Chapter One

“Those disgusting, retched little shits!”

I slammed the front door shut and threw keys on a nearby table; I needed a drink. I removed my tie and tossed it on the dining room table as I stormed past. I opened my fridge and browsed the scarce contents disappointingly; I must have finished the beers last night.

Scanning around my kitchen, my eyes settled on an unopened bottle of Pinot Noir. It was cheap shit, but anything would do to take my mind away from the horrible day I had just endured. I cracked the bottle open and poured myself a glass, filling it all the way to the top.

I trudged over to the sofa in my compact living room, unbuttoned the top three buttons of my white shirt, and absently turned the television on; why did I have to go and take this damn job?

My name is Alex Fawkes, and I’m a 37-year-old Mathematics professor at Stonebridge Community College. I moved to Stonebridge four weeks ago after I accepted a promotion and lucrative pay packet with the mission to turn a failing education system around.

Before my new role, I lived in the affluent town of Daisybrooke, just a few miles north of this rotten little garbage dump. Despite their close proximity, Stonebridge and Daisybrooke were complete opposites—poles apart in every way.

Stonebridge was a low-income, forgotten settlement in Bedfordshire, with few economic opportunities and rampant crime. Just across the County line in Buckinghamshire sat the quaint, picturesque town of Daisybrooke. It has won multiple awards for its high productivity and household happiness ratings and was the source of jealousy in the surrounding areas.

Daisybrooke Academy was an exclusive private school that delivered the highest-quality education. Its graduates have become top judges, CEOs, politicians, and even two prime ministers. The children were taught discipline, structure, critical thinking, and a top education without distractions. Misbehavior and truancy weren’t tolerated, and the school operated a three-strike system before the poorly behaved student was expelled.

I had been employed at the Academy for seven years, eventually working my way up to Head of Mathematics before a new opportunity came calling. As part of the school’s philanthropy efforts, they set up numerous community colleges in struggling neighboring districts, including the underachieving further education school in Stonebridge.

Stonebridge Community College was designed to give downtrodden young adults a second chance. They offered grants to anyone who had recently failed their GCSEs and lived in the community. The college aimed to allow those students to obtain critical secondary education qualifications and give them better prospects than their parents had. Now these ‘kids’ had grown and matured a little, perhaps they would take their second opportunity a little more seriously; only they hadn’t matured, not by a long stretch.

Four weeks into my new role as a Mathematics professor, I was at the end of my tether. The scumbags had no intention to learn or improve themselves. They happily accepted the grants on offer, but their main priority was to give me a permanent migraine, it seemed.

The men competed in arm wrestling contests, flicking rubber bands at each other and chatting on their phones during a lesson. The women were arguably even worse. They trotted in, wearing their skimpy little outfits and caked-on makeup. They all looked like hookers in training. They were more focused on staring at their own faces in their compact mirrors and giggling at the latest social media gossip on their phones.

The final straw came this afternoon when Becky, the biggest tramp in school, heavily came on to me as I attempted to teach algebra. When I rejected her advances, she complained to the headmaster that I was the one who accosted her. To make matters worse, the entire school backed her up, and I was given a formal warning.

And the faculty members were no better. The moment they discovered I had been transferred from Daisybrooke Academy, their hostility showed no bounds. They were convinced that I had been sent to spy on them. All of that was false, of course, but if it had been true, I would have had plenty to report back.

The teachers had no interest in actually improving their students’ lives. They all happily took their paycheck and played on their phones while the young men and women in their charge ran amok. Some of the personnel actively joined in with their students, happily smoking marijuana in the bathrooms during break time.

The janitor staff took little pride in their work. Every day, they each clocked off three hours before their scheduled finish time, and when they left, the college was still in a disgusting, scummy state.

Before I joined the ranks, the only man who seemed to take his word seriously was Billy Childs, the Physical Education teacher, but all for the wrong reasons. He wouldn’t accept any excuses for a female student not to partake in his lessons, and he enforced a strict gym uniform policy. There had been several complaints made about him, but the 30-year-old PE teacher seemed to be untouchable. He was the son of Martin Childs, the headmaster, and the complaints were promptly swept under the rug.

