Your hand is drawn towards your now sensitive crotch.
At last, you question your confidence, your readiness not just to exploit her, but also...
Forget it. The moist red slit is visible through thin wisps of hair. You laugh and guffaw boyishly.
Your right middle finger, followed by the other enter the forbidden cavern. It reminds you of the time you first discovered masturbation. The pleasure.
The accommodating crack yawns open receptive, but as your fingers explore deeper the organ convulses, trying to snap shut like a Venus fly-trap, but your fingers spread out and stretch it.
Your left hand, unoccupied, gropes at the tit.
Your mouth forces open, drooling as you continue.
You almost black out at the climax, orgasm, screaming girlishly. You lie in a puddle of effeminate secretions, coating your thighs, having splattered onto your stomach, caking your hands and wrists, and, from when your had tried to wipe your profusely sweating forehead, a translucent white crusting of sweat and lady-waters, even a rogue tear...
You crack it out until you cum one more time before getting up, messy and leaving the room.
You open the door, stumbling and wobbling awkwardly.
Aware of how your new body handled the weight of your boobs, you carefully descend the stairs, turning your feet sideways as you tread down her steep narrow staircase. The foreign jiggling and the way that your turned out legs expose your... clitoris to the cold only make you feel more uncomfortable.
Drip. Drip. The carpet stains as you take each step.
You reach the bottom floor and open the door.
The Summer's heat keeps you just above an unbearable temperature, while your lack of hair or clothing made sure that you weren't too comfortable.
"I want to have sex!" is what you try to yell, but your voice sticks inside your throat. No, more than that. Nothing happens inside your throat. Not the familiar sensation of your vocal chords vibrating and giving the unique texture of voice to the air you expel from your lungs. Would you ever be able to speak again? In your old body it was so easy. What happened to that? Darn. Could it ever be reversed?
You firmly caress the sharp pointed key in the palm of your hand...
Spinning on the pads of your feet, you saunter inside, drunk with emotion. Emotion you had never felt before. Emotion that you still were not able to fully comprehend.
Lying on the floor of your living room, still naked, you come up with a plan of action. Jenna's tutor had always been someone you had fantasised about getting to know more... intimately. She would knock on the door in less than 45 minutes.
Jenna's tutor had a name. A name you couldn't remember. A face you most certainly could. The prettiest face you had ever seen. Wait... You never appreciated beauty like this. You just used to like looking at her smile and thinking that even you could do a more convincing fake smile but like how her face went dark when Jenna wasn't looking. Now you could do that face and were considering her face as a thing of beauty. Beauty. Such a short word and yet a concept so foreign. Did anyone really understand it. Why some people liked looking at some people and others others.
You'll have time for that when you're inside. Right. This was your sister. Your boring, flat, washboard sister. How could you enjoy this fully, unless you were someone more mature than this test. Yes. That all this was a test. You were...
But why couldn't you speak?
That didn't matter. All that mattered was the kind, rich, semi-Asian woman who, out of pure generosity, tutored Jenna in her school subjects. Retard girl. That woman was too nice, yet fake. A paradox.
Should you get dressed? No. What was the point?
You imagine her running her hands up her bone-thin legs, up her miniskirt or petite dress or, Sitting down, having opened her long legs, groping her large breasts, or her slender abdomen, or pulling the bobble and freeing her long, black, silky hair. Or, in a w-sit...
The doorbell rang.
You skip your way over to the door, high on fantasy. And tug it open.
Tutor drops her handbag at the entrance and smiles, "You're sexy like your mother," she says. Feeling a faint, lazy disgust, you shank the key into her neck and turn... you hesitate... left.
No! Idiot! What if you can't turn right afterwards. You're powers were limited enough as it was, you had just removed the chance of a taxi ride out...
Her eyes, frozen in shock, grow blank, and her features stiffen and tense.
She is wearing massive heels, translucent skin-coloured stockings, a short black zipped-up skirt, a smart, button up dress-shirt and a thick pair of glasses.
Instinctively, you command her: "Strip!"
"S...tr...ip," she murmurs. Her smile widens.
With one hand, she removes the band around her ponytail and her locks bounce vivaciously. She flicks it back, then turns your head either side, leads the hair, which flips, whips and bounces. The other hand crawls down her chest, over her breasts and glides down, now across her abdomen, and stops, pinching and groping between her legs. You stare, dumbfounded and amazed. You marvel at her figure, stunned. She was tall, with her height mostly in her legs, and of a healthy weight, not horrifically skinny yet packing not enough fat to be judged or even noticed at a simple glance. Her breasts were moderate, mediocre in size compared to many models and such, but somewhat larger than those of middle-school girls. She seemed a bit stretched in a way, hair too long, arms too long, legs too long...
Yet, when she was there, visibly massaging her crotch and unbuttoning her shirt slowly, these flaws were of little significance.
As soon as your thoughts wonder, she pulls up her skirt, uncovering plain white panties. This was exceptionally unexpected and your heart (or Jenna's heart, perhaps, you weren't sure) fluttered, fluctuated in rhythm and began to speed up.
She licked her lips and winked.
This gives her ample diversion to unzip and pull down the skirt...
Both of your hands move onto it, entertaining themselves with Tutor's warm inner thighs.
Then, acting on a desperate mind (your acceptance had a kind of disturbing, frightening effect on yourself), as Tutor, removes her shirt with her left and inserts her hand into her matching snow-coloured patternless bra with her right, you turn the key in her neck to the right.
Her knees buckle, she bends at the back and her face shifts to a look of dismay when her hands arms shoulders-neck-faceboobiestummyvagnbuttlegfeet all dissolve and deflate into a pile of skin, around part of it, a second layer, the hosiery (pantyhose), the heels clatter on the floor and topple and fall, and, somewhere, buried among the messy tumulus of skin, was the bra belonging to the woman who was standing there stripping for your pleasure.
Panting, you lounge both of Jenna's hands against Jenna's legs, leaning forwards, legs straight, acutely aware of the awkward, unfamiliar breeze interacting with Jenna's anus.
Were you really ready to use that key to take off Jenna? Why? Was she not good enough?
You had a bit of a dilemma:
Your, Jenna's, tutor's taxi was arriving in one hour. You could get changed into her, have some fun, mess with makeup and find some clothes in Jenna's wardrobe before then, then ask the cab drive to take you to an airport perhaps. Maybe, you could take Jenna along in your handbag as hand-luggage. You didn't require anything else.
You could also pack up the tutor in your own school rucksack and get dressed as Jenna. You could see who was still in school for extracurricular and consider sharing the gift of the key around.
You could also try turning the key left and seeing if it re-inflates the body or does anything special.
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