The bathroom was still steamy from Zoe’s shower as Jon gripped the stone.
“I wish I was a busty bisexual intern whose real job is to just look pretty and increase office morale.”
There was a flash, the stone warmed and Jon blinked.
The mirror had moved up and yet it hadn’t because Jon’s reflection had been swapped. He was shorter and the face staring back wasn't Jon’s. It was heart-shaped, framed by a curtain of heavy, dark mahogany hair that spilled past the shoulders. The jawline was softer but more defined, the lips fuller and painted a faint, glossy pink.
Perched on the nose were oversized, thin wire-rimmed glasses, with a weak prescription; perhaps none at all. Jon took them off, the world getting only slightly blurrier. They were more style than anything then, an excuse to look smarter.
The weight hit first. A heavy, insistent pull on the chest. Two massive mounds of flesh sat there, swaying slightly with his breath. Jon pulled off his t-shirt slowly, almost overwhelmed by the sensation of the rough cotton brushing over his soft skin. He tested the weight of them in his palms one last time, the sensation alien and heavy. They were absurd. Magnificent.
Then the reality of the morning crashed in. The alarm on his phone rang from his room.
And then he realized he needed to cover up. The exposure was sudden and terrifying.
Jon scrambled into the hallway, his center of gravity completely recalibrated. He nearly clipped the doorframe with his hip. In the laundry basket by Zoe’s door he found salvation. A beige, cable-knit sweater that was too large for Zoe (his mom’s?), and a long, shapeless denim skirt.
He pulled them on. The sweater, meant to be oversized, caught and clung, bunching awkwardly around his waist but successfully shrouding the new topography of his chest. The skirt was a safety blanket, heavy and stiff. He jammed his feet into a pair of canvas flats that pinched his heels.
Shit, where was he going?
He grabbed the stone and said, “I wish I knew where I needed to go.”
The stone flashed, and his vague wish ended up being a boon. He ran into the kitchen where his laptop bag was waiting (he had a laptop bag now?), stuffed the stone inside and rushed out the door.
He only had to wait ten minutes for the bus and then it was bouncing along the pot-holed roads of the city, sending his breasts jiggling inside the sweater. The sensation had him biting his lips and realizing that he hadn’t put a bra on and was still wearing Jon’s underwear which was simultaneously too loose and much too tight.
A construction worker eyed him as he got on and he flushed red and turned away, shifting his thighs together, the soft skin rubbing in a way that didn’t help.
He arrived at the office five minutes late, breathless and sweating. The glass doors swooshed open, chilling his overheated skin. He knew the way to the reception desk instinctively, just as he knew his name here was "Julia."
"You're late," a voice clipped from behind the high marble desk.
It was the office manager, a woman whose nameplate read Sylvia. She was immaculate in a silk blouse and glasses that cost more than everything Jon owned. She looked up, her eyes scanning Jon—or Julia—from the messy hair down to the shapeless denim skirt and canvas flats. Jon shivered at the attention.
Sylvia’s lip curled. It wasn't anger; it was disappointment. "And you're dressed like... that."
“It was all I could find. I was in a rush.”
Sylvia shook her head. She beckoned with a manicured finger, “Come on, we have some spares on hand for client dinners and…”
Jon followed, his face burning hot. The embarrassment was there, certainly, but beneath it thrummed a confusing, electric current of arousal. The sway of his new hips, the brush of the oversized sweater against sensitive skin—it was overwhelming.
“Your tits,” Sylvia said and Jon blinked. “Sorry, I mean, you are quite endowed up top it might be a bit difficult.”
Sylvia marched him into the supply closet, which was suspiciously large and smelled of expensive perfume and toner. She began pulling items from a garment rack hidden behind boxes of copy paper.
The supply closet was, frankly, larger than Jon’s entire bedroom back home. Behind a wall of stacked Xerox paper boxes stood a rolling garment rack filled with clothes that looked nothing like "spares" and everything like a curated collection of high-end office wear. There was a full-length mirror leaning against the shelving unit, reflecting Jon’s frumpy, beige-clad form under the harsh fluorescent light.
Sylvia moved with practiced efficiency, flipping through hangers. "We have an image to maintain at Archway," she murmured, pulling out a sleek black pencil skirt and a cream-colored silk blouse.
Sylvia’s eyes narrowed behind her expensive frames. She stepped closer, her gaze clinical but intense. "Good lord, Julia. No bra?" She sighed, a sound of weary patience. "I don't have any of those back here in your... size. You’ll just have to manage. Though I suppose it fits the mandate."
She handed him the blouse. "Put this on. And lose the skirt and those awful flats."
Jon fumbled with the silk. It was cool and slippery against his skin. As he buttoned it, he realized the fit was aggressive. The fabric pulled tight across his back and shoulders, but the front was the real issue. The buttons strained dangerously over his chest, leaving small gaps where the silk was pulled to its limit. Every breath he took threatened to pop a fastener. Even then, it was fitted and therefore clung tight to his now smooth stomach, further accentuating the contrast between his waist and chest.
"It’s... tight," Jon breathed, his face flushing.
"It’s tailored," Sylvia corrected. She handed him the pencil skirt.
Jon shimmied out of the denim and stepped into the black skirt. It was snug, hugging his hips and tapering down to his knees, forcing his legs together. As he zipped it up, he felt the fabric cup his rear, leaving nothing to the imagination. The sensation of being encased in silk and tight polyester was dizzying. A spike of heat shot through him, a heavy, throbbing arousal that felt entirely different in this body, focused and intense.
"Sit," Sylvia pointed to a step stool.
Jon sat, his knees pressed together by the skirt. Sylvia produced a pair of black, two-inch heels from a box on the floor. "Standard issue," she said.
Jon slipped his feet in. They were snug, arching his feet and forcing his calves to flex. When he stood up, he wobbled slightly, his center of gravity shifting again. The heels pushed his hips out, emphasizing the curve of his backside and thrusting his chest forward even more.
"Turn around," Sylvia ordered.
Jon turned to the mirror. The transformation was jarring. The frumpy, messy girl from the bus was gone. In her place stood a woman who looked like she had walked out of a high-stakes corporate drama that marketed itself on its sex appeal. The glasses, which had looked oversized and dorky before, now looked chic and intellectual against the sharp lines of the blouse.
"The hair," Sylvia tsked. She stepped behind him, her hands cool against his neck.
With a few deft movements, she gathered the heavy mahogany curtain of hair. She twisted it up, securing it with a clip she pulled from her own pocket, but she left a few tendrils loose to frame his face and nape. The style exposed the long, elegant line of his neck.
Sylvia spun him around to face her. She reached out, adjusting the collar of the blouse, her knuckles grazing the top of his chest. Jon’s breath hitched, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Much better," Sylvia said, her voice dropping to a lower register. She looked him up and down, a gleam of satisfaction and something else in her eyes that Jon couldn't quite decipher, and made him shiver. "Now you look like you're ready to boost productivity. Go to the front desk. You’re manning the phones until lunch."
She opened the door, and the sounds of the office filtered in. Jon took a step, the heels clicking sharply on the linoleum, the skirt restricting his stride, making him stumble towards the front desk. He felt exposed, objectified, and ridiculous—and God, he had never been so turned on in his life.