I had attempted to socialize with the unrefined faculty staff, but they wanted nothing to do with me. A couple of weeks ago, I discovered they had all arranged a Friday night meeting down the pub to celebrate one of the teachers’ 40th birthday, and I tried to secure an invite. A couple of days before the event, I was told the celebration had been canceled, but it only took until Monday when I found out that I had been lied to and that my colleagues had partied without me.

I thought about quitting on the spot. However, my old position had already been filled, and the money offered was too much to give up. I was trapped in a soulless, thankless job with no prospect of things getting any better.

The lack of intimacy in my life contributed to my depressing outlook. I had just gotten out of a loving 7-year relationship after I caught my girlfriend sleeping with my longtime best friend and colleague, Max Clarke. Max and I met at university and followed similar career trajectories. We both landed jobs at Daisybrooke Academy as Maths teachers, and we both pushed for the department head role after Mr Cunningham retired. I landed the role, but we never let the competition get between us, or so I thought.

As far back as I can remember, the red-headed Max was always the wilder, extroverted one between us. He sometimes allowed his exuberance to get in the way of his work, which ultimately led to my promotion. That friendship came crashing down when I walked into my bedroom one evening, greeted by my best friend’s shaggy red hair nestled between my girlfriend’s legs. To make matters worse, Max showed no shame in what he had done. I was offered the new role shortly after, and I used it as an anchor for a fresh start, away from any reminders of the last seven years.

Back to the present day, I absently picked up my phone and loaded up Tinder. Getting back on the horse was easier said than done in a small town full of chavs and drug addicts. I had attended a couple of speed dating events when I first moved in, but they all ended in disaster. The women I came across appeared to have four children, tattoos all over their bodies, noticeable drug addictions, or all three.

My prospects on Tinder weren’t any better. Michelle Harris, 32, seven children, looking for a sugar daddy; swipe left. Tiffany Alcock, 27, a dancer at Stonebridge Spearmint Rhinos; swipe left. Ruby Hall, 28, looking for a sweet submissive man to finance a new boob job; swipe left. Chrystal Vine, 31, Onlyfans content creator, currently has 17 tattoos but looking for more; swipe left. Since when were porn stars labeled as content creators? I wondered.

How can an entire town be filled with the scum of the earth? I thought. I was on the verge of quitting the app in frustration when my eyes settled on the most gorgeous face I had ever seen. The woman had free-flowing black hair that seemed to shimmer against the light source. She had exotic olive-colored skin and large eyes with dark pupils that seemed to stare directly into my soul. She had pretty cupid bow lips and high cheekbones. She had an Egyptian charm to her appearance, and her smile was innocent and disarming; the woman was perfect. She wore minimal, understated makeup and didn’t feel the need to deface her body with graffiti disguised as tattoos. I looked at her biography. Ginny Amari, only three miles away. Strangely, her age wasn’t listed.

I dug deeper and read her intro. ‘I am looking to make the world a better place. I am searching for a selfless man who needs a guiding soul to join him on his journey.’ Her words were written with such eloquence. She was perfect. I swiped right before moving on to the regular schedule of chavs when a notification suddenly popped up; I had a match.

I nervously returned to the gorgeous woman’s profile and sent a private message.

Me: Hey, how are you doing?

What kind of an introduction was that? I thought. There was no way she would reply to such a bland message. She probably has hundreds of guys messaging her on the app. As I continued to berate myself, I received a notification that Ginny had replied to my message.

Ginny: Hi, I’m glad you messaged me. I am doing great, thank you. It’s nice to meet someone normal on here.

I breathed a sigh of relief. She must have the same thoughts I have about this degenerate town. My finger hovered over the virtual keypad momentarily. I didn’t want to mess this up.

Me: I’m glad you replied. So, what do you do for a living?

It was a dumb question to ask someone you had just met on Tinder, but my mind was shooting blanks. Ginny was the first woman I had actually messaged on the app. After being in a relationship for seven years, I had forgotten how to flirt.

Ginny: Ohh, I kind of make people’s wildest wishes come true.

