Jameson Evans hadn't been to his office in nearly six months, but then again, why would he? He hired staff that could manage the teams, organize the clients, settle the finances, and the like. He spent the last 30 years building this multi-million dollar company, almost from the day he turned 18, and this was his chance to relax and finally enjoy the fruits of his labors.
Waking up for all those years had established a routine, which he still isn't able to shake, so after getting up and combing his short brown hair, he shaves, brushes his teeth, and takes care of all the other morning business in the same way he always had. This is followed by donning a button-down shirt, tie, slacks, and jacket, before heading downstairs.
His home is modest, if you consider his income, but it is by no means small. He resides in a three story, 5 bedroom home because he's converted four of those bedrooms into either places to run experiments or offices to conduct business.
What business might this be, one might wonder, or what experiments might he be conducting? For that, one needs to know more about his company, SciMed Inc. Escaping college with dual Masters degrees, one in Pharmaceutical Science and the other in Genetics, left him with a wealth of knowledge, and very little social life. It did give him a dream, though, of founding a company that could combine the two, focusing in enhanced genetics to create innovative methods and tools that could cure diseases on a molecular level.
This company had immense potential and quickly found funding, and found it's first breakthrough within five years, though not in the way he had intended. Scientists under his employ had discovered a way to manipulate the DNA of the patient, which allowed the removal of some hereditary diseases but the true fame came from the more marketable, shallow uses. This first breakthrough was a treatment that would change the DNA of the patient to reset their natural hair color. From that day on, all follicle growth would be in the new color.
Jameson had never intended to make his company in any way cosmetic, but SciMed's funding tripled with the new application of the science they discovered. Because of that, Jameson allowed a branch of his company to focus on the shallow-minded, so that their funding and sales might support the more altruistic intent behind the firm as a whole.
Once seated at his kitchen table, after preparing his bagel, he flips open a laptop and starts browsing through his work emails. Another tedious habit he got from the past years, but this one keeps him up to date on what's going on with his company. He opens an email from Allan Hendricks, the director of the cosmetics wing, addressed to him.
Evans,
You're being thoughtless and near-sighted by limiting my budget. You have no idea how much money is sitting out there waiting for us. You could help so many more people if you just got off your high horse and did something about it.
Allan
Not even humoring it with a reply, Jameson deletes the email. He set up a policy before he left, limiting the percentage of funding that the cosmetic wing could get. He knows that Allan, and most of the board, were in this just for money, and that if he himself didn't hold 51% of the vote on the Board of Directors, that the company would be very different indeed.
Just then a knock strikes the front door. Ironic timing, as it's a delivery man bringing bottle of wine from the Board, congratulating him on his 6 month retirement. Setting it on the counter in the kitchen, he opts to head to his lab to work on his latest project.
Several hours later, he's only slightly closer to solving the exact molecular makeup of cancer cells, trying to find a way to eradicate them systematically, rather than using radiation or a scalpel. Since it's well past lunch time, he figures it's a good chance to have a sandwich and maybe try some of that wine. It takes less than half a glass for him to stagger away from the table, landing unceremoniously in an awkward sprawl across his kitchen floor just as the front door opens.
Jameson wakes up in a cold sweat in a pitch black room. What a terrible nightmare that was. He was quickly losing memory of it like one does with nightmares, leaving only a faint, quickly vanishing image of some kind of gurney that he was tied to, looking up at a doctor or nurse, then that was gone. He saw darkness outside his bedroom window, shrugged away the remnants of his nightmare, then opted to lie back down in bed and try to get more sleep.
With only a faint recollection of that awful nightmare, Jameson rolls over in bed only to be surprised by the ghastly shock of spiderwebs over ones face. Swatting at his face, he grabs at them and pulls to clear his vision, though shockingly some must have tangled in his hair as he feels a sharp tug there.
Opting to just start with a shower instead, Jameson turns, slipping his feet over the side of the bed as he's done hundreds of times before. This time , though, his feet don't meet where he expected and rather than standing up he's sliding out of bed with a frantic and ungraceful thump, causing him to cry out suddenly.
