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Jill was a friend. And I owed her, I owed her a lot. But still, what she asked as payment now was weird. I would be happy to take care of her house, even losing my job would be fair, but Jill wants me to replace her?
Let’s go back a little. My name is Josh, I was (I still am, but more on that later) an engineer at a boring company developing architectural software, nice to meet you. I have only one true friend, and a – if I say so myself – well built body, though my face is at most average.
I met Jill at the gym, blonde, tall, toned, with a beautiful but strict face that tickled my teacher/female boss kink, she was only missing the glasses really. So of course I hit on her, though she was way out of my league. I expected to be humiliated, but she let me down very gently. We became gym buddies, then friends, and at some point, after plenty of drinks – on my end, Jill never drank much – I told her about my mother’s illness. Painful, degenerative, and she was only in her fifties.
I felt it unfair that she had to suffer so much, even though as a moderately religious woman she never showed signs of blaming anyone. If God wills it, so be it. She was proud of her son, she lived a fulfilled if shorter than necessary life. We met every one or two months, until she got into the hospital, and the doctors said it’s unlikely she’ll come out.
That’s when I broke down in front of Jill, fueled by grief and alcohol. My friend Mark was a great guy, but not good with emotions, so I was really happy I had Jill to spill my feelings to. I expected her to maybe console me, to say something uplifting, but instead she had this pondering face. She asked what I would be willing to pay if she could restore my mother’s health.
Anything, everything, obviously.
So the next day, with a hangover still stifling my mind a little, I went to the hospital. I wasn’t sure if Jill really promised me she’ll make my mother better or I only imagined it; I wanted to visit her anyways. But Jill was there, radiant and stylish as always, a stark contrast for my sorry state. I hated hospitals ever since my dad passed, and my mother being here just made it worse.
We went to see my mother, and she was not really there. The doctors told me she’ll have more and less lucid periods, but still it broke my heart. I sat down, took her hand in mine and talked to her, telling her about my project, remembering she always liked to hear about it, though she didn’t understand any of it. She probably just liked to listen to me.
I forgot about Jill being present, so I almost jumped when she leaned over me, taking my mother’s hand from mine. She did something, I’m not sure what, because my tears clouded my vision at that moment, then she said she’ll collect her payment later and left.
And my mother did get better, almost immediately. The doctors kept her in the hospital for a week longer, calling it a miracle, but after that they had to let her go. I helped her move back to her house, the house I grew up in, we cried a lot, she praised the Lord, but I knew who was responsible.
So here I was, standing in Jill’s living room on a Sunday afternoon, and listening to her request. She wanted me to take over her life for a while, because she wanted to go on a vacation. She shot down all my complaints and questions: why not take paid time off? None left, and Mr. Garrison – her boss – is very stingy. How would I, a man significantly larger, if not taller than her, fulfill her role? She just smirked, which did nothing to ease my worries. What should I do about my own job? She said that’s my problem, not unkind but firm.
I told her I’ll do it, because really, what is a bit of humiliation and losing a job to getting my mother back?
She showed me around her apartment, explained that I do whatever I want, as long as nobody finds out Jill is missing. Then she told me about the dress code at her job, and that she and Mr. Garrison have an agreement, and I’m to do whatever he says. I gulped at that, not knowing exactly what to expect.
She ran her fingers over my body, head to toe, I felt a shiver run through my body, and suddenly I was… different. My height didn’t change, so the first thing I felt was a weird stiffness in my lower back. I realized I was the one pulling my muscles to keep my pelvis in an unnatural state. Well, it was the natural state before the change, but not anymore. All of my clothes suddenly felt like pajamas, and even my breasts, perky little breasts I noticed with fright, couldn’t stretch my t-shirt, though the sudden poking of my nipples was new. All of my skin felt like it’s on fire, the clothes I wore a coarse touch. The lack of body hair, I connected in a detached state. My jeans only barely kept on on my new hip, and I stumbled forward due to a sudden loss of balance.
“Wow, I’m truly gorgeous!” said Jill as she stabilized me, with a wicked smile playing on her face.
I turned to the mirror on her vanity, and there erzurum escort we were, two Jills. One smiling, composed, well groomed. The other, me, looking scared, her hair unkempt, in way oversized men’s clothing.