I chuckled at her answer. It gave me more questions than answers.

Me: That’s neat. It must be super rewarding work.

She must work for the Make a Wish Foundation or something, fulfilling the final wishes of terminally ill children—either that, or she’s a stripper, I figured. It would be just my luck that the beautiful woman turned out to be another cheap, tactless exotic dancer, but I had a good feeling about this one.

We texted back and forth for a couple of hours, talking about hobbies, aspirations, and goals. Her answers were abstract and vague, but her illusiveness kept me intrigued and pushed me to ask for more. I told her that I had caught my long-term girlfriend in bed with my best friend of 19 years. I remarked that I wished Max was still in my life somehow, but there was no way I could ever forgive him for what he did.

The conversation was free-flowing, and I was enjoying myself. Then, suddenly, the topic moved toward today’s events, and the stress and anxiety I had felt earlier came rushing back.

Ginny: You seem a little tense. Have you had a bad day?

Me: Oh, it could have been better. That’s for sure.

Ginny: What happened?

The question was a loaded gun. I had just met this woman, and I wanted to impress her. But since I had moved to this delinquent town, I have had no one to truly talk to, and it felt good to finally release my frustration to someone who’ll listen.

I told Ginny about how the last four weeks had panned out. I spoke about how I accepted the job to make a difference in young people’s lives and struggled to get through to them. I really layered my selflessness on thick. I omitted the part about the huge pay rise and my desire never to lay eyes on my former best friend ever again. Once I had started, I found it difficult to stop.

Me: I just wish I could hold the students’ attention. I wish their eyes were focused on me whenever I entered the classroom. I want my male students to get off their phones when I’m talking to them and speak to me rather than treating me like shit. I wish I could inspire my female students, encourage them to become better versions of themselves, and steer them down the right path.

Ginny hadn’t replied. I was unsure if she was listening or simply tired of my whining, but I continued to rant nonetheless.

Me: I wish my colleagues respected me more. They think I’m some posh secret agent who’s been parachuted in to spy on them all. Every single one of them would have accepted the money if they were given a chance, and unlike them, I’m actually trying to make a difference in people’s lives. Hell, scrap that; I don’t even care if my colleagues respected me, to be honest. I just wish they were friendlier to me and actually wanted me in their social group.

I finally halted the assault on my phone’s keypad. I felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest. I hadn’t realized how much I needed someone to talk to about all this. There was a momentary pause after I had finished typing. I thought I had laid it on too thick, and she was ghosting me, but a sudden

❖

The sound of my alarm rose me from my slumber. I smacked the snooze button before peering at the clock on my bedside table. 5 am. Why the hell did my clock wake me so early? I’ve never needed to wake up at 5 am for work in my life. I contemplated going back to sleep, but something felt off; everything felt off.

My bedsheets were damp. It felt like I had been suffering from a fever all night, and my sheets had taken the brunt of the illness, but I felt no shivers or feverish symptoms.

I received the biggest shock of my life when I sat up in bed. As I shifted position, I felt an unusual pull on my chest. As the duvet fell away, I was presented with two huge mounds of flesh encased in a lilac-colored lacy half-cup bra. I brought my hands toward the unwelcome additions to my chest, and my arm brushed against a lengthy strand of platinum blond hair. The sensation tickled and caused my entire body to shudder.

My unusually small, dainty hands cupped the breasts inside the bra. I stared at the long fingernails styled with soft pink cuticles and a pretty white French tip finish. Was I still asleep? I squeezed the bra-clad boobs and shuddered. They were definitely attached to me.

I groggily stepped out of bed and began tiptoeing towards my ensuite bathroom. My heels refused to fall flat on the ground, my hips swayed with every step, and the weight on my chest forced me to pin my shoulders back as a counterbalance.

When I eventually reached my bathroom counter, I stared in the mirror and screamed in horror. It was the highest-pitched feminine shriek I had ever heard, and it emanated from my mouth.

The person staring back at me was not the same one I had known for the past thirty-seven years of my life. It was even close. I was looking at a female. Even with her wiry, frazzled hair and lack of makeup, she radiated sexuality.