This fall shocked him even more as when he landed he felt a weight on his chest bouncing against him, and then he heard a girl cry out nearby as he landed. Jameson is a very smart man, but some things just defy quick logic.
His hands reach up tentatively to that mass on his chest, looking down at the same time as his vision clears from his sleepiness. His gaze meets the sight of delicate, slender fingertips far more graceful and feminine than his own as they cup and caress a modest pair of breasts.
Hastily standing up, his groggy half-woken state clearing faster and faster, he makes his way to the bathroom and stares at the mirror in disbelief. Looking back at him is a girl, maybe 17 years old, with mussed up long red hair and a rather slender, fetching figure, though currently wearing nothing buy a look of absolute shock.
Too distracted to worry about his morning routine, Jameson grabs a robe and tugs it on, heading downstairs towards his lab. His first thought to run there hastily aborted as the now far too long robe and his far too short legs nearly took him flying down the stairway head first. Instead a brisk stride quickly finds him on the main floor, face to face with a small card table that he doesn't recognize.
Atop the table sits an open laptop and some kind of device resembling a small printer. The screen is clearly displaying a paused video. With an angry grunt that only reminds Jameson how much he is not himself, he slaps the space bar to start the video.
Allen's face appears with a rather cruel sneer.
"Good morning, Dr. Evans, or perhaps now Miss Evans would be more appropriate. Clearly you're now aware of one of those secret projects we've been working on. Who wouldn't pay a fortune to become a teenager again? It's architected immortality, simply requiring a booster shot every 30 years or so." Allen smirks a little, "Oh, and making you a girl? That is something else we've been working on. Not quite as large a market, but certainly a good funding draw. This one isn't going to be released for quite some time though, we can't have anyone believing your story about being Jameson Evans, now can we?
Jameson fumes, glaring daggers at the screen that clearly can't see or respond to his anger, his delicate slender fists clenched so hard they're shaking, but Allen goes on unphased, "I'm sure you're furious, and frankly you should be, but sincerely you really need to just get over it. There's nothing you can do, and soon enough you won't even want to do anything."
Jameson keeps glaring at the image on the video, shivering though as the rough robe he's wearing seems like it's tormenting his nipples in a completely unreasonable way. Every breath seems to have it rubbing them harder, and sensations are rushing through his body that are quite unfamiliar.
"In your guest room, Miss Evans," he continues, placing a very strong emphasis on the Miss, "we've gathered all you'll need for your new life. You have a credit card with a generous stipend, some nice pretty clothes, oh, and your school uniform." At this he grins, and Jameson opens his mouth to shout uselessly at the screen but instead a whimpered moan escapes his lips. When did his hands get between his legs? What is this amazing sensation rushing his mind, these feelings coming unbidden as his emotions are a blend of indignant rage and boiling lust.
Allan had been speaking for a few minutes, ignored by Jameson, who forces his mind to look back into those cruel, terribly handsome eyes. "It's got to be frustrating though.. you must hate me but that conditioning we added to the cocktail that changed you probably has you about ready to cum, doesn't it... The man you hate more than anything in existence is also a truly undeniable, body-numbing aphrodisiac... go on... cum..."
Jameson's mouth starts to form the flurry of curses but instead squeals and shuddering moans erupt from his lips. Collapsing to his knees, his fingers work over his young clit, dipping inside those folds of his sex, not even being able to enjoy the first exploration of his body as it was just part of his programming. His orgasm tears through him like a wildfire, hips spasming against the air, mouth slack as he barely keeps himself from moaning Allen's name. Minutes pass before Jameson is able to focus on the screen again, and by now Allen is laughing.
Jameson has no idea how long the laughter went on, but Allan finally seems able to settle down, and leans forward, "There, that should give you some time to be able to look at me and not feel that way... at least for a few minutes." There's that obnoxious sneer, but it does seem to make his eyes sparkle in the most endearing way. No, Jameson had to focus his mind back to keep off of his programmed response to his mutineer.
"When this video finishes, there will be a chance to select your name. Once you do, then a full set of documents will be produced from the printer beside you, as well as a signal sent to our labs to add said records to the legal system ensuring that your life as whomever you become will be set in stone." Allen's voice shifts from that taunting sneer to a sincerely more angry tone... "Frankly I couldn't give a shit who you become, just stay the fuck away from me and SciMed and have a great life."
