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"We are proud to present, John Walters, Dual Major, Evocation and Restoration Magics, Valedictorian for the Class of 20XX!"

He stood up, legs lockstep and staring straight at the man at the podium.  His pearly white robes with the red trim billowed behind him as he walked up.  He held in his hands his prepared speech.

It was his day.  Archmage's list.  Awards and Honors.  Years of studying in a musty old library or a cramped dorm room, All leading to this.  His crowning moment.  Valedictorian at one of the most prestigius colleges of modern wizardry.  Ah, if only mom and dad were still around to see it.

He stood behind the podium, looking out at the crowds and crowds of people.  A hush fell over the masses as he opened his mouth ....

...  blink ...

... And then the first gust of air went up his loincloth, something that was particuarly surprising as a loincloth was somewhat different than the pretentious robes he was wearing before.  The electric feeling as his legs tingled under him sent him falling backwards onto the balls of his feet.

"W...wh...what?"  He managed to croak out.

Or at least tried to croak out.  Instead, it came out silky, feminine, and made him think all kinds of wrong thoughts.

John looked down at himself, horror seeping in around the shock.  Breasts.  Half exposed, beautiful breasts.  Hidden, barely, by a strange purple and black rubber material, which was shaped like some odd cross between a t-shirt and a vest -- if by vest you meant something so tight and so small that you could see areola starting to peek around it.

Further down, a pair of impossibly long socks that looked like they came out of a BDSM catalogue, framing a loincloth that was literally glued to his belly.  Which was lucky, as it was apparently held up by nothing else -- his hips and a generous portion of his legs were in plain sight.

They were curvy and tan.  Way too curvy.  Way too tan.  They weren't his spindly, pale legs he had earned from years of neglect in a dark corner of the libraries on campus.

His hands pushed into the soft grass as he leaned backwards despite himself, his mind racing.

The last thing he remembered was opening his mouth to give the speech.  His speech, the one he had been working on for weeks.

There was a calm, serene feeling, thunderous applause, and then...  Nothing.  He was here.  But 'here' was wrong.  It was the wrong season, the wrong...  everything.  He could see hills in the background.  There was a forest closing up behind him.

You'd have to drive for a good, long while before you found either near Bierce University.

In the water, he spied a floating piece of plastic.  On it, written in his own handwriting: "Quaid Gambit." Next to it, the symbol for infinity.

Quaid Gambit?  Oh.

Shit!

It was a common enough thing nowadays.  Self memory modification was pathetically easy to do, once you had the right type of mana.

Wizards of a certain age didn't have bad memories -- they had mildly uncomfortable experiences that they forgot about once they got home.

The Quaid Gambit was when they went a touch further with that.  A wizard would walk off, sometimes after selling or hiding everything they owned, and use magic to wipe their own memories.  Sometimes for a weekend.  Sometimes for a year.  Sometimes forever.  The more powerful ones could make it so no amount of counterspell would undo them -- the memories were just...  gone.

It was an interesting game to some.  Some used it after casting a few luck spells, or having a friend keep an eye on them.  Others did it when they truly wanted to start fresh.  Some had even started doing it with a combination of age regression and transmigration spells, leaving them dazed, confused, and college age again.

Two famous mages had courted each other, married, had a horrible divorce, and then did it all over again after they had both independently wiped their minds of the entire event.  The third time was the charm -- they had discovered marriage counseling by then.

Some even did it as a dare, the ultimate answer to the question: "Are you a self made man?" They'd spend a year, completely lost, and see where they ended up at the end of it.

Few of them woke up half naked with breasts.

Not as few as you'd think, but it still wasn't eactly common.

He took stock.  He was rested.  Very well rested, if the mana reserves he could feel inside him were any indication.  But the mana reserves were completely wrong.  Gone were his familiar evocation and restoration mana, replaced with the reverent solitude of black necromantic mana, and the glowing, shifting purple transmigration mana.

They weren't his strong suit, or at least weren't before -- necromancy being legal, but considered creepy in the same way that in the old world working at a funeral parlor was.  Transmigration was almost completely the domain of the slightly off, the kinds of people who hung out at clubs giving random boys and girls tails for fun.  Not that evocation and restoration majors ever got invited to those kinds of clubs...

But If the mana he had now was any indication, they were certainly his strong suit now.  To his third eye, he was a glowing supernovae of purple and black.  Whisps of red and white, his previous specialization, floated through it while barely affecting the color, a testament to his newfound affinity for the dark ochre.

Pity he could count on one finger the number of necromancy and transmigration spells he knew.

In the water, other bits of trash told a far more alarming tale.  A faded newspaper, dated over a decade later than he expected.  Old, forgotten cans of soft drinks that he didn't recognize.  Scorched remnants of necromantic and transmigratory spell scrolls -- the remnants of a spellbook?

Why would any wizard destroy his own spellbook?  It would be like cutting off one's own arm.

He stood up, his legs unsteady even as he went.  He tried to ignore that his knees had ended up spread apart seemingly on their own the whole time he was crouched over, only snapping closed once he got fully upright.  He then noticed the piece of paper, covered gently with a rock, under him.