She had long platinum blond locks reaching as far down as her lower back. The dark roots informed me that blond was not her natural hair color. Her dazzling blue eyes were wide and expressive, currently expressing abject horror. The dark, thinly penciled, high arching eyebrows above her eyes added to the cartoonish expression.

The woman had a small, cute button nose and high cheekbones. Her puffy pink pornstar-styled lips parted into a surprised O shape. An image of those enticing lips wrapping around my cock immediately came to mind. Strangely, nothing stirred in my groin as the image appeared.

My eyes gazed down below the slim neck and found the two basketball-sized mountainous mounds of flesh on the woman’s chest, encased in a lacy bra. They weren’t just basketball-sized; they were round and sat perfectly high. There was no way these breasts were natural.

The waist tapered dramatically before flaring out to accommodate a round, fleshy bubble butt and wide child-baring hips. She wore a pair of lilac high-cut briefs, and a red pair of lips with the phrase ‘Kiss Me’ was tattooed just above her pubic area.

Her bare skin was flawlessly smooth, without a single hair in sight. Her arms and legs were slim and toned but showed zero muscle mass. It was clear this woman was shorter than I. Even on her tiptoes, I saw the noticeable height difference as I stared in the mirror.

I began hyperventilating as it dawned on me that the young sexpot in the mirror was me. How had this happened? Why had this happened? None of this was possible. I pinched myself and gasped in an exasperated soprano. Not only did I feel the pain, but my skin was far more sensitive than it had even been as a man. As I stared hopelessly at my reflection, I was taken out of my reverie by the sound of a notification on my phone.

I tiptoed back to my nightstand and checked the message. It was the woman I had been chatting to last night. My mouth dropped open when I read what she had written.

Ginny: Good morning, princess.

Did she have anything to do with this? Why else would she be messaging me at 5 in the morning? Nothing made sense.

Me: What happened to me?

Ginny: What do you mean?

Me: I think you know.

There was a long pause after my previous message. My breathing hadn’t yet calmed down, and I needed to sit on my bed to keep my balance. It felt as though the bra was starting to suffocate me as anxiety rose in my chest.

Ginny: I granted your wish.

Me: What wish? What are you talking about?

I wasn’t in the mood to play games with her. I didn’t care how attractive she was; I needed an explanation.

Ginny: Everything you wished for last night has come true. Why don’t you check your Tinder profile?

I took her suggestion and loaded up the profile. My old profile of Alex Fawkes had disappeared, and I was greeted with a photo of the beautiful face that had stared back at me moments before. The woman in the photo was more put together, with her hair teased out and makeup caking her face, but she was definitely the same woman.

I browsed the profile. Lexxi? Was that a play on my name? My eyes widened; 20? She was sixteen years younger than me. I browsed her intro. She was the definition of a pick-me girl. Everything she had written was intended to grab a man’s attention. She enjoyed eating lots of sausage? What the hell was wrong with society these days?

Me: You better start explaining.

I struggled to type with the lengthened fingernails obstructing me and had to focus on tapping each letter with the tip of the nail, something that didn’t come naturally to me.

Ginny: Look, okay. This is what you wanted, okay? I just gave you what you wanted.

I was about to rip into her when she promptly returned with a longer explanation.

Ginny: You didn’t exactly leave me much choice, Lexxi. I can’t alter free will, and you wanted the boys in your class to listen to you, for you to have their attention. Who do young me listen to? Girls, hot ones.

Her words were not calming me down.

Ginny: And you wanted to inspire your female students. Who do you think the girls in your class look up to the most? Teenaged women are neurotic bundles of insecurity and hate their bodies & each other. They all want to look perfect, they all want the procedures that will give them that idealistic body, and you’ve had pretty much every cosmetic procedure known to man. It’s not my fault they all watch Love Island or trashy American reality TV. I’m just a genie, not the arbiter of British culture.

There was so much to unpack in her rant. Did she call herself a genie? Had she actually transformed me into this buxom bombshell because of a misinterpreted wish? And does she really have such a low opinion of pop culture?

