New outfit

The world didn't shift with a jolt or a flash of light. It was a sickening lurch, a silent, seamless tear in the fabric of my reality that happened between one blink and the next.

One moment, I was in my comfortable grey hoodie and my favorite pair of jeans, the soft denim worn in just right. The pen was still in my hand, poised over a half-finished daisy. The next, I was… not.

The first thing I noticed was the cold. A sharp, invasive chill that pricked at my legs and my midriff. I looked down, and my brain refused to process what my eyes were seeing. My grey hoodie was gone. In its place was a scrap of thin, stretchy black fabric that barely contained my breasts, a tube top so tight it was a struggle to breathe. My jeans had vanished, replaced by a pleated black skirt that was so absurdly short it barely qualified as a belt, its hem resting high on my thighs. My legs were bare, exposed to the recycled air of the classroom.

My feet screamed in protest. Trapped in shoes I'd never own in a million years, towering black heels with a sharp, needle-like point. They forced my ankles into an agonizing arch, making my feet feel like they were being broken on the rack. I wobbled, the hard plastic of the chair suddenly slick and unforgiving beneath me.

A deep, intrusive hum started low in my pelvis, a steady, m thrumming that sent a jolt of horrified electricity through me. It was coming from *inside* me. A slick, weighted presence filled my other entrance, a foreign, unyielding pressure that made me want to scream. My face felt heavy, caked. I could feel the crust of mascara on my lashes, the sticky gloss on my lips, the sharp line of eyeliner I knew was smudged around my eyes. A tight band of leather, a choker, was snug against my throat, a constant, constricting reminder of my new state.

Panic, cold and absolute, seized me. My breath hitched, coming in ragged, shallow gasps that only made the tube top feel tighter. I dropped my pen. It clattered to the floor, but I couldn't bend to get it. Not in this skirt. Not in these shoes. My hands flew to my chest, my stomach, my thighs, trying to cover, to hide, to make it stop. But there was nothing to grab onto, nothing to fix. This was just… me. Now.

I dared to look up, my eyes wide with terror, and met Leo's. He was still leaning back in his chair, but his expression had changed. The faint smile was gone, replaced by a look of raw, undisguised satisfaction. His eyes roamed over me, over every new, humiliating detail, and I saw it. The triumph. The ownership. He had done this. With a single, silent wish, he had reached into my world and stripped me bare and dressed me up like his own personal doll.

And the worst part? The most soul-destroying part of it all? Mr. Henderson was still talking about the goddamn Treaty of Versailles. Sarah Jenkins was still taking notes. The boy next to me was still asleep. No one was screaming. No one was staring. No one saw a thing.