The video clicks off and just as promised, a screen is asking for his, or rather her, name. Jameson's anger doesn't blind him from the fact that she's going to need valid identification to do pretty much anything, so without a plan to get his company back in the next 6 hours, she'll have to accept the credentials offered to her from the computer. His first thought is that there's no way he'll pick Jamie as that's a name that he was teased with as a child, mocking him with a girl's name. While it might be appropriate now, the memories aren't ones he would like to be reminded of constantly. He's considers what he feels are important. He'd like to keep his initials the same, and like to get a pretty name, since he has no idea how long she'll be stuck with it. After some deliberation she comes up with Jessica and types it in. Now for a last name he thinks again, deciding quickly on Elm.
Jessica Elm
This could be a name he will have to stare at for dozens of years, but if all goes well he'll be back in his own body far before then. One tap of the enter key and the light on the laptop's camera clicks on and a message on the screen states, "Click to take photo ID." But lower another message, "Do you really want your photo id to be with bed head and wearing a robe?" Jameson, or now Jessica as he tries to think of himself, blinks, wondering if she was really that predictable, then stands up and heads to the room she was told the clothing was left for her to set about getting picture-ready.
Walking into the room it's clear that they had been planning this for a while, as there are dressers that were not here before, full of feminine undergarments, not to mention the walk-in wardrobes full of dresses and gowns, with a set of her school uniforms as well. With a more cute sounding than menacing grumble she pulls her robe off and tosses it on the bed and rummages about her new clothes until she finds what she's looking for, clothing at least shaped similarly to what she's used to. She grasps a simple cotton shirt and a pair of jeans, tossing them on the bed as well before moving on to get underwear. Now she stops, as nothing here is familiar, undergarments all seeming to be some soft, almost silky cotton, actual silk, or lace and satin. In addition, there are almost countless different kinds of styles. Just grabbing the first thing she sees that doesn't appear to be a thong she ends up with a pale blue pair that she will someday learn are called boy shorts. She hesitates, considering a bra as she finds the drawer of them, and figures she might as well try to look like who she is at least for now, as this picture might last 4 years or more. Add to that a pair of socks and things look good to go.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed she starts with the panties, which slip on relatively comfortably but their presence makes a very notable reminder of what's no longer between her slender, toned thighs. The smooth pressure of those panties is actually more comfortable than she's used to, without the need to adjust or be careful about anything down there. Then comes the bra, which she peers at a moment, then puts on backwards, spins it around, and slips her arms through the straps. Her chest is modest and pert, the bra really not required other than for propriety, but it's the right thing to wear.
Then come the jeans, which apparently were designed to fit like a second skin, or more appropriately fit like a first skin, except the first layer was still in the way. She had to lie down on the bed and arch and wiggle to slip them on, the garment so snug that her feet only fit through because of two small zippers by the ankle. After squirming into the jeans, she pulls on the t-shirt and peers over at a mirror, instantly reminding her of two things. The first is that she still desperately needs to brush her hair, but the second is that she is an absolutely stunning young lady.
Looking around for shoes she can't seem to find any sneakers, only fashion shoes. With the though "in for a penny" she grabs a pair of brown ankle boots with a thick wedge heel about two inches tall that she figures should be rather simple to walk in, though she notes she'll need to go get some sneakers. Then she's off for the bathroom, guessing that's where she could find a hairbrush.
The bathroom attached to Jessica's room, as opposed to Jameson's room upstairs, apparently is ready for the most makeup and fashion conscious girl in existence as a dozen brushes, along with makeup kits containing tools and devices she can't even imagine the use of are set up in a well organized yet still dizzying array about the room. Settling for simply brushing out her hair, Jessica grasps a long-bristled brush and starts working on her hair.
Thankfully Jameson had dated some girls with long hair, so while he had no idea how to style it, he knew enough, at least to brush from the bottom rather than battle all the tangles at once, and after about 15 minutes her hair was draping like a silken waterfall over her shoulders. There must be some straightening alteration that was also added into the enhancements that were forced upon the unwilling CEO. This change would have likely cost a willing patient millions.