He went to pick it up, but found his knees refused to play along, remaining rigidly locked.  In a flight of inspiration, he took two steps back and bent over the wrong way around.

The breeze had hinted at it, but the gust of wind definitely confirmed it:  The strange stick-on loincloth did not come with underwear.

And "Mr.  Happy" was gone, too.

He flipped open the paper as he reach back and ended his impromptu peep show and started reading.

"Dear John,

Hah, normally these letters have a slightly different tone.  Well, I guess you could say it's a Dear John letter, cause the fact of the matter is...  I'm leaving you.

I'm you, of course.  But I'm 42 now.  It's been 20 years, to the day, since we graduated from Bierce.  I thought we'd get a nice job someplace as a white mage.  Maybe a job in some factory as a fire elementalist.  We always dreamed of helping people, either medically or by supporting a company with evocation.

It didn't work out that way.

The fact of the matter is, after college I discovered we're really, really good at transmigration.  But we're even better at necromancy.  You know, the two types of magic that you wouldn't bother trying out?  The two types that were "beneath" you?  It's so ironic that you're a goddamned prodigy with the magic types you utterly refused to work on during college.

Instead of discovering our calling early, we first got a job at a hospice center out of school.  That's where we first learned necromantic spells -- yes, necromancy at a hospice.  Wipe that stupid look off our face, it's common.

While there, we helped the other white mages and the death mages ease everyone's suffering, and helped those who had passed early to say goodbye.  We even helped a few of them reincarnate.

Reincarnation isn't just white magic.  It won't work without death.  It is death, only death into a new form.  White and black mana, working in harmony.  No one gets that except the ReGuides and the Zen Grey-Mages, not that you know anything about that.

It must eat at you, the thought of a hospice using death magic.  The mere thought of white magic not being the end all be all?  Those freaky black mages, as important as you?

I know, because it ate at me, too.  I was such a prick when I was you.

After 10 years of loyal work at that place, alongsie some very hard working death mages, healers, and the like...  we hated every damned minute of it.  You can only sit around death, pointless, soul crushing death for so long before you stop caring.  And then you start hating it.  We have the mana.  Why do any of these people die?  We could cure their wounds, their illnesses with white mana.  They could easily be transmigrated into younger, healthier forms using purple mana.  We could use pink mana to at least eliminate the pain, the sadness, the fear.  We don't even bother using divination to give the family a fighting chance at being there in time.

Instead, we ignore them.  We let them die, cold and alone.

The secret of immortality is in our hands and the death rate barely dipped.

So one day, we quit.  Rather spectacularly.  Burned every bridge, alienated every friend.

We managed to find our way to New London.  Our savings lasted about 6 months.  No one was hiring "promising young white and red mages" with no experience.  We stopped eating every day.  We sold everything we owned except the rice cooker.  We used our last money for 30 more days of rent.

We lucked out.  Honest to god, we lucked out.  The lady two apartments down finally got close enough to us to feel comfortable offering us a job.  We took it without asking what it was.  It didn't matter, we'd do anything.

Hahahaha.

That night, we found ourselves outside of one of those transmigration fetish clubs.  You know the type.  Show up, get zapped into the wrong gender, wrong body, or the wrong species, have a good evening, wake up back to normal.

We cleaned the rooms.  Of substances man was not meant to see.  Or smell.  Oh god, the smells.  You'd think you'd get used to them.

You don't.

After a few days, she convinced us to try our hand at purple mana.  The sphere turned into a cube, the mana-litmus paper changed colors, and the next day she started training us in transmigration.  We kept cleaning the rooms at night.

We hated it every bit as much as working in the hospice, but we had to have money to live.  It took me 10 years, but I finally understood something:

You can't eat dignity.

Oh, the things we've seen over these last few years.  The things we've done.  Hell, the PEOPLE we've done.  We bounced around clubs a few times.  First leaving our friend's club to take a full time position at a scummy one in the bad part of town.  We then worked our way up and back to be with her not as an assistant, but as an equal.  We helped her club become a "respectable" one, one that does consulting for private parties, theme weekend getaways, the works.

Have you ever seen the beauty of a group of Girl Scouts, swimming through the ocean as half-dolphins?  No, of course not.  Because people who transmigrate are "freaks", right?  "Freaks" don't have perfectly platonic, beautiful memories of being mermaids.

Admittedly, There are still smells and sights in the rooms that I wake up screaming over.  But now, the people causing them are much, much richer.  They pay a lot more than a girl scout troupe, for a lot less work.

...

You can't eat dignity.

Still.  It's been 10 years.  20 since College.  And I've started to realize as the 20 year mark comes up, the only thing I hate more than these stupid fucking perverts and their stupid fucking hardons, is...

Me.

You.

Us.

What we turned into.

Don't get me wrong.  I originally thought of suicide.  But the fact of the matter is, I'm a coward.  I can't stand the idea of...  giving up.  Not like that.

So.  Rather than take the easy way out, we're taking the fun way out.  The Quaid Gambit, instead of just ending it all.  But rather than just start over, ignore the last 20 years, and try again as a white or fire mage, I'm going to...  make things interesting.  Satisfy a fantasy of mine, you might say.

