Jezebel Starr dimly remembers James' old life, how long it had been since she'd been 18. The whole apartment is a reminder of that. She wonders just how much of reality had changed and as she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror she has a strong urge to look at herself naked. It isn't that she doesn't know what she looks like, she certainly does know, she merely knows she likes it. Likes to be naked, to see her own body, has come to love it despite its strangeness.
There is a full-length mirror on the closet door she remembers, now half full of clothes that are more fit for a twenty-something man than a teenage hermaphrodite. She supposes this is because she has not read the part of the diary that is much about clothes. She starts to remove her poorly fitting jeans and t-shirt, resolving to finish the diary just as soon as she has checked to make sure she looks correct. What if she'd missed a page about getting a tattoo?
She might have missed just that page since as she peels off the poorly fitting white t-shirt her skin is as unblemished and pale as a china doll. Her breasts are of average size, and she is fairly certain she's stopped growing. Fortunately, that's never bothered her. She remembers that they are B-cups, or C's depending on the bra-maker, and as she gently cups them she notices the pale ghostly aereola, hardly visible on her pale skin. Her nipples are pinky-thick nubs, and she shivers slightly as she touches one.
She looks at herself in the mirror, meeting her own eyes. Bright green, set above a long slender nose and an angular face. Not the prettiest face, but strong, maybe even handsome in the way some women could be. She likes her face. She especially likes her hair. A coppery mane long enough to reach the waist of her jeans it shimmers in the light and she knows that it is a chore to maintain, almost a hobby of its own.
She kicks off the too-large converse she is wearing and peels off socks in need of darning or replacement. Her feet are dainty and pale as well, the nails painted black to match her fingernails. Her toes wriggle in the carpet and she lifts herself up onto them, checking her height again. She remembers being five feet exactly but it is very strange to also remember standing ten inches taller moments ago.
She removes her belt slowly, savoring as she slowly tugs the jeans down past hips that have grown broader. She is a little bit pear-shaped, but not overly soft. Her round bottom is extremely firm if anything. Beneath the jeans, her boxers are stickily pasted to her dual sexes. Her erection is still throbbing, and as she wriggles it escapes through the fly of the boxers. It pokes out lewdly, shining with cum, and she remembers a previous measurement. Eleven inches, and comparable to her slender wrist in thickness.
She tugs the boxers down, shaft bobbing as it snaps back up to attention. She has had someone wax her, or she's shaved as cock and balls are smooth and hairless. Her balls are heavy, large enough to cover the pussy beneath, which is itself revealed as she lifts her balls up. A neat little slit with no protruding labia. She considers herself in the mirror once more, five foot zero, just barely a hundred pounds, and makes up her mind to...