here that my wife of 10 years and I, will kiss one and other goodbye, and potentially walk into the arms of another.

My shirt buttons seem to be challenging today, as I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. Nervous, anxious and excited, I fumble the last one closed and secure my shirt then make sure my jet black hair is in place, short and parted to the right side.

I come out of the bathroom and see my wife, her blond hair flowing over her shoulders into the V of her knee-length, red sundress. I can tell she too is nervous, as she drops her earring on the floor under the mirror with an, "Oh shit!"

We drive to the hotel the production company has booked and upon arrival, we're shown to a side room that has a door leading to another room that we can hear chairs being moved around.

Eventually we get called in and the producers and 'Wellness Experts' talk us through all the rules and regulations. The wives will literally fall into all aspects of the lives is their opposite number.

We're called into the room and I stand, taking my wife in my arms and kiss her. "Good luck, I love you," I say.

"Last night should tide us over for a day or two," my wife breathes.

"You never know, we might get the Nymphomaniac and sex addict and be at it all weekend," I quip, bringing a,"Yeah right, from Amber.

We slowly open the heavy door and see with their backs to us on an L-shaped sofa, a woman with brown, shoulder length hair over a black cardigan, and wearing glasses. She's sitting beside a bald man with a black, goatee beard. From dress alone, Id I'd say they are in their 40s.

As we close the short gap and take our seats, I take a look at our couple, who the producers introduce as Caleb and Emma. Caleb is about 5ft 8, think David Brent from UK's The Office, with balding hair. Oh lucky Amber.

Emma is like the vicar's wife or even a librarian, both in dress, mannerism and looks. I would hazard a guess she's younger than the 40+ guesstimate she would present.

Where Caleb has at least tried to lift his image with a bright neck tie, Emma has gone for black cardigan over a brown dress that hides, but subtly suggests that just maybe, Emma may have boobs to at least look at in my struggles. How did they pair us with these ones.

We have a coffee together while the producers go over rules and regulations. We sign a binding agreement that all parties consent to the possibility of extramarital fornication, but the practice of actually sleeping in the same bed, is forbidden.

We make small talk, Caleb is a psychiatrist, and Emma is a nurse in A&E, I can kind of see why we've been paired, what with me being in the police. But Caleb and Amber may struggle for common ground.

Closing their folders, the producers say it's time to go and we all stand. Both couples kiss and hug their spouse goodbye, before embracing / shaking hands between couples.

I do the gentlemanly thing and wheel Emma's suitcase to warm thanks, looking round to see Caleb about 10 places ahead of my wife, wheeling her own and trying to keep up in her red high heels.

I drive a bright blue BMW M3, and as I loaded Emma's case into the back seat, I could see by the looks she gave it that this wasn't the normal boxed sedan she was used to. As I started the engine, things got loud. I can see her shifting in her seat and securing her seatbelt over her chest, her clothing so rigid that it doesn't indent under the strain of the belt. She must be wearing a bloody corset or something. She's not saying much, so to break the ice by asking her where she's from.

She tells me she's from Reading in Berkshire, and the daughter of a vicar, immediately setting off a lightbulb in my head, explaining why the conservative dress code. I fear her husband may get his world rocked this weekend with my wife being quite the modern woman.

Emma goes on to tell me she is 33, she has been with Caleb for 18 years, married for almost 13, have no kids yet, and she and her husband were each others childhood sweethearts. Again, not like Amber and I who have been quite experimental and adventurous, before tying the knot.

A car pulls out in front of me and I blast the horn and swear profusely at the asshole in the other car, as my passenger grips the door handle, and I see her pressing her feet into the floor as she attempts to brake. At least I know one thing about her now, she drives. "Some idiots about," I say, allowing it to hang in the air as my new friend smiles politely, before returning her gaze out of the side window.

Shortly, we arrive back at my marital home, and I wheel Emma's suitcase in for her and, again, she quietly says, "Thanks." I offer to show her to her room and she smiles, before following me upstairs and I set her suitcase just beside the bed and ask her if she would like a cup of tea / coffee, she asked me for tea, then asks, "Wouldn't you prefer if I made that?"