Still, I was beautiful, I had to agree, as I kept touching my face. I didn’t wear any makeup and still looked like a model. I ran my hand through my blonde mane, the sensation entirely new. I knew I should panic now, but I was only mildly bewildered.
Then Jill handed me her phone, and turned to leave. After a second of gaping, I stumbled after her, my unfamiliarity with my new limbs and the jeans sliding down almost making me fall.
“Jill, wait!” I gasped.
Jill stopped at the door of her apartment and turned back to me.
“No, you are Jill now. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks!” she said to me with a beautiful, if a bit evil smile, then left.
I stood there, with phone in one hand, the other grabbing my jeans to prevent them falling off totally. So I’m doing this.
It took me a couple minutes to learn to walk confidently, using the furniture and walls to stabilize myself. Apart from the first disorientation, my body felt great. Powerful. I knew Jill was well built, we worked out together for a while now and I must admit I ogled her from time to time, but it still surprised me. Her muscles combined with her much lighter frame, it was really easy to move, I almost felt like I could fly.
The main thing bothering me was my t-shirt rubbed my nipples painfully as my breasts wobbled slightly. I experienced this once, during a long run on a hot summer day, but I wasn’t sweating now.
I’ve had girlfriends before who liked their nipples abused and some whose were more tender, apparently Jill was the latter. Or maybe I just need to be aroused.
I pulled off my shirt, taking my first ever look at Jill’s naked torso in the mirror, and especially her firm breasts. I started to massage them, partially to ease the pain, partially to… well, to try things out. Jill said I can do whatever I want, so thinking of all the dumb manga I’ve read about situations just like this, I went there. It was nice, they were soft and malleable, but to my disappointment I didn’t feel arousal at all. I touched a fair few breasts during my dating career, and they never seemed to disappoint me, but touching my own pair just didn’t do it.
My stretchy boxers were the only piece of clothing that made a decent fight of staying on me. My socks already halfway down my feet, I let my jeans go and stepped out of them, kicking my socks away I flopped on the bed. I looked down, my slender torso partially hidden by my breasts, then oversized boxers with well toned, shapely legs jutting out of them. The view was framed by long, blonde strands.
I knew what I wanted to do, but I also felt the panic lurking around my consciousness. So instead of looking under my boxer, I observed my body with a clinical eye. I always assumed women just have wider hips, never thinking about the fact that it’s in ratio. So yes, my hips were wide compared to my almost alarmingly slender waist, but Jill was still a lot smaller than Josh was. Look at me, talking about myself in the third person.
The thought made me chuckle, then my throat closed up for a second. I returned to my examination. My breasts were not large, but not flat either, probably could have covered them with my old hands, and boy did I think about that from time to time when watching Jill in her tight top at the gym. Currently, they were just enough to hold them, and their fatty, smooth mass was alien not just for my male mind, but on Jill’s toned body too. I ran my hand over her form, and it was a lot smoother than I expected. Both my skin, and the fat under my skin I consciously knew would be there provided a soft experience.
Looking at my hand, slender, elegant fingers, crowned with soft pastel lavender nails, almost definitely artificial based on their thickness. When I thought of checking on my toes, I was surprised to notice I was sitting cross legged. I didn’t remember when I did that, but it was comfortable. Also, my toes were untouched as far as I could tell. As I pulled my left foot closer to my face, I surprised myself by pulling it almost all the way before feeling my joints stretch. So Jill was more flexible too, as expected.
I thought I delayed the inevitable enough, and with a deep breath I lifted my boxer. Of course there was no penis in there, I felt the lack of it and Jill wouldn’t leave me hanging like that. But still, it shocked me. A small mound, hairless, with a slit going down it. My vagina. My pussy. I felt myself breathing heavily as my hand moved there. My hand sliding over the soft lips felt ticklish. I let one slender finger part those lips, and it felt uncomfortable, like an intrusion. Not painful, but it was definitely not ready to be plunged.
Pulling out my hand and letting my esat escort boxers smooth down, I laid back on the bed, letting my breaths relax. Manga lied to me. When this happens, you are supposed to masturbate as the first thing you do, but even though I was beautiful, I had breasts to play with, and I must admit I jerked more than once to the face and body I wore now, I just didn’t feel the slightest inclination.
