She accepts

She stood there confidently, like a predator, despite her outfit. Her own uniform was flared out, supported by petticoats, and scandalously short. Fishnet stockings cut cruelly into her plump thighs, black bands apparently leading up to a garter belt. Her thighs were slick with her own **** lubrications, but it wasn't that that was making me consider her offer. It was her breasts, or rather, the fabric over them. It was moving. On it's own. It shouldn't have surprised me, considering my own situation, but it did. I watched her own tits squirm on her chest, fondled, teased, and stroked, and knew my situation was hopeless.

I let her lead me to the alley behind the restaurant, noting that my skirt was growing shorter and tighter. By the time I sank to my knees and felt her fingers in my hair guiding me beneath her skirt, my blouse had receded enough to expose my breasts to the air. By the time Sarah's thighs were squeezing my head in the involuntary throws of her first orgasm in a year, my transformation was complete.

Unlike Sarah's prison of satin and silk, my own was latex. Where her skirt was fluffy and bouncy, my own was tight and binding. A leather collar around my throat was emblazoned with my new role in life. It read simply "SLUT." I said my transformation was complete, but that turned out not to be true. I still had Sarah's taste on my tongue when I felt it for the first time. The uniform was stroking me, tightening to point of discomfort around my nipples before relaxing, teasing them effortlessly to an aching stiffness. A silken sensation began teasing my clit, taking me effortlessly to the edge of orgasm before backing off, leaving me wanting.