Well, you wouldn't, but, I've had 10 years of working at a fetish club to gain a few kinks.  I hate it, but I can't deny it anymore -- I'm a bit of a pervert.

And so are you.  You just don't know it yet.

One of the only really good things about being a purple mage is that you're effectively immortal.  As long as you have the mana -- and mana's free -- you can always rewind the clock.  Always.  And being a necromancer means that curses, well, curses are one of those things necromancers don't like to talk about.  But you know what?  White Mages know necromancy too.  It's not white magic that fixes it when you get a bad case of Fire Crotch, or Potter's Eye -- it's a tiny bit of necromancy.

And you know what happens when you combine purple and black?

Anything you want.  Repeatedly.

So you'll note some of the changes in your body.  Obviously, your gender is the first one, but also note that your skin is blemish free and perfectly tan, that your muscles are well defined, that your skin feels just a bit tougher than it used to be.  All of these changes are permanently embedded in you, a form of necromantic curse integrating with your morphic field.

Ah, you probably don't know what a morphic field is.  No matter, just understand this:  You can't undo the changes.  No one can, unless they remove the curse first.  It goes too deep inside your soul, your soul itself pulls the mana from the ether to transmigrate you back into this form.  I could fix it, if I had some time.  But I'm very, very good at transmigration and necromancy.  A natural.  You're not.

Not yet.

Fortunately, you're not some sort of magically enduced nympho.  I'm not a complete ass.  Ok, I am, but, it's more entertaining to know that you know what's happening but not be able to change anything -- nymphomania would make this too much fun.

You'll find you're re-enrolled in Bierce.  This time, in Transmigration and Necromancy dual majors.  You can't change it, drop out, or otherwise sabotage it.  You will throw yourself into your studies this time just as well as you threw yourself into your studies the first time.  You can't help it, and you're such a dweeb I doubt I even need to spend the mana to force you.

I did, just in case.

By the time you graduate, maybe a few years afterwards, you should have enough knowledge to dispel a self-inflicted soulbound dual transmigration/necromancy curse.  It's real cutting edge stuff, most of the professors still swear it's not possible.  And since it's soulbound -- that means you technically accepted the curse inside yourself willingly... well...

No one else is going to be able to help you, at least in our price range.  And those who know enough about curses to recognize what the curse means wouldn't help you.

Not that I'd let you seek help, anyway.

... Anyway, maybe with a real degree in Necromancy and Transmigration, along with our degree in Restoration and Evocation... maybe we can find a real job someplace, instead of being "Mrs. Fetish" at the local gimp club.  Maybe start up our own gimp club, someplace classy.  Or maybe go into alchemy.  Or professional bodysculpting.  Bodysculpting's fun.

So.  What's all this talk about a curse, you ask?  Good question.  It's 3 fold, and I'm damned proud of it.

First off.  See this outfit?  Actually no, you don't.  You see, you're actually naked.  Unless you fix yourself, you're going to spend the rest of your life naked as the day we were born.

We're actually wrapped in a mana construct -- it's a purple magic thing, basically one step up from an illusion.  As long as it's active, it's effectively real.  It can tear, burn, the works.  For all intents and purposes, it's mana transmigrated into real clothing.

But it has to be maintained, just like an illusion, or it goes poof.

It should save you quite a bit on your laundry bill, but unfortunately it means that you have to constantly channel purple mana to keep dressed -- and I am the one who gets to decide what clothing you wear from now on.  Any actual clothing you put on will be instantly transmigrated into something useless -- air, water or baby oil, depending on how aroused you are at the time.

And doing so will drain mana.

See the catch 22?  No?  That's ok, you're not a bastard.  Let me spell it out for you -- you need to have mana to make your clothing.  You run out of mana, you're naked.  You try to wear actual clothing, your curse will waste a large portion of your mana destroying it.  Trying to get out of this part of your curse will only leave you naked, for a good long while while your body recharges your mana.  Hours, at least.

Now, you can try to generate your own version of outfits -- by all means, experiment -- but if it doesn't follow the rules, expect it to change itself to match the rules, or just vanish outright.

So your new dress code is as follows.  Pay attention now, cause if you don't follow it you will regret it.

Casual and Formal Clothing:
- Must be mostly skintight.
- Must be made of latex.
- Must expose at least 75% of your skin.
- Underwear, shoes, and any extra layers of clothing such as coats are not allowed.

You'll find your skin, especially the soles of your feet, are enchanted against damage, so no need to worry about not being able to wear shoes and underwear and the like.  You'll get chilly, but not frostbite.  You'll hate stepping on rocks, but they won't cut you.  Stuff like that.  If it really bothers you, create some shoes or flip flops or something.

But remember, 75% exposure adds up quick -- and every inch of leg you hide is a inch of belly, or arm, or whatnot you have to show off...

Oh, and trust me, you do not want to know what 75% of your skin the curse will pick to expose if it gets to.  Make a mental wardrobe and stick to it, or use the default ones I left inside your brain.  Or just go around naked, I don't give a shit.

