On a couch in a living room.

"Oh she's awake, Rick!"

"Finally! Hey Marianne, rise and shine."

I wake up to find all four black guys either sitting on chair or standing up watching TV. I wasn't good at names back when I was a guy but for some reason, now that I'm in this woman's body, I remember all the four guys' name like the back of my hand.

Let's see, from left to right, the black guys are ordered by Rick, who is standing, Bruce, sitting in the recliner, and Tyrone and Carl sitting on the leather couch. Carl is the closest to me.

In the van, it was too dark for me to know what they were wearing but now that we are in the morning hours now, I can perfectly see their attire. I'm not sure whether they still have the clothes from when they picked me up or if they changed once they got here.

The bright colors that the crew has on really gets my attention. Rick wears a simple white tee and is long, almost passing the midway point of his thighs. He also has a silver chain dangling from his neck with a badge-sized medallion that kind of looks like a highway patrol badge. Sagging around his butt and around below his waist are baggy, dark denim jeans with designed stitches thread up and down the pants legs. Even in this house, which I think is a condo, Rick wears snow white Nike Air **** One's. To top off his attire, he dons his head with a black New York flat-visor hat, which shadows his tough looking face.

Bruce looks like he's comfortable, laying on the expensive recliner. The black leather that makes up the chair is a complete contrast to his almost Rasta-styled outfit. Bruce's face and arms seem to disappear as he sits in the chair. The only hues I see that's left is green and yellow. Bruce, not like Rick, wears no hat at all. This is mainly because atop his black head, bushy as it looks, is a mini afro. His face, in my opinion fits his hairstyle. Bruce's face looks like somebody who was on crack five minutes because his mouth is dangling open, his lips are really huge, and his eyes are like ones that are bloodshot and dilated.

Like his pants, Bruce wears a large green tee with a shiny four-leaf clover on the front. I'm not sure what brand the shirt is from. Bruce doesn't wear anything denim. Instead he wears bright yellow casual sweatpants. There is green lettering stitched on the left pant leg, but I can't read what is says. Encasing his big feet are a pair of glossy Bapes shoes. The shoes are color green and yellow, green being the primary color.

Sitting on the couch next to me is Tyrone and Carl. Unlike Rick and Bruce, both Tyrone and Carl have much lighter skin. They still look black, as seen in their facial features.

Tyrone looks cold to me, because unlike the others who have shirts on, he has a leather jacket on. This jacket is white and it looks expensive. Under his jacket, Tyrone wears a black top which contrasts the shiny African continent-shaped medallion dangling on a silver chain, laying upon his chest. Covering his head is a white visored beanie. Below his waist, Tyrone has white casual sweatpants, just like Bruce. But Tyrone is the only one hear that isn't wearing stylish shoes. Tyrone has his white socked feet sitting upon the soft rug underneath the coffee table, which sits in between the recliner and the couch.

Lastly, Carl's appearance is more different than the other three. He looks much more like a Mexican gangster than a African-American male. He wears a black wife beater tucked into tan khaki pants which sags below the waist, even though it's belted by a black belt. Since he's wearing a sleeveless shirt, his toned arms are displayed for all to see. He has, as I can see, more than ten individual tattoos on his hand alone, and on his chest is a word written in a classic font. But since the shirt is covering most of it, I'm unable to read it.

Even though the description of the four black men in the room is lengthy, I take only a minute to actual visualize it. That is one minute once I wake up from my slumber.

I avert my attention from the black men and to the television, which is a flat screen monitor, fastened to the wall above the fireplace. I'm unsure what they are watching but it looks like some kind of movie. My attention averts from the television to the hallway next to the side table next to the couch I'm sitting in. Hearing footsteps on the hardwood floor, out comes a fifth black guy out the hallway.

"So you're Marianne, I hear," the guy says. "I'm Buck." Buck offers his hand which is like a large black glove. I offer my hand back to him, its light tannish skin on a smaller smooth hand, and shake it with his hand. I assume that the condo belongs to Buck since I have already seen the first four black guys riding in the van.

