Let's Table That Question

You wake up with a start, throwing the sweat-soaked sheets from your body as you bolt upright and gasp in air. You thrash your head wildly, trying to figure out what has happened and where you are without actually seeing anything. You slowly begin to calm down as you realize that you'd been tucked into a bed, a huge, obscenely comfortable one at that. Wait...oh shit, the orientation! You passed out, didn't you? They must have brought you here so you could rest and...uh, where is here, exactly?

You look around more alertly now, wiping the sweat from your brow as you try to place your surroundings. Well, you sure didn't pass through this room when you came in; you seem to be in a luxurious hotel room or something. Seriously, this place looks like...you don't know, some cartoon Prince's castle after the curse has been lifted and his interior decorator turned back to a human from a bidet. Like, you aren't sure if geese even exist anymore, because they all might have been stuffed into this bed. And that giant wardrobe looks like it was carved from a single piece of some wood you can't name, but is probably called something like "I Am Worth More Than Your Life" Mahogany. And that carpet? You resolve to do everything you can to avoid stepping on the carpet and leave it at that. You don't want to be in debt the rest of your life when they fire you from this place.

Actually, there is one odd thing: The walls of the bedroom (and it is definitely that) are stuffed with portraits, all of the same two people. One is an absurdly cute, vaguely familiar looking little girl with long pink hair (pink?) dressed in a dizzying array of princess gowns, and the the other is sure as fuck you. Well sort of. He's younger than you are now, maybe three years older than the girl. And while the rough estimate is close, it's almost as if someone gave a sketch artist your vague description and they decided "You know, let's be as generous with this as we can". Because_ _unlike this guy, you don't look like you're an Olympic gymnast who professionally models underwear the rest of the year. No pink hair either, and that is when you realize why the girl looks familiar. She's not really close enough to You, but she is for sure the little sister of Candyland Sexbomb You.

You take a closer look the girl, brushing a long lock of pink hair out of your face. Man, why do they have her blushing so much in all of these paintings? That's really an odd....uh, what. What? You grab hold of some hair and roll your eyes up, taking in your suddenly carnation colored hair and in the process getting an eyeful of your full reflection in the mirror that has been attached to the ceiling over your bed. Well there's Ol' Candyland Sexbomb in the flesh, now why the FUCK is he sitting where you're sitting, gaping stupidly up at his reflection just like YOU are?

You slide out of the bed, too preoccupied by everything else to find it weird that you're totally naked. Okay, does passing out suddenly give you ridiculous full-body tone? And a swatch of pink pubic hair? And fucking what, a goddamn bigger dick? You test the waters with both hands and confirm it; you've gained like three inches! You let your apparently up-sized cock slap back down to your thigh as you reach up and take take two big handfuls of silky pink hair, hoping you can WILL yourself into understanding any of this shit. And it is precisely then, naked as a jaybird and dick hanging proudly for the world to see, that bedroom door bursts open.