Jessica heads confidently back back into the foyer of the house. She hears her heels now clicking lightly on the floor as she walks and is glad to find she was right about the ease of mobility. Turning to the camera and trying to offer a winning smile, the button is clicked, the printer spins up, and seconds later the newly made and lovely redhead Jessica Elm is looking at the results of her first selfie...
Opting to just start with a shower instead, Jameson turns, slipping his feet over the side of the bed as he's done hundreds of times before. This time , though, his feet don't meet where he expected and rather than standing up he's sliding out of bed with a frantic and ungraceful thump, causing him to cry out suddenly.
This fall shocked him even more as when he landed he felt a weight on his chest bouncing against him, and then he heard a girl cry out nearby as he landed. Jameson is a very smart man, but some things just defy quick logic.
His hands reach up tentatively to that mass on his chest, looking down at the same time as his vision clears from his sleepiness. His gaze meets the sight of delicate, slender fingertips far more graceful and feminine than his own as they cup and caress a modest pair of breasts.
Hastily standing up, his groggy half-woken state clearing faster and faster, he makes his way to the bathroom and stares at the mirror in disbelief. Looking back at him is a girl, maybe 17 years old, with mussed up long red hair and a rather slender, fetching figure, though currently wearing nothing buy a look of absolute shock.
Too distracted to worry about his morning routine, Jameson grabs a robe and tugs it on, heading downstairs towards his lab. His first thought to run there hastily aborted as the now far too long robe and his far too short legs nearly took him flying down the stairway head first. Instead a brisk stride quickly finds him on the main floor, face to face with a small card table that he doesn't recognize.
Atop the table sits an open laptop and some kind of device resembling a small printer. The screen is clearly displaying a paused video. With an angry grunt that only reminds Jameson how much he is not himself, he slaps the space bar to start the video.
Allen's face appears with a rather cruel sneer.
"Good morning, Dr. Evans, or perhaps now Miss Evans would be more appropriate. Clearly you're now aware of one of those secret projects we've been working on. Who wouldn't pay a fortune to become a teenager again? It's architected immortality, simply requiring a booster shot every 30 years or so." Allen smirks a little, "Oh, and making you a girl? That is something else we've been working on. Not quite as large a market, but certainly a good funding draw. This one isn't going to be released for quite some time though, we can't have anyone believing your story about being Jameson Evans, now can we?
Jameson fumes, glaring daggers at the screen that clearly can't see or respond to his anger, his delicate slender fists clenched so hard they're shaking, but Allen goes on unphased, "I'm sure you're furious, and frankly you should be, but sincerely you really need to just get over it. There's nothing you can do, and soon enough you won't even want to do anything."
Jameson keeps glaring at the image on the video, shivering though as the rough robe he's wearing seems like it's tormenting his nipples in a completely unreasonable way. Every breath seems to have it rubbing them harder, and sensations are rushing through his body that are quite unfamiliar.
"In your guest room, Miss Evans," he continues, placing a very strong emphasis on the Miss, "we've gathered all you'll need for your new life. You have a credit card with a generous stipend, some nice pretty clothes, oh, and your school uniform." At this he grins, and Jameson opens his mouth to shout uselessly at the screen but instead a whimpered moan escapes his lips. When did his hands get between his legs? What is this amazing sensation rushing his mind, these feelings coming unbidden as his emotions are a blend of indignant rage and boiling lust.
Allan had been speaking for a few minutes, ignored by Jameson, who forces his mind to look back into those cruel, terribly handsome eyes. "It's got to be frustrating though.. you must hate me but that conditioning we added to the cocktail that changed you probably has you about ready to cum, doesn't it... The man you hate more than anything in existence is also a truly undeniable, body-numbing aphrodisiac... go on... cum..."
Jameson's mouth starts to form the flurry of curses but instead squeals and shuddering moans erupt from his lips. Collapsing to his knees, his fingers work over his young clit, dipping inside those folds of his sex, not even being able to enjoy the first exploration of his body as it was just part of his programming. His orgasm tears through him like a wildfire, hips spasming against the air, mouth slack as he barely keeps himself from moaning Allen's name. Minutes pass before Jameson is able to focus on the screen again, and by now Allen is laughing.
