More details.

You look around the unknown bedroom with mildly growing distaste. A cheap timber laminate chest of drawers props ugly and dejected against the far wall, drawers angled and unaligned. A tastelessly gaudy glass ashtray loaded with stinky butts and darkling stubbed out cancer dreams sits on its weathered top beside an overused and button deprived tv remote. No tv though.

A wonky ceiling fan spirals awkwardly above you, it’s off kilter mechanism ticking like a metronome. The off white walls are grimy and fly stained at their tops and water marked and oft scuffed at their bottoms. Unceremoniously discarded bra, hurriedly wriggled out of panties and lazily kicked off sandles are strewn artlessly over the worn out timber floor. The cold morning light cuts into the dazed interior, bright angry angled bands slicing mercilessly through the cheap metal Venetian blinds and into everything.

Outside you can hear ominously heavy traffic, depressing horns and rumbling trains. It sounds like a place you’d never want to frequent out there.

Yeah. This feels like a seedy flophouse on the wrong side of the tracks. You climb unsteadily to your feet, breasts swaying heavy. “Shit.” You repeat.

How the fuck did you end up here?

You reach down and pick up the bra and unravel its contorted mess. It’s definitely a very surreal part of this waking puzzle. Experimentally you try it on. One cup at a time you gently adjust your rather sensitive new breasts into it. You discover that your nipples tingle pleasantly as they rub against the cheap fabric. It fits. Of course it fits.

The panties are next. You hold them up disdainfully. They’re cheap and flimsy. You sniff them. At least they’re clean. Unlike every surface of this place. You exhale and slip your slim feminine legs into them. The panties hug the mound of your new sex like an old friend. The string slips unpleasantly between your ass cheeks. A g-string. Again it seems apt.