Me: I’m sure most women would like a touch-up. But look at me, I’m a freak!

Ginny: Well, maybe you’re right. But you’re not a freak. You are the perfect specimen of femininity. Your colleagues will definitely be friendlier to you moving forward. And look at all the upgrades to your body. You’re totally hairless below the eyebrows. Do you know how much money that will save you? You’re a rib down, giving you a waist most women would kill for. I’ve also made your tendons quite a lot shorter and killed the nerves in your soles. So many women struggle to walk gracefully in the tallest heels, and you’ll practically live in them. You’re so damn lucky.

The longer I read Ginny’s words, the further I felt myself slipping into a panicked spiral.

Me: This isn’t what I asked for. None of this is what I asked for. You need to change me back.

Ginny: I’m sorry, no can do. I can only grant one wish a month. I know, it’s a sucky rule, but rules are rules.

I was irate. How could this ‘genie’ misinterpret my unintended wish so dramatically?

Me: You mean I’m stuck like this for a month?

I tried to calm my breathing. I couldn’t be stuck in this body for an entire month.

Ginny: Well, no. I am only allowed to grant one wish a month. There’s no way I’m going to waste two wishes on the same person. That’s so selfish of you!

I wanted to throw my phone against the wall but stopped myself. I felt helpless.

Ginny: You better start getting ready for work, Lexxi. It takes a beautiful woman much longer to prepare herself than you’re used to.

Was this bitch crazy? There was no way in hell I would be seen in public looking like this, much less parading in front of my students.

Me: Absolutely no way. I’m not leaving this house until you change me back!

Ginny: Oh, that’s too bad. But don’t worry; one of your new traits will ensure you show up right on time.

I didn’t like the ominous sound of her message, and her elaboration afterward didn’t help matters.

Ginny: I gave you an irrational fear of showing up late to work. No one respects a tardy girl, and this will ensure you’re always at work on time. I also removed your ability to get sick or contract diseases as a bonus. I gave you that one for free.

Me: You can’t do this to me. I don’t want my students to see me like this!

Ginny: Your students? How many twenty-year-old Maths teachers do you see these days? No. The school just hired a brand new maths teacher, and they’ve hired you as his secretary?

Secretary? I had two degrees. That witch couldn’t just rewrite my life.

Me: Change all this back now. I am a teacher, not some scatty-brained assistant. You can’t just alter my life like this!

Ginny: Sorry, Lexxi. I can only revert a wish up to two hours after it was granted. Your transformation occurred over six hours ago.

Me: But I was asleep!

Ginny: I don’t make the rules, Lexxi.

I don’t know what unnerved me more. The fact that this genie was constantly using my new adopted name or that it didn’t feel strange at all.

Ginny: I wish I could have made you a teacher, but it would have raised too many questions. I can’t alter memories. I can’t just award a twenty-year-old woman a degree. Too many questions would be raised. It’s just better to remove your qualifications altogether.

My plump lips parted in horror, and I audibly gasped.

Me: All my qualifications?

Ginny: Yeah, but don’t worry. You still have all your knowledge. You just don’t have a piece of paper to confirm it. Now, you better start getting ready, or you’ll be late. I’ve given you plenty of other compulsions to help you transition. See, I’m one of the good ones.

I started furiously typing my response when I saw the clock on my bedside table; 5:30 am. Shit, she was right. An overwhelming sense of anxiety swelled up inside my chest. I couldn’t be late on my first day. “Son of a bitch!” I screamed out in my new sexy soprano tone. She really had done a number on me.

Standing on my toes, I sauntered back to my ensuite bathroom and started getting ready. I removed the bra and panties and got a good look at my naked body for the first time. Despite the lack of bra support, my new tits defied gravity in all kinds of ways. They looked as though an invisible force was magically holding them up. My bare pussy didn’t have a single hair surrounding it, and it started to give me a severe case of penis envy.

I stepped into the shower and discovered an array of bottles I had never seen before. My hands instinctively knew which bottle to use as I washed myself. Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from the steamy shower and wrapped a towel around my sexualized body before using a second towel around my wet, blond hair.

