Male Professor, and Tests

You hurry out of the store, thinking about whether you should actually try to use the stone. You walk down the sidewalk and stare at it, noticing how the sunlight reflects off of it in strange ways. You try to focus on the office hours thta you're holding relatively soon, as well as the class that you're teaching later and quicken your step while twirling the stone through your fingers. Although you've tried not to think about them in the sexual ways you are now, students in your literature classes flash through your mind in compromising positions and situations. The idea that you could alter their, or anyone's, entire reality causes your jeans to tighten as you grow aroused, so you finally decide that you may as well try to use it before you get to school and see what happens.

You reach the parking lot and start to cut through it towards your car. As you do you notice a woman with no one around her getting out of a BMW. No one appears to be with her, so you take a deep a breath and approach her. As you do you covertly steal glances, which allows you to see that she has light brown hair, a skinny body with some curve to her hips and chest, a pretty face, is in her mid ot late twenties, and is wearing tight jeans and a white tank top. You get closer, and as she's about to start walking elsewhere you say, "Hi, ma'am, I'm sorry to bother you, but have we met before? You look familiar."

She looks at you for a moment, scoffs, and says, "I don't think so. I'm Jessica Thompson, if that happens to help."

You pretend to think about that for a moment, then say, "Yeah, that rings a bell. You're a rich blonde, and I think we may have met in the gym awhile back. Sorry for the characterization."

The stone warms in your hand, and you glance down at it for a moment. "Yes, a...rich blonde," the woman says. You look up and see that her hair has fully transitioned to a pure blonde. Shocked, you look at her, scared that she'll do something to you. She furrows her brow in confusion, then runs her hand through her hair. "I think this was brown, but this feels right," she says slowly. Her eyes lock onto you, and she says, "Did you do something?"

You panic, but rely on the craziness of the situation and simply say, "No, I didn't. I don't recall there being a difference in your hair."

The woman looks at you again, then looks around furtively and in some confusion, but she simply says, "Okay," with some trepidation and gets back into her car. As she does the full gravity of what just occurred hits you, and you look at the stone in wonder, contemplating what to do next.