Jameson has no idea how long the laughter went on, but Allan finally seems able to settle down, and leans forward, "There, that should give you some time to be able to look at me and not feel that way... at least for a few minutes." There's that obnoxious sneer, but it does seem to make his eyes sparkle in the most endearing way. No, Jameson had to focus his mind back to keep off of his programmed response to his mutineer.
"When this video finishes, there will be a chance to select your name. Once you do, then a full set of documents will be produced from the printer beside you, as well as a signal sent to our labs to add said records to the legal system ensuring that your life as whomever you become will be set in stone." Allen's voice shifts from that taunting sneer to a sincerely more angry tone... "Frankly I couldn't give a shit who you become, just stay the fuck away from me and SciMed and have a great life."
The video clicks off and just as promised, a screen is asking for his, or rather her, name. Jameson's anger doesn't blind him from the fact that she's going to need valid identification to do pretty much anything, so without a plan to get his company back in the next 6 hours, she'll have to accept the credentials offered to her from the computer. His first thought is that there's no way he'll pick Jamie as that's a name that he was teased with as a child, mocking him with a girl's name. While it might be appropriate now, the memories aren't ones he would like to be reminded of constantly. He's considers what he feels are important. He'd like to keep his initials the same, and like to get a pretty name, since he has no idea how long she'll be stuck with it. After some deliberation she comes up with Jessica and types it in. Now for a last name he thinks again, deciding quickly on Elm.
Jessica Elm
This could be a name he will have to stare at for dozens of years, but if all goes well he'll be back in his own body far before then. One tap of the enter key and the light on the laptop's camera clicks on and a message on the screen states, "Click to take photo ID." But lower another message, "Do you really want your photo id to be with bed head and wearing a robe?" Jameson, or now Jessica as he tries to think of himself, blinks, wondering if she was really that predictable, then stands up and heads to the room she was told the clothing was left for her to set about getting picture-ready.
Walking into the room it's clear that they had been planning this for a while, as there are dressers that were not here before, full of feminine undergarments, not to mention the walk-in wardrobes full of dresses and gowns, with a set of her school uniforms as well. With a more cute sounding than menacing grumble she pulls her robe off and tosses it on the bed and rummages about her new clothes until she finds what she's looking for, clothing at least shaped similarly to what she's used to. She grasps a simple cotton shirt and a pair of jeans, tossing them on the bed as well before moving on to get underwear. Now she stops, as nothing here is familiar, undergarments all seeming to be some soft, almost silky cotton, actual silk, or lace and satin. In addition, there are almost countless different kinds of styles. Just grabbing the first thing she sees that doesn't appear to be a thong she ends up with a pale blue pair that she will someday learn are called boy shorts. She hesitates, considering a bra as she finds the drawer of them, and figures she might as well try to look like who she is at least for now, as this picture might last 4 years or more. Add to that a pair of socks and things look good to go.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed she starts with the panties, which slip on relatively comfortably but their presence makes a very notable reminder of what's no longer between her slender, toned thighs. The smooth pressure of those panties is actually more comfortable than she's used to, without the need to adjust or be careful about anything down there. Then comes the bra, which she peers at a moment, then puts on backwards, spins it around, and slips her arms through the straps. Her chest is modest and pert, the bra really not required other than for propriety, but it's the right thing to wear.
Then come the jeans, which apparently were designed to fit like a second skin, or more appropriately fit like a first skin, except the first layer was still in the way. She had to lie down on the bed and arch and wiggle to slip them on, the garment so snug that her feet only fit through because of two small zippers by the ankle. After squirming into the jeans, she pulls on the t-shirt and peers over at a mirror, instantly reminding her of two things. The first is that she still desperately needs to brush her hair, but the second is that she is an absolutely stunning young lady.
Looking around for shoes she can't seem to find any sneakers, only fashion shoes. With the though "in for a penny" she grabs a pair of brown ankle boots with a thick wedge heel about two inches tall that she figures should be rather simple to walk in, though she notes she'll need to go get some sneakers. Then she's off for the bathroom, guessing that's where she could find a hairbrush.
