"Are you okay, ma'am?"

His shaking of his flashlight blinds me for a minute, forcing my hand to block the light from hitting my eyes. His question shocks me. Me? "Ma'am?" I'm a guy for chrissakes.

He asks me again the same question, shaking his flashlight into my face all the more? I look up and squint my eyes from the bright lights. I focus on his face. As I do, I feel an unusual feeling of child to adult reverance. Obviously, police officers have the job of enforce the law on us. I finally tune into reality and I respond, "I'm fine." I find that my voice was deliver like a mellow-pitch sound, much like a girl's voice. I blame it on my vocal chords, which must have been dry due to being sleeping. After I respond I try to get a look or feel of myself, without attracting to much attention from the sheriff.

After two minutes of looking and looking,and feeling with my hands, I am bewildered to find my body is not male but female. I find that I have two medium-sized breasts, probably measured at 34C, protruding out of my chest that are under what feels like a sports bra. This undergarment has tight, but not too tight, band on its bottom end which clings to my body from back to front. I can feel two wide straps coming up, supporting my breasts and running up past my shoulders, coming down and meeting at my spine. this sports bra is under a soft, and small-feeling common girl's white tee. I can feel that the bottom hem stops an inch from my belly button. This tee is under a brown fleece zip-up track jacket, which is also tight-fitting on my body.

Down under, I don't feel a bulging penis at my crotch but a void. I feel uneasy because I'm used to having something there. That and my ass hole is covered what feels like a cotton thong. Like the sports bra, a tight band is part of this undergarment that hugs my waist and friction makes it stay there. Like a panty, the thong has a wide front end, but as it hugs my body, goes over my pussy, through my legs, over my ass hole, and tightly up my butt cheeks. This thong and my legs are covered with some track pants, perfectly matching the style and color of my track jacket.

Lastly, I feel on top of my head, like a waterfall, dark brunette hair that flows down, drapes behind my head in a large wavy fashion, past my shoulders, and stops four inches from my waistline. I take a hand and grab several strands of my hair. In the dim light, illuminated by the moonlight and the lights of the police cruiser behind my car, I see that my hair isn't just one color. Having a natural hair color of brown, I see overlapping and overlapped by the natural hair, strands of the same silky feeling but in colors four to five shades lighter. The voice of the sheriff draws my attention from my hair to him.

"You ain't hurt are you ma'am?" he asks again, but I hesitate in answering his question.

"I don't think so," as I respond I try to get up and he watches carefully as to catch me if I fall down. I get up without the fear of falling down.

"Whatcha doin out here in the middle of the night, ma'am?" the sheriff asks once I get up on my feet.

"I was trying to get away from the city that's all," I watch the words and the way they sound as they escape from my mouth. I sound like a city-girl in her early twenties and who has more coy than naughty attitude. "Then my car overheated." I said it once before to myself that the car I was standing next to looked like it would break down every five miles or so. I try to make it up so that me and the sheriff would believe it.

"It doesn't look overheated, but it's a really nice car in my opinion," he says it like a car buff. "I would see some damage done by steam, right around the hood area.

As he was noticing a well-maintained, vintage ride, I turned my head back and I see, not a rusty car, but a polished, well-maintained, orange Plymouth Barracuda, or a Hemi Cuda for short. There were no signs of overheating around the hood area. Actually, the way I left it was that I lifted the hood of the car and towers of steam has escaped from its metal prison. All I could see what the hood down in place and the area around the hood clean, glimmering in the lights of the siren.

The exterior of the vehicle was out of this world. I have seen many cars as a guy but not to this extent. The exterior was a scene to be seen. The car had larger wheels that the front, as well as larger tires wrapped around them, giving it a drag racing aura around it. With the chrome wheels, I see other parts included in the exterior of the car. Along the sides of the car were painted stripes taht were common to Barracudas. These stripes with like dashed lines on the sides of the car and were of a black color to themAccompanying the orange glow of the paintjob and the black dashed striped along the side, two black racing stripes ran from the back end to the hood of the car. The stripes end at a mysterious, black hood scoop. This hood scoop did not look like it was part of the hood but part of the engine. At the back, a simple-looking tail wing contributed to the natural curves and corners of the vehicle. Drawing my attention from the car to him again, the sheriff adds, "But it would be unlikely to find you behind the wheel of this vehicle. In that case, I would need to see your driver's license and registration."

I got completely scared when he said it. I was unsure that I had a license to go with this body. I was even scared to find out anything that did or didn't match my outward appearance. So I tried to use that appearance and my voice to somehow thwart and suspicious upon me.

"Is that really necessary?" I ask using my innocent voice to my advantage.

"It is unfortunately. I need to be sure you did not steal this car."

"Steal? Officer, I wouldn't steal this car. That's because this is my car."

"Don't fight the law ma'am, I just need your cooperation."

I'm shocked to find myself arguing with the officer. This claim that the Barracuda is my car makes me go back to the Cops shows about what happen to people who disregard the law. Backfiring, my speech makes me feel that I am obviously suspicious, having a car like this in my possession. I am made to believe that I actually did steal this car and I paid the price for it after I took it out of the city. Whatever happened that would put me in a situation that I myself can't explain, bewilders me.

My innocence turns against me and I give in and cooperate. I turn around and open the car door and sit in the driver's seat. The setting of the seat is for a tall male. As I sit in the seat, it becomes clear that the car belongs to a guy, but that doesn't stop me from using the situation to my advantage. After all, the officer, due to his position relative to the car, he can't see me sitting in a guy's seat. Actually, I'm in a position where I can do anything without him seeing me. I can even pull out a gun, load it, cock it, and unleash my fury towards the officer with bullets flying. My innocence again takes ahold of me. I can't believe I'm thinking such things.

So I continue to search for the license. After a minute of searching any possible place for a license, I find it in the back of the glove box. I am unsure if the license is mine or if it belongs to someone else.