Bathing Suits:
- Must be made of latex.
- Must expose at least 90% of your skin.
- Must be the most revealing Bathing Suit within 500 yards.

Think thongs and string bikinis, not one pices.  Oh, and if you see a more revealing bikini, yours will magically become more revealing to match.  I'd avoid beaches where people go topless or god forbid, nude, as you'll find you're still going to be the most "interesting" girl on the beach, no matter what.

Ah, and as an aside:  Don't worry about your bikini line.  You don't have one -- your new body is permanently hairless under your chin.  Oh, and yes, you've aleady got a tan.  Everywhere.  And it won't go away, your skin just automatically handles that itself now.

Excersize Clothing:
- Must be made of latex.
- Must be absolutely skintight.
- Must be less than 1mm thick.

In case you're not getting it, let me explain it - your excersize outfits will be essentually bodypaint, only made out of ultra-thin latex.  You can wear as much as you want, go nuts, but it will be absolutely form fitting down to the molecules.  I suggest wearing dark colors so people can't see your nipples and vulva from a distance, but hey, whatever makes you happy, if you want to go out in translucent white and yellow, more power to ya.

Did I mention you are required to excersize regularly?  You'll go jogging once a day and you'll probably find a yoga or areobic group to work out with too.  You don't need to -- your morphic field won't let your body get out of shape -- I'm just an ass like that.

Sleepwear:
- Forbidden!  You can't channel mana while asleep.
(Don't fall asleep in class!)

Get used to lounging around your dorm room in the nude in the morning and evening -- Oh, I'm sure you can figure out how to create a t-shirt, but, remember, minimum of 75% exposure required.  No, more to the point, you're going to need the time to channel enough mana for your day.

Think about it.  You need purple mana to make these clothes.  Lots of purple mana.  See the trap?  No?

There is no way you can channel enough mana to keep your clothing created for more than a few hours at a time.  Not while you're constantly using it up to keep your clothing around.  You can't channel mana and expend mana at the same time.

If you run out of mana, your clothing vanishes, instantly.  And you'll need time to get enough mana to build it back up.

Every so often, probably a few minutes between each class, you're going to have to let your clothing vanish, just so you can get enough mana to keep it up for another hour or so.  I suggest darting into the bathroom, finding a stall, and spending a few minutes naked until you have to get to your next class.  You might even want to scout out paths between the buildings you could...  discreetly run between.  That would be 5-10 minutes of free mana, at the cost of letting a few people see your tits and ass.

No?  Well, it was just a suggestion.

Do I need to repeat that you can't miss a class unless you have a good reason?

Didn't think so.  But don't worry, I doubt anyone will complain after the President of the college gets onto them.  Oh, and 75% was a "guideline", not a rule -- if you want to just create 3 stickers and a pair of flip flops to lessen the mana drain, go right ahead.  The less "fabric" you create, the slower the mana drains.

The real neat thing about this?  You'll get really, really good at channeling purple mana.  Channeling it pretty much 24x7 for 4 years into a built in transmigration spell?  Not even archmages get that kind of experience.  You'll be so in tune with Transmigration after the first year that you'll catch up with me in no time.  You think you have mana reserves now, you don't know shit -- remember, I just blew most of my mana on the Quaid gambit spell.

But not even I can keep these fake clothes on for more than a few hours at a go.

Back to the curse.  This is just part one.  Excited yet?

Second part.  You'll note that you woke up in a rather embarrassing pose.  You should get used to it.  From now on, whenever you do anything -- walk, bend over, sit, eat, etc -- you'll have a habit of doing things in the most flirty, oversexualized manner possible.

Bend over, and unless you really force yourself, you'll do it by bending at the hips.  If there are people in the room, you might just turn your back on them before you do.

Walk, and it'll be with the best waggle you can put in your hips.  The sexiest walk you can think of.  The sexiest run.

Stand still, and you'll subconsciously strike a pose from a greek statue.  Or a pornographic magazine.  Keep your mind out of the gutter, or else.

Sit down, and your legs are going to do whatever they feel like.  Think "Sharon Stone".

Stuff like that.  I picture you'll be real, real popular at the college after a week, especially since, you know, no underwear.

Finally, to ensure you are real popular -- you can't turn down a "social interaction." An invitation to party, a suggestion to go studying, someone asking you out on a date, you simply cannot say no.  You'll agree, and you'll stick with it.  You don't have to do anything else -- like I said, making you a nympho would be too enjoyable for you -- but you are going to have a very "active" social life now.

The only way you'll be able to turn down someone is if you suspect some form of danger (your body is immune to date rape drugs, resistant to alchochol, and can't catch STDs -- you're welcome), are already booked (You can, however, choose one thing over another, you're not "first come first served"), if you honestly have a real excuse (have to study, have to get sleep for class, etc), or if you're dating a guy or girl you honestly care about.

Yes, Guy or Girl.  Did I forget to mention the bisexuality?  Sorry.  I'm so used to it by now that sometimes it slips my mind.

We were a complete shut in the first time we went to college.  This time, we're going to be a party girl.  Should be fun.