Wanting to get ahold of myself, I try to find or make an oppurtunity to get some alone time. Time to see what I really look like and to what extent the changes to my body have been made. I guess the only place I can go is the bathroom. So I ask Buck, confidently assuming the condo belongs to him, "Can I use your bathroom?"

"Sure. First door on your right," He points behind him. His response tells me for sure that this condo belongs to him, and Rick, Tyrone, Carl, Bruce, and I are staying here.

I get up and I walk past Buck and into the hallway behind him. I have a instinctive feeling, like Buck's view has turn around and his gaze is upon my seductive-looking body, like his eyes are lasers finding their target. I find that the door is a long ways away. I can clearly see the personality that went into the making of this wall. Like graffiti, grayscale images of African-American leaders and enthusiasts cover the whole right wall. I see on the opposite wall more leader from the past and the present. Such men and women include Martin Luther King Jr., Nelson Mendella, Malcolm X, Rosa Parks, and Maya Angelou. The name bring me back to high school, but the past is not what I'm looking for right now.

I find the door to the bathroom and I reach to the closest wall inside for a switch. I flip the switch, making the lights in the ceiling flicker two to three time before staying on, illuminating the room. The bathroom is like the hallway I walked through. But instead of African-American leaders, on every wall not cover by switches, tile, or the mirror, are African-American musicians. Two of them I recognize off the bat. They are Jimi Hendrix and Jay-Z. Besides the graffiti on the walls, the rest, sink, mirror, bathtub, lights, and towel rack are what you can find in a simple bathroom.

So I walk in, close the door, making sure I lock it, and turn around to look at the mirror. I finally see my face. My face is pretty and looks innocent. The face doesn't have any makeup on, making me think that there isn't any slutiness about me. The natural look and contours of my face is enough. No makeup can make this face better. I can assume that the facial features closely resemble the face of a mostly Asian female, at least 19 years old. The nose is small, but closer to in between small and big. Like Asians, my nose isn't pointing like white people. My eyes do sort of squint, but I have a mixed trait. It's mixed because the eyes squint like the Chinese, but are open, especially when I'm not smiling. I could say that the ethicity of this female body is more American, and less native Asian.

I smile and every part of the face radiates with a young beauty, even I can see it. I see that my teeth are white, assuming that this girl I'm inside brushes her teeth ever since the day she had teeth. The smile is a **** to be reckoned with, because even when I look at it, I'm mesmerized by it, like if it was a tractor beam. As I smile again, I see that my high cheek bone raises my cheeks, emphasizing the smile. I feel more cute when I'm smiling than when I blankly stare.

Above the face, like a waterfall, is the long, flowing, curling locks that drape on either side of my head as well as behind it. I can't see it very well, due to the shadow cast by my curtain of silky hair, but I can make out that my neck is not too short and not too high, and not too thin and not too wide. To me it blends with the volume of hair, the size of my head and face, especially my eyess, and the size of my shoulder width. In between the natural color of dark brunette, certains parts flow with a color at least five shade lighter than the natural. In my opinion, it's just as good as having every strand the same, natural color. I turn my body around to see what else this body offer, but before I can describe any more, I find that my hair stops about four inches above my waistline.

I take off the jacket I have on, revealing the top I have on under it. I feel more cooler than I was with the jacket on. This is because I'm wearing a top that has sleeves, but anywhere around the neck and shoulder area, there is a void of fabric. I believe these are called shoulderless shirts or blouses. The sleeves start before my armpit, but stops two inches down my arms. I guess the reason why this shirt was made was to show others the seductivity of the shoulder and why that part of the body is one of the most sensual.

The shirt itself is tight fitting, having tight bands where the fabric ends, like below my shoulders, above my chest, and at the end of the sleeves. The only place where it is loose is at the bottom hem, which has a textured embroidering done on it. Since the top is black, it's hard to see the different textures. But now with my jacket off, I now feel the supporting bra underneath my shirt. I can clearly see the two straps straddled upon my shoulder holding the undergarment up. Like the shirt, the bra straps too are black, making it seem to be part of the shirt.

I loosen my arms and let them hand by my sides. By doing this, I can properly see my prominent breasts protrude out from my chest. They're not really huge, but their not small either. I can probably just check the bra size but I would have to take it off.