"It's ok, you're the guest here so I'll get it," I assure her. "Doesn't Caleb make tea?"

"Oh no," she replies, almost in shock, "He would say that's the Wife's job,". I think to myself just how different his weekend will be, or if even he'll survive saying something like that to Amber! Suddenly I realise that mine and Emma's occupations may not be why we were paired after all.

Emma gets settled in and returns to the living room, and having taken off the cardigan, I get my first real look at her. She's about 5ft 5, her bare arms now exposed, I notice she's pale white with no hint of a tan whatsoever underneath the un-flattering, brown dress that covers absolutely everything from view.

Emma takes her tea and follows me back to the living room, and we sit in front of the TV. The Chase is on, and we sit watching it. She seems to enjoy the show, answering some questions she knows the answer to and we laugh together at the presenter's antics. I then ask what she would like to do for dinner, offering to take her out to the local Indian restaurant which seems to interest her. So I make a reservation, and having told the local restaurateur of the TV show, they agree to save us a quiet, secluded table.

Emma asks if she can run a bath, and goes off to do that, while I go and have a quick shower in the master bedroom's en-suite. I finish within about 15 minutes and as I'm getting dressed, I hear the bathroom door opening which would suggest Emma must be done too.

As I'm passing the main bathroom on my way downstairs I remember that my favourite aftershave is in there and open the door to get out. There, in the bath sits Emma, naked, top half covered only by bubbles, as she lies in the bath.

"Oh, sorry!" I splutter, "I thought you were finished. Didn't you lock the door?"

"Oh no, don't worry. You're my husband for the weekend, it would be very disrespectful to deny you access to your bathroom, to all that's yours," she states, quite matter of factly.

"I'll just get my aftershave and I'll leave you on peace," I say, trying hard to not try and look between the bubbles.

"OK, husband," she chirps in her cheery little voice. She is quite cute, but very bland.

As I walk back downstairs, I run her words over in my mind, "Disrespectful to deny me to what all that's mine," she said. She must mean the bathroom.

I had told her it wasn't a very swanky restaurant, jeans and a shirt would be my dress code, so when the door opened and she came in dressed in a black, polo neck jumper and blue jeans, she was more than adequate. I couldn't help but notice she did have quite a shapely bottom. Though her chest still was quite a mystery, what with the material of the jumper and, what I perceived to be, a high degree of restraint, keeping any hint of curve down. "You look lovely," I say. Taking care not to be over familiar.

"Thank you, husband. I like to look nice. Especially, for you," she timidly responds.

Not knowing what to respond to that, I offer her my arm and we walk down towards the restaurant. As we get to the doors, being summer it's quite busy. I can immediately feel her pulling me closer as we stand, waiting on our seat.

As we're shown to our table, I allow her, being the lady, to go first. It also gives me a chance to check that butt out. And I'm not disappointed as I see her ass, straining at the denim to get out.

"What would you like to drink this evening, Wine? Sharon, our waitress asks.

"Have anything you like," I tell Emma, adding,"the show is paying for this, remember."

This brings a smile to her pretty face, hiding in behind her round, black glasses and she says, "I quite like white wine."

"Screw it, bring us a bottle of your finest white," trusting Sharon to know what to bring.

"So what do you normally have if you're having an Indian meal," I ask. And her answer is astonishing.

"I've never had one before," she says, almost making my jaw hit the floor.

"But You're 33!" I almost shriek. How can you not have had an Indian, Emma?"

"Caleb can't have anything too spicy. He doesn't like foreign food at all," she replies, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "What would you recommend?"

"Hmmmm, I'd go mild. Maybe a korma? You're not allergic to anything?" I enquire.

"Oh no. I'm good, I'll try a chicken tikka Korma.

"Perfect. I'm having a vindaloo I think."

"Oh I've heard about those. Won't it burn?

"Nah, you get used to it. He usually makes it a bit hotter when he knows it's me," I laugh.

Sharon comes back and takes our order, leaving the bottle of wine in an ice-bucket I offered to pour, filling her glass about 1/3 up the quite large wine glasses each. "Oh you'll be carrying me home," she giggles in a cute, child like laugh, "We normally wouldn't have that much over a night," making me think she really does need a night out with my wife.

