Jon was busy, spending his evening as he often did, browsing interactive fiction sites like writing.com, looking for a story to get him off. He'd started about a year earlier, always finding new fiction to excite him, new fetishes and sexual adventures to titillate him.
The 'Outfit Swap' story he'd been following was great. It featured a protagonist, John, who was given a power to swap clothes with anyone. Nobody except John could tell that the clothes were swapped, a side effect of the power. Often the swaps would happen accidentally.
Jon couldn't get enough.
He'd never been a crossdresser, but for some reason the idea of being forced into someone else's clothes, but still being treated normally, exciting! Jon wasn't the bravest person, he'd never act out this fantasy, nor would he even contribute to the story he was reading, so the idea that everybody would think that the character's clothes would be seen as their normal clothes, that nobody would think twice about John wearing, say, a miniskirt, or a bikini, made it even better.
The worse thing about the 'Outfit Swap' site, though, was the server. Every once and a while, during his pre-masturbatory browsing, Jon would get a page pop-up that said:
Due to heavy server volume, Interactive Stories are temporarily unavailable to guest visitors.
Please try again later.
Obviously this pissed him off. Luckily, though, Jon now had a new way of combating this server annoyance. Smiling ear-to-ear, he grabbed his magical wishing rock, confident that he had the solution.
"I wish," he said exuberantly, "that I didn't have to wait for these server issues anymore!"
The stone flashed, temporarily blinding him. When Jon's eyes cleared, he looked at his monitor, and was disappointed to see what it said.
Due to heavy server volume, Interactive Stories are temporarily unavailable to guest visitors.
Please try again later.
He refreshed the page. The same error occurred.
"What the hell?" Jon said petulantly.
"What the hell what?" Jon's mom popped her head in the room. She was wiping her flour covered hands on an apricot apron that she had on, covering her red blouse and beige capris, which kept her clean while she did her weekly baking.
"I, uh, had an error on my computer," Jon said, quickly closing his browser window so his mother didn't see it, "It's nothing. Sorry for saying 'hell'."
Jon's mom laughed, "I think you're old enough to handle 'hell', Jon. You should clean up, though. Supper's going to be in ten minutes."
She turned and left the room. As she turned, though, something happened. It was like a bad editing job in a movie, where the characters jump slightly from one frame to another. Before the cut, Jon's mom was turning, barefoot, reaching back to untie her apron. After the cut, her hands were at her side, her feet encased in sports socks, her legs in cut-off jean shorts, and her top was a ratty old Iron Maiden t-shirt.
Jon jumped out of his chair, then immediately stumbled, his clothes considerably tighter than he was used to. It was understandable. Until that moment, he'd never before worn a pair of beige, form-fitting capris, with a red blouse, and an apricot apron, slightly floured.
