By the time I woke up, Cady Heron had gone from social outcast to queen of the “plastics.” I opened my eyes, blinking at the action on screen. Just judging from what was happening in the film, I’d been out for several minutes. I was foggy for a few seconds longer, trying to remember what had happened, then I noticed something odd.
My arm was covered in freckles. I raised my hand to look at it, but before I could get my fingers near my face I noticed the tumble of red hair across my shoulder. And before I could do more than raise my head for a better look, I felt something shift on my chest. The hand that had been headed for my face changed direction, and instead landed on something that was warm and soft. It was one of those things that I’d thought about often, but never really gotten to handle before. It was a boob, and it was mine.
For a moment I felt woozy and my head slipped back against the pillow, but that only brought fresh movement from my new chestage. I slowly levered myself back up again. As I did, it became obvious that I didn’t actually have a boob—I had a pair, and from the way they stretched at the fabric of my T-shirt, a very impressive pair. Below the shirt, bare legs that were almost as freckled as my arms dangled over the end of my bed. They were tangled together at the knees by a pair of tidy whities, a relic of my activities before I blacked out.
Carefully, I raised one foot (an actually pretty foot) and used it to slide the underwear off my legs. The feeling of the cotton shifting over soft skin was enough to make me shiver. My thighs brushed against each other as I moved, raising little goose-bumps on my freckled skin. Slowly I pushed myself to the end of the bed and carefully stood up.
I felt wobbly. Not only did it feel like everything on my body was moving around and shifting in strange directions, it felt like something deep—something like my bones—was connected in a whole new, looser sort of way. I pushed a tangle of long red hair from my face and look across the room.
The mirror above my dresser showed Lindsay Lohan. Actually, strike that. It wasn’t the twenty-something actress with more court dates than screen credits. It was a teenage red-haired hottie with wide green-blue eyes and a shocked expression. It was Cady Heron.
I was Cady Heron.
I said the first thing that came to mind, which was something really profound like, “Holy fuck.” The voice didn’t sound quite the same from inside her head, but it definitely had that throaty, sexy edge of that had helped make Cady the most doable babe in a movie filled with girls who were walking ads for sex.
A couple of unsteady steps got me closer to the mirror. The girl in the glass looked almost exactly like the one on the screen. Her—my—hair was a little messier, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup, but she still looked good enough to stop traffic. Good enough to stop traffic across half a city. I raised on of those freckly hands and waggled my fingers at the mirror. “Hello, Cady,” I purred.
I turned my head left, then right, watching those blue-green eyes pivot in the mirror. I pressed a finger against my cheek. It felt real. The smooth skin puckered in around the tip of my finger, the skin turning pale under the pressure, and I could feel it pushing against the unfamiliar cheekbone. “I’m a girl,” I said, in my new girl voice. I let the finger slid up and traced along the red-brown arc of an eyebrow. I pushed the tangle of hair back from my forehead. It was thick, heavy, and slightly damp with sweat.
I smiled at myself. “Holy shit. I’m an insanely hot girl.”
And then I did the only sensible thing—I peeled off my shirt and got a good look at my tits.
Maybe it was just because they had sprouted there instantly instead of growing over months or years, but they seemed impossibly huge. I mean, staring at these things when someone else had been wearing them had been exciting, but having them attached to me was more scary than sexy. My whole body felt like it was made of curves that went in all the right directions, only they all felt completely wrong.
The boobs were actually big enough that they could have blocked my view looking down, but they sat more over to the sides than I had expected. I could actually plant my hand in the center of my chest and barely touch either breast. Both fingertip sized pink nipples angled slightly up, and slightly out. Kind of like I was signaling a left turn and right turn at the same time.
Those nipples were getting harder by the moment. I could feel them getting tighter. Between them I could see a smooth stomach with a belly button that stretched out more up and down than the side to side model I was used to. Further down were smooth thighs that touched together at their milky tops, then separated as they flowed down toward knees and calves. Between those thighs I couldn’t see any hair at all, couldn’t really see much of anything but a bit of folded pink skin.
I raised a hand and lightly touched one finger to the quivering red tip of an achingly hard nipple. The result was a shock almost as big as the one I’d gotten from the TV. I moved my hand lower, sliding down the warm taut skin of the belly, over a slight rise, and down to... squishy stuff. Electric squishy stuff.
My knees trembled, and I nearly fell. The face of Cady in the mirror looked shocked by what I was doing.
I took the hand away from the damp softness, braced myself against the wall, and took three long breaths. The fantastically freckly boobs moved up and down as I did. This was, without a doubt, one of the most sextastic bodies on earth. Only I had no idea what I was doing in it.
“I need to get a better look at this,” I said in that throaty, stick-it-to-me-now voice.
I walked slowly to the door of my room, feeling not just the sway of my breasts, but that loosey goosey swing somewhere down in my hip zone. My thighs lightly slipped past each other at each step while my breasts swayed side to side as well as up and down. My ass did a weird little bounce. I felt like I was navigating Jell-o. Slowly, unsteadily, and absolutely butt nakedly, I made my way down the hall to the bathroom.
I half expected this weird hallucination to be blown away by the bright lights over the sink. Instead there I was, still completely wrapped in a collection of freckle-dotted curves. With my eyes locked on the girl in the mirror, I put my small hands under my definitely not small boobs and pressed them together until the cleavage turned into a slot big enough to handle a piece of toast. The weight in my hands felt... weighty, and the feeling from both my fingertips and my chest insisted that these things weren’t cartoon balloons. They were warm, they had a kind of lumpy, kind of grainy sort of feel under my fingers. They might be the first pair I’d handled, but they felt very, very real. And I could feel them from both sides.
“I’m a girl,” I said. “I’m really a girl.” I let go of my breasts, put my hands on the counter beside of the sink, and leaned forward until I was standing on tiptoe and my nose was only inches from the mirror. “I’m a girl.” A tumble of thick, wavy red hair spilled past my shoulders and swung around my face. Holy shit. I’m a girl.
“This has to be some kind of dream,” I said. I leaned back from the sink and pushed the messy hair out of the way. There was like a yard of the stuff. I don’t think I’d ever had so much hair that I cold feel the weight of it.
Everything about this felt miles too real to be any sort of dream, from the way the loose strands of hair tickled the sides of my face to the cool air I could feel in the open triangle above the spot where my thighs touched. I ran my tongue over unfamiliar teeth.
What if it was real? Really real. Suddenly I remembered the woman at the flea market asking me if I’d like to know how it felt to squeeze a set of tits.
The girl in the mirror was looking kind of sick. She looked like she might faint.
I pulled in a ragged breath and a new crop of goosebumps spread across my skin thicker than the freckles. “It can’t be real,” I whispered, trying to ignore the alien sound of my voice. People didn’t turn into other people. I mean, sure it might be fun if I could be sure it was only temporary, but what if I was really a girl. Really Cady Heron. What if it was for good?
“Holy fuck,” I said again. “What’s mom going to say?”
I’d never be able to convince her that it was me. She’d throw this big-boobed redhead out of her house, or call the police. And then what? It wasn’t like I could ring the doorbell at one of my friend’s houses and say, “Hi there. I know I look like Hollywood’s most famous skank, but I’m really your old pal Jake.”
I shivered violently enough that my teeth clicked together. The girl in the mirror looked strange. For a moment I thought Cady’s hair was losing its color, then I realized everything was losing it’s color, because I was going down. I managed to get my arms under me long enough to keep my new face from smacking into the edge of the sink, but after that I kind of sprawled on the cool ceramic tils of the floor. Passing out actually seemed like maybe the most sensible thing to do. So I did.