We get talking as we wait, she's quite interesting and is keenly passionate about the NHS, having no time for those who may be ruining it. We exchange stories about work and I immediately identify she's one of those rare people, who's every word you believe. She'd be a nice kid sister, sort of figure with her warm smile and big, blue, doe eyes, hiding in behind the glasses.

Food arrives, and she thankfully loves her Korma. I can sense her watching me intently, as I take my first fork full. "I'm expecting steam to come out," she says in wonderment.

"Want to try it?" I offer. It's really not that hot tonight.

"Oh, erm, I don't know if I should. Caleb says hot food can overload your senses and makes you go funny,"

"Go on, try it," I urge, and offer her some on my fork as she nervously leans forward and takes a small bite.

"Oh my lord! How do you eat that?" she splutters, taking a large drink of water before I tell tell her that'll make it worse. "My mouth is on fire," she shrieks, holding her chest.

"You'll be fine," I tell her, "Relax tonight, try whatever you like. Caleb isn't here and there are no cameras. Just two people, having dinner," I say, clinking glasses.

"OK," she breathes into her wine glass, not making eye contact and, before long, she needs a refill.

"You'll be thinking I'm trying to get you drunk," I tease as I pour.

She grips my arm, just below the where I grip the wine bottle and, looking straight at me she says, "My husband has never had to get his wife drunk yet," before taking another bite of her food.

Now I don't know what to think. Should I be turned on, confused, am I already cheating on my wife? But what if she's fucking Caleb, or fucking killing him!

I look at my Rolex and see that it's 10 o'clock, just as we finish our food and our wine bottle is drained of its contents. I ask if she's a dessert girl and she shakes her head, saying how full she is. So we ask for the bill and I pay by card, keeping my receipt to claim off the production team.

I can't help but notice Emma is a bit tipsy and I offer her my arm again to steady her walk back to my place. "You're a good husband," she purrs, as I put my arm around her and hold her close, taking most of her weight on my arm.

We make it home, and she says she would love a cup of tea and I offer to make it while she goes to the bathroom. As she's been in there a good 15 minutes, and I've already drank my tea, I'm just having a glass of wine when I hear a little voice call, "Husband.....Chris," as I head towards the voice in the bathroom direction.

I knock the door and ask if she's ok. She tells me it's ok to come in and I open the door to find her stuck, half out of her jumper, caught on the bathroom mirror. "You poor thing, how long have you been stuck?" I ask.

"About ten minutes, your bathrooms has taken against me," she sighs in embarrassment as I move closer to take a look at the tangle. I can also see down her back, and notice that she's wearing a corset type of thing, hence, displaying little to no body shape. I sigh in relief as it means there's very little I can see, and within minutes I have her released from her bathroom mirror imprisonment.

"Thank you, husband," She says,"I'm so embarrassed, you must think ill of me."

"Leave it out. I once rescued my Amber from a wheelie bin!" I laugh, remembering the sight of it.

"Your wife sounds like fun, you're bound to be bored already of Mrs 2 glasses of wine," she said, part laughing but with a definite undercurrent of regret.

"Not at all," I crow."You're just nervous. And I know I am too!"

"You're nervous?" She croaks. "Why would you be nervous?"

"Oh behave. A strange woman in my house, tied up in my bathroom? You'll think I'm trying to restrain you. What will the neighbours think," I say, smiling.

"You're my husband for the weekend. You don't need to worry," she assures me, resting her hand on my forearm, probably to steady herself.

I leave her to change, having established she's ok and I return to my wine. About 5 minutes later she appears in a bathrobe I had hung on the door for her. " Husband, can you help me?"

"Anything for my wife," I reply, getting in on the "You're my husband," thing. I look over to see a big smile from her face.

"I'm wearing a corset," she says, "and the buttons are confusing when I'm tipsy. I'm so embarrassed, can you help?"

"Of....of course," I hesitantly reply as she loosens the robe, allowing it to fall to her waist. As I'm standing behind her I can see very little. It's all covered by the corset anyway, for now.

Looking for buttons down her back, I draw a blank. She pulls the robe up over her shoulders again, saying, "Silly me, it buttons down the front. Can you help?"