Of course, there's other, little changes I'm not telling you about -- your new exhibitionism, your hypersensitive skin, how you're a much more physical person now, how you can't tell anyone about what I did to us or about this letter, yadda yadda, but you'll figure it out.  We're a smart girl.

I can imagine the look on your face as you read this, the horror dawning...  ah, it makes me tingle in all the right places.

Anyway.  Time's a wasting.  I'll let you get settled in.  You'll find a bus ticket at the bottom of this letter.  Don't bother trying to keep yourself from going, you will.  The college is all for the idea, a "poor innocent victim of some perverted dark purple archmage..."

...  Well, you have to admit, they're right ...

Hell, you filled up half their disability quota for the year all on your own.  They'll be completely and utterly open to working around your "hideous and humiliating magical compulsions" and the school paper will let most of the students know the crib notes version.

Did I mention that I screwed the president of the college?  On camera?  Blackmail is such an ugly word, but he won't dare stop us from our fun now.

(Oh, don't give me that look, we looked like a 6 foot tall Asian gothic dominatrix made out of liquid chrome back then.  He won't figure it out.)

No one will help you.  You can't seek help.  Even if someone figures it out, the only one who can save you is...  you.

Your only hope is to go to school, master necromancy and transmigration, and cure yourself.  And the entire time, you'll be "that girl" that everyone gossips about.

How long, I wonder, will it take for you to get used to it?  To start to enjoy the flirting, the attention?

It took me a month to stop bothering to change back at night.  3 months to start calling myself Joan on accident.  6 months before I had my cherry popped.

What are the chances that by the time you do graduate, you just won't...  care anymore?

Pretty good, I'd say.  And if I'm right...  I win.

You'll be me, minus all the emotional baggage I've gained over the last 20 years, with 4 degrees and ready to take on the world.

And if I don't win, at least I die with the knowledge that the little arrogant fuck I was in college (Your speech?  You DICK.) is suffering more than anyone else can ever, ever know.

A special little screw you from yourself, 20 years too late,

- Joan"

John stared at the letter for a good minute before he realized he was walking down the path to the road.  When his concentration broke long enough to try and stop his legs, he looked back to discover the letter melting away to a rubber scented cloud, leaving just a small bus ticket in his hands.

Somehow, he knew it was for the Greyhound station down at the edge of the street.  He had no idea how he knew there was a Greyhound station at the edge of the street, having ostensibly never been to this town in his life, but...  His feet seemed to know where they were going.

He nearly tripped as he kept walking, causing him to instinctively look back, his legs not stopping even to let him do that properly -- he had a bus to catch, after all.  A large purple-black sheet of rubber was flying behind him, dissolving in the wind.

His brain had almost, but not quite figured it out when the first gust of wind tickled his suddenly exposed nethers like a bemused friend.

The feel of purple mana filled his body as he prodded it like a child trying to test the temperment of a new cat; it seemed to hiss and jiggle as it fell into the clothing he was in.  Before his eyes figured out how to look around his new breasts, he felt the loincloth recreate itself, his eyes nearly climbing out for a better vantage point as tears and holes in the rest of his clothing started to patch themselves up.

Distracted for a minute.  That's all it took, apparently, and his "clothing" would melt away like so much ether.  Forget the handicap of so many soulbound spells dragging his mana levels down, if he didn't constantly work on keeping his clothing together, he'd be naked in minutes.

The bus station attendant was bemused and insulting.  He discovered his new name was "Joan Brown", and he couldn't correct the jerk behind the counter, no matter how hard he tried.  There was no hint to his real name there, no way for people to recognize him, no way to hint of his predicament.  Instead he found himself giving a vague "It's a sorceress thing" and finding a nice quiet corner to hide in.

"Hello Dear, are you heading to Miami?"

John's head snapped up, looking vaguely in the direction of some older gentleman, who was sitting in a decidedly less "quiet corner" location.

He tried to ignore the fact that something inside him tingled at the sound of the british accent.

"T..that general direction, yeah."

"Splendid!  Well, we have about an hour before the bus arrives, lets step next door and have a bite to eat while we can.  I'd love to get to know someone I'm going to spend the next 24 hours traveling with."

No.  I'd rather be alone.

Nah, no thanks, I have things to think about.

I really don't think that'd be appropriate.

A thousand replies bounced through his mind.  His traitorous mouth refused to say any of them.

"Um..."

"Ah, my treat, I insist!"

No, no, that's ok.

I...  I really don't want to miss the bus.

I'm not hungry, really.

"Sure thing, I'd like that."

It took a second for him to realize the flirty female voice who agreed was his own; he felt a stupid smile plaster itself on his face as his body stood up and let itself be led out of the lobby and towards the cheap diner next door.

By the time the cow bell tied to the door made it's horrible noise, he had tried every trick he could think of to stop himself from walking, to somehow tell the older man about his situation, to somehow break free and go hide.

Instead, he found himself shoving his hips out a touch too far as he sat down, the man getting a free show as he gently pushed in his chair for him, the openly laughing waitress taking their order for "two lunch specials, two burbons and two sodas."