Facing the mirror, I instinctively grabbed a body scrub and began exfoliating the dead skin from my body. Once complete, I rubbed in another lotion until my face, arms, legs, and chest all had an extremely smooth, glossy texture. I brushed my perfectly white teeth for a good four minutes before using a minty mouthwash to freshen my breath.

I strutted back into my bedroom and sat on the end of my bed, picking up my hairdryer. I began to blow dry my platinum blond hair. I had never used a hairdryer before, but my body seemed to know exactly what it needed to do to give the blond locks a new lease of life, naturally curling into a sexy, loose, wavy style.

Once my hair was perfect, I opened my closet and gasped. All of my outfits had been replaced by extremely tight and feminine garments. Clothes of every color of the rainbow appeared to decorate my wardrobe. My hands reached in and picked out a top and skirt set. I approached my dresser and pulled out my underwear for the day.

I slipped the white g-string up my legs and into place, feeling the thin material nestle between my ass cheeks, giving me a horrific wedgie. The matching bra came next, a lacy white half-cup piece. While the bra didn’t do much to change their appearance, it definitely took a burden off my back. I sat back on my bed and gently slid the white semi-sheer stockings up my sexy legs. I shuddered. The erotic sensations of the thin material sliding up my hairless, shiny legs felt incredible. I straightened the seams of the holdup stockings before moving on to the main outfit.

The white button-up blouse looked innocent enough at first, but as I grabbed the distinctly smooth PVC material and began buttoning it up, I noticed how it pressed tighter against my body. My breasts were so huge that it was impossible to button the top four buttons, which showed off an abundance of creamy cleavage.

I picked up the sturdy light pink leather skirt and slid it up my stockings-clad legs. The skirt sat just above my hips and left a tiny slither of bare skin between my upper and lower garments. It showed up the curvature of my new sensual butt, and the lower hem came down to my mid-thigh. The leather material was thick with minimal stretch and would force me to take small, mincing steps as I walked.

My body tiptoed to a vanity table, and I sat down. I had never seen this table before, nor had I ever owned the vast array of makeup messily strewn over it. I expertly applied a light layer of foundation. Next, my hands grabbed a contour palette and heavily contoured my cheekbones, jawline, and nose.

I worked on my eyes next, creating a dramatic, smoky look. I applied a shimmering champagne eyeshadow on my lids and blended in a dark, smoky gray shade on my crease. I finished the look with bold winged eyeliner and used a mascara pen to darken my naturally curly lashes.

Moving on to a bold pink blush, I applied it heavily to the apples of my cheeks and blended it upwards towards my temple. I then moved on to my naturally pouty lips and carefully lined them with a dark pink shade. I filled them with bold candy-pink lipstick before finishing them off with a glittery gloss. I stared helplessly at my reflection in the mirror and found a sexy bubblegum pink bimbo staring back at me.

Finally, I doused myself in a potent, overpowering fragrance. Generously applying it over my body, the sweet, flowery scent assaulted my nostrils. There were definitely tones of vanilla and peach mixed in with a touch of jasmine.

I tiptoed to a multi-layered shoe rack filled with high-heeled shoes. I must have estimated that over a hundred shoes were stored on the rack. With my body on autopilot, I picked out a light pink 5” stiletto pair that matched the tone of my pencil skirt. I slipped them on and buckled them up before twirling around in them. I was gobsmacked at how effortlessly I stood on the heels. They felt incredibly comfortable as if they were built for my Barbie doll feet.

I peered at the clock and found it was now 07:30. How had it taken me two hours to get ready? I tugged on my shirt and contemplated finding something else to wear, but a new anxious feeling came over me. This was the perfect outfit for work, a voice in my head informed me. I couldn’t bring myself to argue with the voice.

I tottered towards the living room and prepared to take a seat, but I felt nervous. If I relax too much now, I might be late for work. “For fuck sake,” I cried out. Hearing such a sweet voice cuss like a sailor felt strange, but it perfectly summed up how I felt.

I desperately tried to will myself to stay behind and fight the compulsions. Still, the tougher I fought, the larger the anxiety grew. Eventually, I gave in. I slipped my phone into a pink clutch bag and left my house, starting my journey to work.

