Michael woke up naked two
days after St. Patrick’s Day in a room he didn’t recognize with a massive
hangover and a heavy pair of breasts attached to his chest. The pain from the
hangover was bad enough that the shock of the breasts didn’t get him moving at
first but eventually he felt the need to address the situation.
He got up and staggered into
the bathroom, wondering if he was going to die before finding out what had
happened to him. His assault on the commode was comprehensive, during which
time he found that the breasts weren’t the only proof of his sudden femininity.
His cock and balls were gone as well, and he started to feel a faint concern.
When he felt up to it he stood and looked into the mirror.
The woman looking back was
the very flower of Irish beauty. Her red hair was tousled from sleep and her
face was a bit puffy from the same but her green eyes were bright and her lips
were red and full. She gaped back at him. He looked downward and saw that her
tits were just as large in the reflection as they seemed to be on his chest.
Panic filled him, worming
its way in through a thousand different ice-cold cuts in his skin and nerves.
He gingerly touched one proud breast. It jiggled. He felt it from both sides,
both the springy sensation at the poke and the warm softness of touching a
woman’s breast. He looked around, trying to find anything that might tell him
what was going on or some way that this could all be a joke. Men simply didn’t
wake up female.
Nothing in the bathroom
presented itself. Michael left it and prowled the bedroom area, recognizing
that he was in a hotel somewhere. Next to the phone he found a small brochure
that told him that he was in Chicago, which was welcome news. His last clear
memories were of coming to Chicago to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with some
friends who lived here. After that was sort of a big blur and now there were
tits.
He paced, searching for
clothing. He found some discarded around the bed as if whoever had been wearing
it had simply exploded. Once he gathered it all up he found that he had a full
set of clothing sized and fit for a woman about his current size. There was
even a pair of sneakers. The clothing wasn’t incredibly clean, bearing the
scent of a long night at a bar, but it was all he had.
He struggled into the
clothes, having particular problems with the bra and the pants. His hips were
dramatically wider now and his large breasts kept getting in the way of
everything. All the experience he had with bras involved getting them off; he had
to experiment before figuring out how it went on.
Dressed, he went and looked
in the mirror again. He couldn’t see how the tightly packed jeans looked but
the bra actually made his new boobs look bigger. The shirt dipped low in front,
showing several inches of deep cleavage.
“That’s gotta go,” he
whispered, and then he said, “’Ello?”
His voice was a woman’s now
as well. Even better, he seemed to have picked up a broad Irish accent
somewhere along the way. It was disconcerting for a boy from Georgia. One shock
among many, Michael let it go for now. He had to find out what had happened and
where he was. Finding his friends would be incidental but he was curious about
them as well; had they turned him into a woman somehow and then left him here?
How? Why?
He looked around for more
clues. There were a couple of matchbooks from various pubs in the city, and his
phone was on the nightstand. He also found an envelope on the counter labeled
“Molly.”
When he opened it,
hundred-dollar bills cascaded out. A slip of paper fell to the floor along with
them. On it was the word “Blarney,” and a phone number.
Michael kept hold of the
note and picked up the cash. There were fifteen hundreds in there, along with a
dried, pressed shamrock. He felt a shock when he touched it, as if someone had
plugged him into a car battery for a tenth of a second.
Michael sat down and looked
at the phone. It was
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