Frustrated, I decided to get better seated in my body, more coordinated. I can’t exactly stumble around if I want to sell the illusion. I found Jill’s yoga mat, then started on some stretches. Noticing my breasts moving about, I blew a strand of hair out of my face and looked around for something. Jill showed me where her workout clothes are, so I grabbed one of her sports bras, and pulled it on. It was a tight fit, but with Jill’s shoulder flexibility, it wasn’t that hard to get it on. The pressure around my upper body was weird, especially how it pushed the two blobs on my chest, but shaking my body a bit, the breasts felt a lot more secure.
I moved on to the vanity where I spotted some hair ties, and accidentally saw myself in the mirror. My boxers loose, my sports bra tight, my hair in a messy ponytail. I should have looked ridiculous, but I was strangely sexy. Made me remember when one of my girlfriends wore a shirt of mine. A classic scene, but for good reasons.
Well, I put that away, and went back to the mat. When emotions ride high, working out always helps me. Jill’s phone opened with her fingerprint, and apparently my transformation was that complete. I opened a yoga beginners’ video, and went through the steps. At first I had some wobbles, but I quickly got into the motions, feeling amazed how well Jill’s body worked. It had this criss crossed arms pose I would never have dreamed of pulling off as a man, my shoulders too tight, my biceps too big.
After that it was already dark. Looking at the time, apparently I spent a good three hours just stumbling around, gawking at myself, and doing yoga. I felt tired too, so thinking about tomorrow, I decided to go to sleep.
I got into the shower, peeling off my bra and boxers. Looking at my pussy now, it was still somewhat weird, but the panic did not return. The warm water felt wonderful, washing away the sweat, gliding down my smooth skin. I chuckled when I noticed a small jet shooting away from one of my nipples. I’m a titty-bender!
I usually used soap, but Jill had this sponge-thingie, so I poured some of her mango scented shower gel on it, and lathered myself up. It was not that different, except I could reach all of my back easily, which was refreshing. I only paused when I got to my crotch. With a dick, you pull the skin back and wash it, you don’t reach inside. But how deep do you go with a pussy? I carefully slid the sponge between my lips, just a centimeter or two. It felt weird, so I pulled back. A thing to research later.
After finishing wiping and patting myself off with a towel I tried wrapping myself up with it, chest high as girls do. It felt comfortable, and I looked just fine through the patches of steam on the mirror. Though my hair was still a mess, damped by the shower and the little sweat I accrued during the yoga. With a pffff sound I decided that’s tomorrow’s me’s problem, brushed my teeth and fell into the bed naked as always. I set Jill’s phone to wake me up early, because I was certain getting ready would take me a while. I fell asleep fast, my mind pondering the implications of conservation of energy to my transformation.
Waking up it took me a couple seconds to refamiliarize myself with my situation. A different alarm tone, a different bed, a different room, and a most definitely different body. I was not a prolific womanizer, but I had my fair share of waking up in foreign beds. But I never woke up in my nightly partner’s body.
Stretching felt good, but the flat got cool during the night, and I felt my nipples harden and goosebumps forming as I stood next to the bed naked, flexing myself this way and that. The nipples were interesting, because even as a guy they did that, but I never felt it this pronounced. Otherwise I felt unnervingly at home in Jill’s form.
I quickly bundled myself up in a soft bathrobe, then went through what I’d have to get done in the morning. I had about two hours, including the half hour commute to Jill’s workplace, to get dressed, do my makeup – uh -, do something with the hair.
I pulled out a pair of panties and a bra at random. I’ll have time to match them when I have the suitors lining up! I joked to myself. I pulled up the panties, simple white cottons, they fit snugly over my groin and ass.
The bra was a different challenge. I had to discard my warm, soft robe and return to the cold world, but it’s never good to delay the inevitable, was my motto. The bra had several rows of hooks and clasps, and with Jill’s esenler escort flexible joints it was not hard to fasten them after pushing my arms through the straps, but looking in the mirror I saw the fastening was mismatched. I pulled the cups down over my breasts to get a better fit, then twisted my neck and aligned everything in the mirror. Satisfied with seeing Jill in proper, if mismatching underwear, I moved on to the next item. Pantyhose.