He was animatedly talking the entire time, John's own mouth refusing to stay shut, flirting the whole way.  The attention he was getting, not only from his lunch date, but from the small crowd of patrons who were all watching his every movement, was electric.

He knew his nipples could be seen through the ... thing he called a shirt.  He couldn't figure out a way to make the padding there thicker.

It was then that it dawned on him:  This was his life, at least for the next 4-5 years.  Helplessly pulled along with whatever everyone wanted to do with him, his only break classes and studying for a degree in a form of wizardry he had absolutely no interest in.  His only hope becoming not only a master of that wizardry, but one of the world's pioneers in it, all so he could undo what he somehow did to himself.

...  All while his traitorous body did it's best to brainwash him into enjoying it all.

From someplace beyond hearing, a voice that sounded suspiciously like his new feminine voice laughed, and laughed, and laughed...

Description
"We are proud to present, John Walters, Dual Major, Evocation and Restoration Magics, Valedictorian for the Class of 20XX!"

He stood up, legs lockstep and staring straight at the man at the podium.  His pearly white robes with the red trim billowed behind him as he walked up.  He held in his hands his prepared speech.

It was his day.  Archmage's list.  Awards and Honors.  Years of studying in a musty old library or a cramped dorm room, All leading to this.  His crowning moment.  Valedictorian at one of the most prestigius colleges of modern wizardry.  Ah, if only mom and dad were still around to see it.

He stood behind the podium, looking out at the crowds and crowds of people.  A hush fell over the masses as he opened his mouth ....

...  blink ...

... And then the first gust of air went up his loincloth, something that was particuarly surprising as a loincloth was somewhat different than the pretentious robes he was wearing before.  The electric feeling as his legs tingled under him sent him falling backwards onto the balls of his feet.

"W...wh...what?"  He managed to croak out.

Or at least tried to croak out.  Instead, it came out silky, feminine, and made him think all kinds of wrong thoughts.

John looked down at himself, horror seeping in around the shock.  Breasts.  Half exposed, beautiful breasts.  Hidden, barely, by a strange purple and black rubber material, which was shaped like some odd cross between a t-shirt and a vest -- if by vest you meant something so tight and so small that you could see areola starting to peek around it.

Further down, a pair of impossibly long socks that looked like they came out of a BDSM catalogue, framing a loincloth that was literally glued to his belly.  Which was lucky, as it was apparently held up by nothing else -- his hips and a generous portion of his legs were in plain sight.

They were curvy and tan.  Way too curvy.  Way too tan.  They weren't his spindly, pale legs he had earned from years of neglect in a dark corner of the libraries on campus.

His hands pushed into the soft grass as he leaned backwards despite himself, his mind racing.

The last thing he remembered was opening his mouth to give the speech.  His speech, the one he had been working on for weeks.

There was a calm, serene feeling, thunderous applause, and then...  Nothing.  He was here.  But 'here' was wrong.  It was the wrong season, the wrong...  everything.  He could see hills in the background.  There was a forest closing up behind him.

You'd have to drive for a good, long while before you found either near Bierce University.

In the water, he spied a floating piece of plastic.  On it, written in his own handwriting: "Quaid Gambit." Next to it, the symbol for infinity.

Quaid Gambit?  Oh.

Shit!

It was a common enough thing nowadays.  Self memory modification was pathetically easy to do, once you had the right type of mana.

Wizards of a certain age didn't have bad memories -- they had mildly uncomfortable experiences that they forgot about once they got home.

The Quaid Gambit was when they went a touch further with that.  A wizard would walk off, sometimes after selling or hiding everything they owned, and use magic to wipe their own memories.  Sometimes for a weekend.  Sometimes for a year.  Sometimes forever.  The more powerful ones could make it so no amount of counterspell would undo them -- the memories were just...  gone.

It was an interesting game to some.  Some used it after casting a few luck spells, or having a friend keep an eye on them.  Others did it when they truly wanted to start fresh.  Some had even started doing it with a combination of age regression and transmigration spells, leaving them dazed, confused, and college age again.

Two famous mages had courted each other, married, had a horrible divorce, and then did it all over again after they had both independently wiped their minds of the entire event.  The third time was the charm -- they had discovered marriage counseling by then.

Some even did it as a dare, the ultimate answer to the question: "Are you a self made man?" They'd spend a year, completely lost, and see where they ended up at the end of it.

Few of them woke up half naked with breasts.

Not as few as you'd think, but it still wasn't eactly common.

He took stock.  He was rested.  Very well rested, if the mana reserves he could feel inside him were any indication.  But the mana reserves were completely wrong.  Gone were his familiar evocation and restoration mana, replaced with the reverent solitude of black necromantic mana, and the glowing, shifting purple transmigration mana.

They weren't his strong suit, or at least weren't before -- necromancy being legal, but considered creepy in the same way that in the old world working at a funeral parlor was.  Transmigration was almost completely the domain of the slightly off, the kinds of people who hung out at clubs giving random boys and girls tails for fun.  Not that evocation and restoration majors ever got invited to those kinds of clubs...