I freeze. Can I help? Should I help? I enquire, "Can't you sleep in it?"

"It's so tight, husband. I'll not rest properly. And I want to be bright eyed for our day tomorrow," she moans, sleepily.

I come in front of her and look down her front. Not as flat as my wife's, but flat enough, with little to no definition between breasts and stomach. I take the bottom button in my hands and gently wrestle with it. I'm immediately thinking it would be easier from the top to bottom but this way, less will be visible, for now.

I'm fumbling with these dammed buttons, about half way up and I can see her tummy come to light. It's pale, and not as flat as Amber's with a little bit poking out past the now drawn back corset. I continue and notice with the next button that the bottom of her smashed-down breasts are visible, meaning they're very saggy, or huge.

"Do you want to hold it closed, you know, as I open them higher?" I offer as a suggestion and she moves her hands into mine.

"My husband need not be shy about seeing his wife's skin," she said in a soft, nervous manor.

To add to my challenge, I'm now shaking, confused and rock hard this point, I challenge anyone to see a semi-naked, younger woman this close and not have a boner. I struggle with the last few buttons, taking care not to make contact with the inner swell of her breasts, that now, quite obviously, are humongous. She stands motionless as I free the last two buttons, and the corset hangs off her shoulders. I can now see her cleavage reaches right from her neck to down near her belly button. I'm no expert, Amber has tiny tits, but these have got to be at least a DD cup.

"All done," I croak, and my partner in this strange episode smiles, kisses me on the cheek, says thanks and skips off, holding her corset together as she goes. Slightly stunned, I return to my wine glass, and perch in front of the TV. I don't know if Emma is going to bed or coming back out.

Graham Norton is on BBC so I get caught up with that, when the door opens and in she comes, wearing a bathrobe and sits down at the other end of the 3-seat sofa. "There's a bottle of wine opened over there, shall I get you some? I offer.

"Oh no, I've had my fair share for tonight. Don't you think, husband? she replies, still with a hint of embarrassment at her earlier fiasco.

I rise, and bring her a glass of wine, saying, "You know you can have whatever you like, Wife?" before finally asking, "And what's with the 'Husband' thing, you know you can call me Chris?"

Shifting awkwardly, she takes the wine in her right hand, rests it on her leg, and with her left hand, nervously fingers the stem of the glass. She seems to be struggling to answer, before eventually a different, less cold like voice says, "I did this on my wedding day, giving my husband his place as he welcome me into his family name as his wife, accepting his word as final. I will treat you with the same respect."

Quite taken by surprise, I ask, "Do you still call him husband?" I then put my wine glass to my lips when her reply comes.

"Only until that night, when he mounted me," causing me to spit half my mouth's contents onto the floor. She immediately sprang up to clean it and, as she bent down, I unmistakably saw black lace under her robe.

I nervously had to ask, "And will you call me Husband all weekend," as she mops the rest of the wine up off the floor. Before returning from the bin.

She comes to the sofa again, and as she passes me, stops in front of me and looking down states, "Only until you mount me," and sits down and takes a sip of wine. She then asks what am I watching and I feel her it's Graham Norton's chat show.

"Oh, Caleb doesn't approve of him, says his lifestyle is wrong," she shyly says, before adding, "Caleb can be quite conservative in his views."

With it being a warm night, I couldn't help but notice my guest was airing the top of her robe quite a bit, though away from me so I could see nothing. "Too warm?" I ask.

"Yes, it's very warm."

"Make yourself comfortable," I offer.

"Oh but, I only have bed-wear on. I wouldn't want to embarrass my husband," she says, looking up from my chest to my face.

"You do whatever makes you comfortable," I assure her, thinking no more about it as we watch TV.

"Can you hold this, please?" she says, and hands me her wine glass before opening the belt of her robe, and standing facing me, and shimmies out of it as I look at her, stunned.

She wears a black lace, baby doll nightie that contrasts her pale white skin to the extreme. I notice her chest, now heaving up and down with her nervous breath. Her breasts are what can only be described as the biggest I have seen on any woman. On her slim frame it's a mountain range, sweeping down to her slightly protruding tummy and womanly hips.