I knew about them, I also knew some people are really into them, but I never paid much attention. Jill said “nude tights” when talking about the dress code, so I went through her drawer, looking for something that matched the description.
It was a quick search, her drawer was full of flesh colored pantyhose, next to a few black ones. I pulled one out, sat down on the bed and looked at them, feeling the silky, translucent material between my well manicured fingers. I knew how to pull them off, and even to be careful. Lisa, one of my exes, beat it into my head that if I tear them, I buy them. They are flimsy and expensive, a terrible design from an engineering perspective, but when was the last time fashionistas asked engineers about anything? I thought about the dilemma: Are these pants or hose?
Deciding they are way too small and stretchy to put them on the ‘pants way’, I bunched up one leg, feeling the silky smooth material slide in my hands, then pushed my foot into the opening, and pulled it up about halfway on my thigh. It didn’t want to come further, and I saw I lost a lot of length scrunched up under my heel and on my shin. Brows knitted, I rescued the material, and could pull it up almost my crotch. I bunched up the other leg, but soon realized I can’t really reach the opening with my foot, so with a frustrated growl I pushed the already finished leg down to my knees.
After suffering both legs up, and pulling the waistband over my hips, I had a problem. The groin – gusset is the technical term I learned later – was a good distance away from my panties. A memory flashed into my mind, I must have been three or four, and still wore tights when it was really cold out. I stood there, crying, as my old green cotton tights did not want to come up all the way. My dad just cut their feet off, so I could wear them as leggings, but I didn’t think that would help me now.
With waddling steps, feeling like a penguin I moved over to the nightstand where I left Jill’s phone, and turned to the internet. The carpet felt weird on my feet, the nylons not exactly insulating like my socks, but not providing the stability and grip of barefoot either, a worst of both worlds situation. I found plenty of tutorials and videos about the topic, so after a bit of struggle I had them on my lower half, skintight and shining lightly as the Sun’s first rays hit the bedroom. I did some wild leg stretches, but the nylon followed my every move, staying close on my crotch. Good
I absentmindedly rubbed my legs together, hearing the sizzling sound of nylon against nylon. I noticed that vertically it was very smooth, but horizontally it had more resistance. Must be the weave. then I murmured “What am I doing with my life?”, hiding my face in my hands.
I forgot how cool the room was during my fight with the pantyhose, but now it reached me again, so I went to her wardrobe. The next piece was a white blouse. She had like half a dozen next to each other on racks, identical to my eyes. I grabbed one and pulled it on, the movement familiar, probably a first this morning. I wasn’t ashamed of my figure when I was still a man, so I wore slim fit shirts when the occasion demanded a button up shirt. The snug fit of the blouse was not so different, but it took me a couple seconds to understand why my hands can’t find the right way to button it up. Women’s clothes are fastened in the opposite way, I recalled, due to maids dressing them or something.
I buttoned the blouse up, over my breasts, which stretched proudly against the material, in contrast with the t-shirt I wore yesterday. Tastefully, not a button-testing stretch. I looked in the mirror again, seeing Jill as I sometimes saw her, when we met after her work, sans the skirt and heels, both of which I dreaded. I was grateful to the pantyhose, despite looking like nothing, they did provide sufficient warmth to ward off the chill in the room.
Time for the plunge I thought, for some reason wearing a skirt seemed like a deeper departure from manliness than the nylon encasing my legs already. Next to the blouses there were a bunch of black and dark grey pencil skirts, so I assumed those were the Sacred Secretarial Skirts. I pulled one out, and it looked awfully long. On the rare occasion I saw Jill in her work clothes, they reached just above the knee, but I put the skirt in front of my hip, and it reached well below my knees. The mystery was solved once I tried to pull and zip it up. There was a lining inside the skirt, some kind of satin material, and my nylons slid on that like hot butter on a stove. Still I had some trouble pulling the skirt over my hips, having to shimmy it over my wider parts. There was no way I could fasten it there, so I had to pull it way up, around my waist, then I finally understood the length.