But If the mana he had now was any indication, they were certainly his strong suit now.  To his third eye, he was a glowing supernovae of purple and black.  Whisps of red and white, his previous specialization, floated through it while barely affecting the color, a testament to his newfound affinity for the dark ochre.

Pity he could count on one finger the number of necromancy and transmigration spells he knew.

In the water, other bits of trash told a far more alarming tale.  A faded newspaper, dated over a decade later than he expected.  Old, forgotten cans of soft drinks that he didn't recognize.  Scorched remnants of necromantic and transmigratory spell scrolls -- the remnants of a spellbook?

Why would any wizard destroy his own spellbook?  It would be like cutting off one's own arm.

He stood up, his legs unsteady even as he went.  He tried to ignore that his knees had ended up spread apart seemingly on their own the whole time he was crouched over, only snapping closed once he got fully upright.  He then noticed the piece of paper, covered gently with a rock, under him.

He went to pick it up, but found his knees refused to play along, remaining rigidly locked.  In a flight of inspiration, he took two steps back and bent over the wrong way around.

The breeze had hinted at it, but the gust of wind definitely confirmed it:  The strange stick-on loincloth did not come with underwear.

And "Mr.  Happy" was gone, too.

He flipped open the paper as he reach back and ended his impromptu peep show and started reading.

"Dear John,

Hah, normally these letters have a slightly different tone.  Well, I guess you could say it's a Dear John letter, cause the fact of the matter is...  I'm leaving you.

I'm you, of course.  But I'm 42 now.  It's been 20 years, to the day, since we graduated from Bierce.  I thought we'd get a nice job someplace as a white mage.  Maybe a job in some factory as a fire elementalist.  We always dreamed of helping people, either medically or by supporting a company with evocation.

It didn't work out that way.

The fact of the matter is, after college I discovered we're really, really good at transmigration.  But we're even better at necromancy.  You know, the two types of magic that you wouldn't bother trying out?  The two types that were "beneath" you?  It's so ironic that you're a goddamned prodigy with the magic types you utterly refused to work on during college.

Instead of discovering our calling early, we first got a job at a hospice center out of school.  That's where we first learned necromantic spells -- yes, necromancy at a hospice.  Wipe that stupid look off our face, it's common.

While there, we helped the other white mages and the death mages ease everyone's suffering, and helped those who had passed early to say goodbye.  We even helped a few of them reincarnate.

Reincarnation isn't just white magic.  It won't work without death.  It is death, only death into a new form.  White and black mana, working in harmony.  No one gets that except the ReGuides and the Zen Grey-Mages, not that you know anything about that.

It must eat at you, the thought of a hospice using death magic.  The mere thought of white magic not being the end all be all?  Those freaky black mages, as important as you?

I know, because it ate at me, too.  I was such a prick when I was you.

After 10 years of loyal work at that place, alongsie some very hard working death mages, healers, and the like...  we hated every damned minute of it.  You can only sit around death, pointless, soul crushing death for so long before you stop caring.  And then you start hating it.  We have the mana.  Why do any of these people die?  We could cure their wounds, their illnesses with white mana.  They could easily be transmigrated into younger, healthier forms using purple mana.  We could use pink mana to at least eliminate the pain, the sadness, the fear.  We don't even bother using divination to give the family a fighting chance at being there in time.

Instead, we ignore them.  We let them die, cold and alone.

The secret of immortality is in our hands and the death rate barely dipped.

So one day, we quit.  Rather spectacularly.  Burned every bridge, alienated every friend.

We managed to find our way to New London.  Our savings lasted about 6 months.  No one was hiring "promising young white and red mages" with no experience.  We stopped eating every day.  We sold everything we owned except the rice cooker.  We used our last money for 30 more days of rent.

We lucked out.  Honest to god, we lucked out.  The lady two apartments down finally got close enough to us to feel comfortable offering us a job.  We took it without asking what it was.  It didn't matter, we'd do anything.

Hahahaha.

That night, we found ourselves outside of one of those transmigration fetish clubs.  You know the type.  Show up, get zapped into the wrong gender, wrong body, or the wrong species, have a good evening, wake up back to normal.

We cleaned the rooms.  Of substances man was not meant to see.  Or smell.  Oh god, the smells.  You'd think you'd get used to them.

You don't.

After a few days, she convinced us to try our hand at purple mana.  The sphere turned into a cube, the mana-litmus paper changed colors, and the next day she started training us in transmigration.  We kept cleaning the rooms at night.

We hated it every bit as much as working in the hospice, but we had to have money to live.  It took me 10 years, but I finally understood something:

You can't eat dignity.

Oh, the things we've seen over these last few years.  The things we've done.  Hell, the PEOPLE we've done.  We bounced around clubs a few times.  First leaving our friend's club to take a full time position at a scummy one in the bad part of town.  We then worked our way up and back to be with her not as an assistant, but as an equal.  We helped her club become a "respectable" one, one that does consulting for private parties, theme weekend getaways, the works.

Have you ever seen the beauty of a group of Girl Scouts, swimming through the ocean as half-dolphins?  No, of course not.  Because people who transmigrate are "freaks", right?  "Freaks" don't have perfectly platonic, beautiful memories of being mermaids.