The bathroom attached to Jessica's room, as opposed to Jameson's room upstairs, apparently is ready for the most makeup and fashion conscious girl in existence as a dozen brushes, along with makeup kits containing tools and devices she can't even imagine the use of are set up in a well organized yet still dizzying array about the room. Settling for simply brushing out her hair, Jessica grasps a long-bristled brush and starts working on her hair.
Thankfully Jameson had dated some girls with long hair, so while he had no idea how to style it, he knew enough, at least to brush from the bottom rather than battle all the tangles at once, and after about 15 minutes her hair was draping like a silken waterfall over her shoulders. There must be some straightening alteration that was also added into the enhancements that were forced upon the unwilling CEO. This change would have likely cost a willing patient millions.
Jessica heads confidently back back into the foyer of the house. She hears her heels now clicking lightly on the floor as she walks and is glad to find she was right about the ease of mobility. Turning to the camera and trying to offer a winning smile, the button is clicked, the printer spins up, and seconds later the newly made and lovely redhead Jessica Elm is looking at the results of her first selfie...
So Jessica fetched her Student ID and examined it. Seems she's a Junior at the local school, Bridgefield High School. Then her drivers license. Looks like her real address is there, and she's listed as just having turned 17 about a month ago, "Damnit, I'm not even legal yet."
She knew this presented a whole new problem. Truancy in Bridgefield has been becoming more and more of an issue to the point where the police have been more directly involved, actually being notified almost as fast as the parents are usually called when a student is not in school. Certain that Allen wouldn't have forgotten to have this lovely preprogrammed laptop register Jessica for her classes, she frowns and heads back to her room to change into the required uniform. On the way she grabs a laptop, so once in the room she hops up onto the bed and sets it in her lap and starts searching for the school dress code.
It's strange the things one learns when in a new body. Jessica never thought that her typing would be affected, but now her fingers were more slender, a bit shorter, and capped with delicate, perfectly formed nails. All of these things made typing a drastically different experience with far more mistakes than she's used to making. In time, with a fair bit of cursing, she has the page she's looking for with a clear explanation of what's expected.
She looks over and considers the list of items. First a clean white shirt under a vest, no problems there. Then the skirt and the required pantyhose or tights. Ugh, she had to wear a skirt already? Looking down at her legs, Jessica shrugs and sets the laptop aside. Complaining wasn't going to help, so might as well just do it. She had to admit, though, she'd always been just a little curious how those kinds of things felt, so perhaps part of her acceptance is only feigned reluctance. She shakes her head, pulling the long crimson strands back from her face as she makes her way over to the closet and picks through the neatly organized garments, finding several of each of the skirts, shirts, and vests as required. Tossing a skirt, shirt, and dark pantyhose over to the bed, she makes her way over.
After disrobing down to her panties and bra, she sits on the edge of the bed, deciding to tackle the easiest first. Slipping the dress shirt on was indeed simple, but she quickly was reminded even more of her state as her chest and slim figure makes the simple shirt fit in a very complex way, not to mention the buttons being on the wrong side. Then the thin, school issued sweater is pulled over her head, the snug garment fitting down her tiny waist and making everything seem a bit more sensual, even though they're just school clothes.
Now she picks up her pantyhose and with an uncertain glance at them, it's back to her laptop, pulling up instructional videos on how to pull on pantyhose properly. Five minutes later she thinks she has a good grasp on it and with delicate, slow movements she slides the dark pantyhose up first one leg, then the other, before standing up and shimmying her hips slightly, pulling it up over her panties and then under her shirt a bit... Pondering a moment, she folds it down a bit again, then picks up the skirt and steps into it. Compared to the complexity of the pantyhose, the skirt slips up over her legs almost too easily, though as the cotton drags over the nylon of her hose, her body feels a chill rush through it, certainly a sensation she'd never felt as a man. Clearing her throat she adjusts the skirt, fastening a small button sitting on her left hip before brushing it out and looking down.