❖

I heard the click-clocking sounds of my stiletto heels on the pavement and self-consciously felt like I was on public display. The cool autumn air breezed against my smooth skin and sent a sensual shudder down my spine.

It was only a short ten-minute walk to the college, but I was forced to take tiny, mincing steps, and my shoulders pinned back to keep my balance, which doubled the journey time. I heard various catcalls from the cars passing me by as I traveled along the main road. I felt disgusted over being objectified, and yet I also felt butterflies fluttering inside my chest. If I ever found that genie face to face, I was going to kill her.

Eventually, I made it to the front exterior of the college, where a small group of teenage students were smoking. A blond man was the first to notice my approach and immediately tapped his friend on the shoulder, pointing in my direction. I tried to ignore them until I walked past. I turned my head and formed a big bimbo smile, my dainty hand waving in their direction flirtatiously, “Hi, boys.” I remarked with a sweet tone before heading inside the college. I could hear the comments behind me as the men joked around.

“Fuck, who is that?”

“I’d like to look inside her skirt.”

“Did you see those lips? I want me some of them.”

They were foul creatures, but why didn’t their comments fill me with fury? That bitch had done a number on me, for sure.

There was still a little under an hour until lessons officially began, so the large building was mostly empty. The acoustics of the vacant corridor emphasized the clicking of my heels. I tottered past the janitor, giving him a friendly smile as I walked by. I eventually found myself in the faculty break room, which I had been in plenty of times over the last four weeks.

I began making coffee, but strangely, the ingredients in my head didn’t match the milky beverage I usually prepared for myself: two tablespoons of coffee, no milk, 4/5 boiling water, 1/5 cold water, simmer for thirty seconds before stirring, two sugars before stirring again. Where the hell had these instructions come from?

I picked up the warm coffee and headed to the Mathematics department. As I walked, I was self-conscious of the tight blouse hugging my skin, the overflowing cleavage entirely inappropriate for an academic setting. If a student stepped into my classroom showing this much of her breasts, I would have sent her home. I felt my legs tug against my skirt with each step, forced to take the smallest of steps. The entire visage created a pornographic view of femininity. I tottered past Billy Childs, the PE teacher, and felt his eyes silently zoned in on my ass. Was this what women really went through, I wondered. Then, it dawned on me that I wasn’t any ordinary woman. I was in the body of a teenage boy’s wet dream.

I strode past several classrooms inside the mathematics department and ascended the stairs to the second level. It baffled me how effortlessly I was walking in the extreme 5” strappy shoes. I noticed a small pink desk outside my office and read the nameplate across the desk: Lexxi Foxx. My eyes widened. Was that my desk? My situation couldn’t get any worse, I thought to myself.

As I tentatively knocked on my ‘old’ office door with my spare hand before letting myself in, I immediately knew things could get much worse. Like a deer in headlights, I had frozen to the spot. “Well, hello there. You must be Lexxi,” the familiar voice came from my desk as the redheaded man stood up. My former best friend, now arch-enemy, Max Clarke, was grinning in my direction, clearly appreciating my current appearance.

Before I could react, I found myself working on autopilot. “Yes, Sir. I made your coffee how you like it.” I heard myself saying before tottering forward and placing the cup on my former desk. I felt Max’s eyes stare appreciatively at my plunging neckline as I leaned forward.

“Very good,” he grinned. He picked up the cup and took a sip. “You know, I wasn’t going to take this job until the Principal showed me your photo. As soon as I laid eyes on you, I knew I would take it.” He explained, his eyes never leaving my mountainous breasts. Fury welled up inside of me, but I found it challenging to demonstrate the anger. Max pointed to the chair opposite him. “Why don’t you take a seat, Lexxi, and we can get acquainted.”

‘He is your boss. You should obey your boss,’ I gasped. An unwelcome voice reappeared in my mind. Suddenly, the idea of sitting down seemed appealing. I knew it was an unnatural thought, but I couldn’t fight it. I obediently took a seat and crossed my legs. That damn genie was going to pay for this.

End of Chapter One