Turn 11 of 19

Mannerisms take over. Hand on hip, neck roll when frustrated, louder laugh. Jess and Taylor both notice and freak out. She tries to force old shy posture; it only lasts seconds. Heels feel natural now. She keeps saying “this isn’t me” while moving exactly like Sharonda.

Jess stared at her thick brown hands, the long red nails that seemed to have grown there overnight.

"I don't feel like me anymore, Taylor. I don't know what's happening." Her voice shook, but the words came out slow, deliberate, almost... seductive.

Taylor swallowed hard, his eyes traveling over her new curves, lingering on the way the thin red top stretched over her heavy breasts.

"I... I don't know either, Jess. But this—" he gestured at her, at the way she sat, the way she moved, the thick dark skin and full lips that had replaced the shy pale girl he knew. "This isn't you. This can't be real."

But Jess just looked at him, and then back at her own reflection in the mirror across the room. And in her eyes was a spark of something else, something beneath the fear—something hungry, and warm, and undeniable.

She stood up abruptly, pacing the small room in the red stilettos.

"This isn't me, Taylor! I don't walk like this, I don't... I don't move like this!" she exclaimed, throwing her hand on her hip.

But even as she spoke, her neck rolled slightly in frustration. Her voice got louder, sharper, more... performative.

"I'm still in here somewhere, I know I am!"

But when she tried to force her old shy posture—shoulders slumped, eyes downcast, voice soft—it only lasted for a few seconds before her back arched again, her chin tilted up, her full lips parting slightly.

"See? See?!" she cried, turning to Taylor in despair.

"It's like my body won't let me be her anymore! I try and... and..." She broke off, looking down at the red stilettos that clicked against the stained carpet with such natural ease.

"These feel more like home than my old sneakers ever did."

Taylor stared at her, at the way she moved, the hand on her hip, the frustrated neck roll, the too-loud laugh that had escaped her a moment ago.

"Jess... what is happening to you?" he whispered, taking a step back.

Jess looked at her reflection again—thick curves, deep brown skin, full lips, long nails, long lashes, heavy makeup that seemed melted into her skin. The heels felt natural. The sway felt natural. The hand on her hip felt natural.

"I don't know," she said softly, running a hand over her thick hip, her round ass in the tight snakeskin skirt. "I don't know. But I... I think I'm losing her. I think she's almost gone."

And for a moment, the woman in the mirror smiled—a slow, sharp, triumphant smile that didn't look like Jess at all.