The phone console was a sleek, black enigma that blinked aggressively in red and green. Jon stared at it, his fingers hovering over buttons labeled with names he didn't know and extensions he couldn't recall. A call came in—Line 3—and he pressed 'Transfer' with false confidence.
The line went dead.
"Fuck," he whispered, biting his plump lower lip, the sensation making him subconsciously shiver and shift his legs.
He wasn’t usually this inept but alas, he wasn’t here to get actual work done; The reception area was an open-plan theater, and he was on center stage. An air vent positioned directly above the marble desk blasted a steady stream of arctic air down the front of his silk blouse. His nipples, unprotected and sensitive, hardened instantly, pebble-sized knots pressing visibly against the cream fabric. He tried covering them with his slim arms but, even though he brought it on himself, he didn’t want to be gasping from the sensation as someone showed their badge.
A man in a charcoal suit leaned over the desk. "Rough morning, miss?"
Jon blinked up at him. "I think I hung up on a client."
The man chuckled, a low, appreciative sound that vibrated in Jon's chest. "Don't worry about it. Probably wasn't important. You brighten up the place enough that nobody cares about a dropped call." He lingered, his gaze dropping to Jon's chest, then tracking the line of his neck. "Maybe I can walk you through the system later? Over lunch?"
"I... I don't think I have a lunch break," Jon stammered, lying, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.
"We can make one." The man winked and walked away.
Was this what it was going to be like to be charmingly incompetent? It was embarrassing. Before the wish, Jon certainly hadn’t been stupid and he still wasn’t but he couldn’t help but fumble with the telephone as another call came in. He breathed a sigh of relief as he transferred it to someone important’s secretary.
It was getting cold and he instinctively crossed his arms, but the movement just pushed his already perky breasts up, the only one to see was a skinny balding man who had just walked into the reception area.
"Hi... uh, I'm Dave? From I.T.?"
Jon jumped, the sudden movement nearly fatal. His ankles wobbled violently inside the patent leather prisons of his shoes, sending a sharp jolt of pain up his shins. He grabbed the cool marble of the desk to keep from face-planting.
That was another thing about reception. There was no chair and ample space behind with glass windows to the rest of the office and surprisingly little clutter or cubicles on the other side of the glass. Jon was sure it was to give the rest of the office a good look at his ass. The thought made him shiver.
Standing there was a guy in a slightly-too-tight polo shirt, clutching a tablet like a shield. His eyes weren't on Jon's face. They were glued to the gap where Jon's knees pressed together, the pencil skirt straining to contain his thighs.
"Account setup," Dave mumbled, his face flushing a mottled red as he finally forced eye contact. "Need to... need to get you logged in."
Jon tried to step around the desk to give him access, but his center of gravity was a foreign concept. He took one step and his ankle rolled outward, threatening to snap. He gasped, a high, breathy sound that made Dave swallow hard. This was impossible. He was five-eleven of clumsy male trying to operate machinery designed for a petite, graceful woman.
He managed to slump back into the chair, his hand diving into the laptop bag to find the smooth, warm comfort of the box. He gripped the stone, his knuckles white.
"I wish," he whispered, the words trembling against his painted lips, "that I could walk in these heels like I was born in them."
A hot, electric current shooting from his arches up to his calves.
Jon stood up.
The wobble was gone. In its place was an instinctive, pelvic-tilted stance that thrust his rear out and locked his posture into a sinuous S-curve. He glanced at his faint reflection in the glass leading to the offices beyond. He had lost height—the stone had shaved four inches off his frame, dropping him from his original 5'11" to a lithe 5'7"—but the two-inch spikes jacked him back up to 5 '9 ".
His shorter torso was perched on legs that looked impossibly long, the heels extending the line of his calf until it seemed to merge directly with the swell of his ass.
He took a few experimental steps forward, Dave too dumbstruck to notice. One foot in front of the either, clacking on the marble floors, his hips swinging slowly, side to side as he took only a short few steps.
“Dave?”
