Check yourself out - the trainee from the office

You sigh, roll over again and get up. You notice the large mirror and check yourself.

You are adorable. You’re in your early twenties, green-eyed, with a very fair complexion. Your lovely brunette hair cascade upon your lovely shoulders in wavy cascades, and although your full, red lips are marred by gobbets of sperm, your face looks incredibly innocent. You quickly wipe your face with his pillow. Serves him right, the jerk.

Back in front of the mirror, you check your small, petite shape. Your legs look reasonably long and shapely, your butt firm and pert. Your bosom is… frankly, it’s awesome. Not too big, not too small, it screams “touch me, desire me… bring the fantasy of me back to your wife or girlfriend!”. That’s just the most perfect set of breasts you’ve ever seen… and it’s yours.

You smile a winning smile to the beautiful, thin-waisted young adult in the mirror and look for some sort of clothing. You soon enough notice a set of matching lace underwear. French made, Simone Pérèle, a superb emerald green. Obviously expensive, just as obviously the perfect match for your body type. You hesitate, but you decide to stay naked. You deserve a shower, and no amount of jerkiness will prevent you getting cleaned up.

You keep looking and find what you’re looking for, a great looking business suit. The make is undoubtedly Italian, the dark burgundy somehow matching the hidden underwear. The chemise is a silken smooth white that you can already tell will underline your shapely figure while hiding any sort of actual skin. There also is a lovely, discreet necklace of remarkably finely wrought silver, or maybe white gold, that looks almost like a river of metal, and two incredible earrings. This is obviously a set of emeralds of the highest quality. You can’t help but pick them up, and they don’t disappoint. Cartier. Of course.

Who exactly are you?

You notice the handbag lying open close by. It’s just large enough to accommodate an iPad, a small silver model, and a few documents. ID, driver license, your American Express… a NetJets card…

Who are you, seriously?

There is also a pin-card, the type people pin to their lapels in large companies. It has the company logo, your picture, and your name. It has your title, too. “Assistant to the Head of Global Marketing - Intern”.

The company logo says it all. No way a young lady can be an intern to such an important person in such an important company unless your family is incredibly rich. Which, quite obviously, it is.

But then… who is your wife? Well… former wife? How are you going to figure anything out? You wonder. Is this a good or bad turn of event? What’s the general context? How old are you, by the way?

You pick your driver’s license. You’re nineteen. Your license points out its an “equivalent”. Apparently you got your actual license in the UK and it somehow got promoted to a US license.

Wait. Does that mean you can’t drink anymore? This is ridiculous. Then again, American laws are often ridiculous. Old enough to work, not old enough to drink, and all that.