Business as Usual

Cool conditioned air prickles your delicate skin, startling you awake. You peer through the styled mass of loose tresses impairing your vision enough to notice your orientation seems off. You blink rapidly and attempt to regain your bearings to find you're seated, with head cocked slightly at a horizontal position. You work your now parched mouth closed, tasting a faint hint of clearly artificial cherry flavoring as you slide your tongue to moisten freshly painted lips. The stark contrast between the oppressive humidity of the park and the pleasantly cool controlled environment you suddenly find yourself leaves trails of gooseflesh along the sensitive skin of your stocking encased legs.

Stockinged legs? You sigh to yourself in defeat realizing very little has changed regarding your predicament.

You lift well manicured hands to press against the surface supporting your head to raise your womanly body to an inclined position. Even this simple action feels alien. Your body feels weighted in all the wrong places, which plays havoc with your sense of balance and coordination.

A long thin tensile strand of drool links your painted lips to a small pool of saliva gathered over what appears to be a desktop planner on top of a large solid mahogany desk. You groan in frustration, your ire steadily rising to threatening levels. What's left of your male bravado wrapped in this overly-feminine package fills you with the sudden urge to strike something. You direct your rage into a white hot pinpoint of focused energy manifested into each of your dainty balled fists and scream at the top of your lungs.

"Humph!" you exclaim with a sexy pout. You fold your slender arms beneath your chest and stomp a heeled foot to punctuate your annoyance.

What the fuck? You blink in confusion. That's clearly not right.

"Shit! Mother-Fucking Goddamn Cunt! Sarah!" You try to scream, but there's some kind of a disconnect between the signals sent from your brain and the reaction of your foreign body.

"Sarah, I've been an awfully BAD girl." You hear a purring alto drenched in arousal speak through your traitorous lips. "Would you PLEASE spank some SENSE into me?" you ask with a pout. You rhythmically flutter thick lashes while nibbling on the blood red nail of your right index finger coquettishly.

"Sonuva-Bit…" Your brain continues by reflex before you catch yourself.

"Skirt up and panties down plea…." your sexed-up voice continues before you're able to clear your mind.

To your surprise, you notice that your well-padded bum was already shuffling forward in the comfortable leather office chair you occupied without your notice. You halt your verbal tirade in time to catch your slender fingers in the process of working to raise the hem of your pinstripe knee-length suit skirt to expose the line of your panties, visible underneath your stockings.

So, not only were your words translated into come-ons, but your body would start to act on them as you said them. Your stepsister was always pretty straight-laced when it came to vulgarity and **** - did she set these rules to taunt you specifically? Your mind begins to race. Was this some kind of utopian society that you were trapped in? Was this actually reality, or was it a dream, or a different dimension? Were you actually a devastatingly attractive professional business-woman now, or was this body just an avatar for your consciousness; if that was the case, who's in your male body? Does it even exist anymore?

You had witnessed first hand the capabilities of that bizarre bracelet and your mind spins trying to comprehend the possibilities it unlocks. The blood running through your veins feels like ice as you try and fail to grasp the true depth of the pile of shit you've just stepped in.

You take a few moments to gain your composure. Losing your cool now won't help you get out of this. Breathing deeply, you look around.

You find yourself seated in a plush, black leather office chair behind a solid mahogany desk polished to a rich chocolate glow. You don't remember sitting down here, your body must have done it on its own. A laptop computer rests on the desk surface to your left, open to proudly display the Inc. Co. logo as it slowly bounces across the screen. Other than the neatly arranged pens and stacks of yellow sticky notes, the only other decoration on the desk is a framed picture at the right corner.

For a second you're hopeful. Your pulse quickens - this picture may be some kind of clue as to where you are. Or who you are? "Or what the FUCK Sarah wants from me in this Goddamn- oh, shit." You can't silence your stray thoughts and you get the all-too familiar feeling of being a passenger trapped in a prison of womanly flesh.

You don't pay any attention to how you're moving, focusing all your attention on reclaiming control from whatever **** is manipulating you. When you finally take control of your borrowed body back from the phantom puppet master, you make a mental note that you need to be MUCH more careful in controlling your thoughts.

The first thing you notice is a strain in your waist. You're bending over, stiffly, your white silk blouse and charcoal pinstripe blazer parted to expose large, heavy, pink satin encased breasts, which are pressed firmly to the desk surface below. You notice that your sensitive nipples are at stiff attention from the cool solid wood surface. Struggling to distract yourself from the pleasurable sensations pulsing through your painfully erect nipples, you suddenly realize that your delicate satin-pantied derriere protrudes obscenely behind your prone torso at the angle your body is bent. It takes conscious effort to stop your wide hips from gyrating sensually, stylish pinstripe suit skirt rucked to your waist, exposing the blushing flesh of your burning ass cheeks above and moistening mound of stimulated sex below. Your actions are synced with a chorus of low, hungry cooing and wanton purring emanating from your parted lips, curled into a blissful smile until you stop, using all the concentration you can muster.

You mentally curse your stupidity and lack of self control before taking a deep breath to soothe your frayed nerves. You suddenly think that it'd probably be a good idea to bump your next therapist appointment up to next week, before you completely loose your mind.

Wait, Therapist? Do you go to a therapist, or is it this woman you currently occupy? The growing list of questions you need answered before freeing yourself from this ethereal prison grows by the second.

You try letting your mind go blank, and it seems to do the trick. Your hands move to your blouse and fasten buttons of your designer blazer to just below your swelling chest. You can't help but be impressed as you watch your possessed fingers gently flatten the spread collar of your blouse neatly over the blazer lapels before drawing your tasteful business skirt back in place at your stocking-clad knees. You feel both hands lightly dust your well-cushioned bottom and along your skirted rear to smooth the material before primly seating yourself.

"Let's try this again," you think to yourself. You scoot your chair forward and hunch forward to better view the mahogany framed picture matching your glossy desk, and find yourself gazing at a picture of Sarah, smiling smugly and flashing the middle and index finger of each hand in a victorious 'V' symbol.

You sigh inwardly, utterly exhausted. You reach for the picture, trying to knock it off the table, or pick it up and throw it - anything to keep from having to look at your stepsister's smirking face. You touch the picture and cringe internally as a girlish squeal erupts from your painted lips. Your renegade hands reach excitedly for both the picture of Sarah and the hem of your skirt in one fluid motion. You plant a succulent wet-lipped kiss over your stepsister's haughty image before proceeding to draw sloppy wet tongue strokes along the slick glass surface. Your left hand deftly snakes beneath your skirt with surprising agility to nestle beneath stockings and panties to part nether lips and rhythmically plunge into your now sopping pussy.

Pure electricity currents through your body, steadily driving you to the brink of sexual release. Even though you've only been a business woman for about the length of a day, you've grown accustomed to the feeling of rising energy within you that comes right before an orgasm. High-pitched squeals leak from your parted lips, now formed into an exaggerated 'O', accompanied by the wet sloshing sounds of thumb, index, and middle finger pistoning through your blood-gorged folds with frantic pace.

You vaguely hear a knocking, but to you it's a feint annoyance flickering at the perimeter of the lust-fueled haze permeating your brain.

"Miss Brown?"A female voice calls out between each pestering knock. You don't really care, it's not important. You're a **** to your passions, unable to stop your erotic actions even if you wanted to.

"May I come in?"