It's beyond surreal, looking down at his own body, the mind of a man nearing his fifties now looking at his new body, a slender, delicate, female young lady getting ready for school. Glancing up at the full length mirror in her room, she can't help but bite her lip as she sees just how pretty she is. She offers herself a weak smile, and even that makes her entire face light up just a bit. Her revelry is abruptly interrupted by a very forceful knock on the front door.
Nearly slipping in her nylons, Jessica grabs a pair of loafers from the closet apparently reserved for her school clothes and slips them on, then runs downstairs. It's amazing how different the same staircase can feel when the legs running it have changed. Finally reaching the door as the impatient knocker is on his third volley of abuses to the fine wood, she opens it. Looking up she sees the stern expression and sunglass-hidden eyes of a local law enforcement officer. His voice sounds just as stern as his expression, "Running late, Missy?"
She knew this presented a whole new problem. Truancy in Bridgefield has been becoming more and more of an issue to the point where the police have been more directly involved, actually being notified almost as fast as the parents are usually called when a student is not in school. Certain that Allen wouldn't have forgotten to have this lovely preprogrammed laptop register Jessica for her classes, she frowns and heads back to her room to change into the required uniform. On the way she grabs a laptop, so once in the room she hops up onto the bed and sets it in her lap and starts searching for the school dress code.
It's strange the things one learns when in a new body. Jessica never thought that her typing would be affected, but now her fingers were more slender, a bit shorter, and capped with delicate, perfectly formed nails. All of these things made typing a drastically different experience with far more mistakes than she's used to making. In time, with a fair bit of cursing, she has the page she's looking for with a clear explanation of what's expected.
She looks over and considers the list of items. First a clean white shirt under a vest, no problems there. Then the skirt and the required pantyhose or tights. Ugh, she had to wear a skirt already? Looking down at her legs, Jessica shrugs and sets the laptop aside. Complaining wasn't going to help, so might as well just do it. She had to admit, though, she'd always been just a little curious how those kinds of things felt, so perhaps part of her acceptance is only feigned reluctance. She shakes her head, pulling the long crimson strands back from her face as she makes her way over to the closet and picks through the neatly organized garments, finding several of each of the skirts, shirts, and vests as required. Tossing a skirt, shirt, and dark pantyhose over to the bed, she makes her way over.
After disrobing down to her panties and bra, she sits on the edge of the bed, deciding to tackle the easiest first. Slipping the dress shirt on was indeed simple, but she quickly was reminded even more of her state as her chest and slim figure makes the simple shirt fit in a very complex way, not to mention the buttons being on the wrong side. Then the thin, school issued sweater is pulled over her head, the snug garment fitting down her tiny waist and making everything seem a bit more sensual, even though they're just school clothes.
Now she picks up her pantyhose and with an uncertain glance at them, it's back to her laptop, pulling up instructional videos on how to pull on pantyhose properly. Five minutes later she thinks she has a good grasp on it and with delicate, slow movements she slides the dark pantyhose up first one leg, then the other, before standing up and shimmying her hips slightly, pulling it up over her panties and then under her shirt a bit... Pondering a moment, she folds it down a bit again, then picks up the skirt and steps into it. Compared to the complexity of the pantyhose, the skirt slips up over her legs almost too easily, though as the cotton drags over the nylon of her hose, her body feels a chill rush through it, certainly a sensation she'd never felt as a man. Clearing her throat she adjusts the skirt, fastening a small button sitting on her left hip before brushing it out and looking down.
It's beyond surreal, looking down at his own body, the mind of a man nearing his fifties now looking at his new body, a slender, delicate, female young lady getting ready for school. Glancing up at the full length mirror in her room, she can't help but bite her lip as she sees just how pretty she is. She offers herself a weak smile, and even that makes her entire face light up just a bit. Her revelry is abruptly interrupted by a very forceful knock on the front door.
Nearly slipping in her nylons, Jessica grabs a pair of loafers from the closet apparently reserved for her school clothes and slips them on, then runs downstairs. It's amazing how different the same staircase can feel when the legs running it have changed. Finally reaching the door as the impatient knocker is on his third volley of abuses to the fine wood, she opens it. Looking up she sees the stern expression and sunglass-hidden eyes of a local law enforcement officer. His voice sounds just as stern as his expression, "Running late, Missy?"
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