This choice: Try to invade someone famous house. • Go Back... After thoroughly testing the medallion to ensure its authenticity—and letting the reality of your situation sink in for a few days—you finally decide that it's time to get serious and use the medallion to get everything you ever wanted before something happens to it. You feel a little guilty about stealing someone's life, but then again the medallion did choose you—you can hardly just let it go to waste playing silly games or spicing up the bedroom!
Smiling to yourself, you know exactly whose life you want to live: movie-star David Westmoreland. He was everything you wanted to be: disgustingly wealthy, famously handsome, and known in the media as much for his for his constant trysts with stunningly gorgeous women as for his award-winning acting career. Yes, David lived exactly the kind of life you—and every other young American male—desperately wanted to emulate. And now that life—not a copy, but David's actual life!—could be yours.
A quick internet search reveals that David lives several hundred miles away, and even driving well above the speed-limit all the way across the state it's well into the small hours of the morning by the time you reach David's private mansion—which is just fine with you. Parking your car some distance away, you make you way toward the property with all the nonchalance you can muster. As soon as you reach the fence, however, you break into a dead sprint. As a ridiculously wealthy man, David probably has an elaborate security system, and you're no trained infiltrator. You're going to be caught by motion-detectors and what-not no matter how hard you try to be sneaky; your only hope is to get in and use the medallion to assume David's identity before the response arrives to arrest the trespasser.
Dashing past the pool, you hurl a folding chair at the large French doors, shattering the glass and preparing yourself an entrance to the mansion. The frantic wailing of an audible alarm echoes through the house but you pay it no heed, dashing through the unfamiliar hallways as quickly as you can. Unfortunately, the thing about mansions is that they're big—very big. Throwing open doors, you quickly skip over the useless rooms: the kitchens, the library, the dining rooms—anywhere that's unlikely to contain a wardrobe. Unfortunately, you still can't find the master bedroom and by now the sound of police sirens mingles with the screeching of the home alarm. Then, stumbling over a couch in the darkness, you spot your prize: a single sock, wedged between the leather cushion and the frame. Touching the medallion to the footwear, you feel a tingling—and that's it, for now. The medallion takes a few minutes to work, which means you'll need to keep away from the police until the transformation is complete—the last thing you need is to be captured and observed transforming into David Westmoreland before their eyes.
So, with the footfalls of the police behind you, you pick yourself up and run furiously about the mansion, slamming doors and trying to stay away just long enough to finish changing. Dashing madly from room to room, it's soon impossible to separate the familiar tingling of a transformation from the burning in your muscles and lungs as you run as you've never run before. You can barely hear the alarm over the pounding of your own heart when, throwing open yet another door, you barrel headlong into the real David Westmoreland.
"What the bloody hell—…Violet?" he asks.
Uh-oh.
Still gasping for breath, you hazard a glance down at yourself. What you see is most definitely NOT the sculpted, manly physique of David Westmoreland. Instead, disaster: you look like one of his countless sexual conquests—young, gorgeous and over-endowed. Apparently David hadn't been the only one shedding clothing on that couch. Instead, you're stuck as some—you pull a lock of your hair in front of your face—some brunette bimbo he'd taken home one night. God, your breasts are huge—probably at least a C cup naturally with implants pushing them into the DD range. This was definitely NOT the plan.
"What the blazes are you doing here?" he demanded.
"I…" you say. "I came to get my sock?"
You hold up the clothing as evidence.
"You… Good God, girl! You're absolutely insane! Get the hell out of my house!"
That's when you realize something is very, very wrong.
"Wait!" you say. "I had a sort of medallion! I think I dropped it when we ran into—"
"I said get out!"
At that point, two policemen grab you by the arms.
"That's it, sweetheart, time to leave. Sorry about this, Mr. Westmoreland."
And that's all there is to it. The police pay no attention to your pleas as they haul you out of the mansion and dump you unceremoniously on the street outside.
"You're lucky Mr. Westmoreland is so generous," says one. "Otherwise you'd be looking at some serious time for what you just pulled, little lady. Now get the hell out of here."
So here you are—broke and alone hundreds of miles from home, stuck in the body of some busty Hollywood club girl with no medallion. Things have definitely been better. The question now is what to do about it.
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