Admittedly, There are still smells and sights in the rooms that I wake up screaming over.  But now, the people causing them are much, much richer.  They pay a lot more than a girl scout troupe, for a lot less work.

...

You can't eat dignity.

Still.  It's been 10 years.  20 since College.  And I've started to realize as the 20 year mark comes up, the only thing I hate more than these stupid fucking perverts and their stupid fucking hardons, is...

Me.

You.

Us.

What we turned into.

Don't get me wrong.  I originally thought of suicide.  But the fact of the matter is, I'm a coward.  I can't stand the idea of...  giving up.  Not like that.

So.  Rather than take the easy way out, we're taking the fun way out.  The Quaid Gambit, instead of just ending it all.  But rather than just start over, ignore the last 20 years, and try again as a white or fire mage, I'm going to...  make things interesting.  Satisfy a fantasy of mine, you might say.

Well, you wouldn't, but, I've had 10 years of working at a fetish club to gain a few kinks.  I hate it, but I can't deny it anymore -- I'm a bit of a pervert.

And so are you.  You just don't know it yet.

One of the only really good things about being a purple mage is that you're effectively immortal.  As long as you have the mana -- and mana's free -- you can always rewind the clock.  Always.  And being a necromancer means that curses, well, curses are one of those things necromancers don't like to talk about.  But you know what?  White Mages know necromancy too.  It's not white magic that fixes it when you get a bad case of Fire Crotch, or Potter's Eye -- it's a tiny bit of necromancy.

And you know what happens when you combine purple and black?

Anything you want.  Repeatedly.

So you'll note some of the changes in your body.  Obviously, your gender is the first one, but also note that your skin is blemish free and perfectly tan, that your muscles are well defined, that your skin feels just a bit tougher than it used to be.  All of these changes are permanently embedded in you, a form of necromantic curse integrating with your morphic field.

Ah, you probably don't know what a morphic field is.  No matter, just understand this:  You can't undo the changes.  No one can, unless they remove the curse first.  It goes too deep inside your soul, your soul itself pulls the mana from the ether to transmigrate you back into this form.  I could fix it, if I had some time.  But I'm very, very good at transmigration and necromancy.  A natural.  You're not.

Not yet.

Fortunately, you're not some sort of magically enduced nympho.  I'm not a complete ass.  Ok, I am, but, it's more entertaining to know that you know what's happening but not be able to change anything -- nymphomania would make this too much fun.

You'll find you're re-enrolled in Bierce.  This time, in Transmigration and Necromancy dual majors.  You can't change it, drop out, or otherwise sabotage it.  You will throw yourself into your studies this time just as well as you threw yourself into your studies the first time.  You can't help it, and you're such a dweeb I doubt I even need to spend the mana to force you.

I did, just in case.

By the time you graduate, maybe a few years afterwards, you should have enough knowledge to dispel a self-inflicted soulbound dual transmigration/necromancy curse.  It's real cutting edge stuff, most of the professors still swear it's not possible.  And since it's soulbound -- that means you technically accepted the curse inside yourself willingly... well...

No one else is going to be able to help you, at least in our price range.  And those who know enough about curses to recognize what the curse means wouldn't help you.

Not that I'd let you seek help, anyway.

... Anyway, maybe with a real degree in Necromancy and Transmigration, along with our degree in Restoration and Evocation... maybe we can find a real job someplace, instead of being "Mrs. Fetish" at the local gimp club.  Maybe start up our own gimp club, someplace classy.  Or maybe go into alchemy.  Or professional bodysculpting.  Bodysculpting's fun.

So.  What's all this talk about a curse, you ask?  Good question.  It's 3 fold, and I'm damned proud of it.

First off.  See this outfit?  Actually no, you don't.  You see, you're actually naked.  Unless you fix yourself, you're going to spend the rest of your life naked as the day we were born.

We're actually wrapped in a mana construct -- it's a purple magic thing, basically one step up from an illusion.  As long as it's active, it's effectively real.  It can tear, burn, the works.  For all intents and purposes, it's mana transmigrated into real clothing.

But it has to be maintained, just like an illusion, or it goes poof.

It should save you quite a bit on your laundry bill, but unfortunately it means that you have to constantly channel purple mana to keep dressed -- and I am the one who gets to decide what clothing you wear from now on.  Any actual clothing you put on will be instantly transmigrated into something useless -- air, water or baby oil, depending on how aroused you are at the time.

And doing so will drain mana.

See the catch 22?  No?  That's ok, you're not a bastard.  Let me spell it out for you -- you need to have mana to make your clothing.  You run out of mana, you're naked.  You try to wear actual clothing, your curse will waste a large portion of your mana destroying it.  Trying to get out of this part of your curse will only leave you naked, for a good long while while your body recharges your mana.  Hours, at least.

Now, you can try to generate your own version of outfits -- by all means, experiment -- but if it doesn't follow the rules, expect it to change itself to match the rules, or just vanish outright.

So your new dress code is as follows.  Pay attention now, cause if you don't follow it you will regret it.

Casual and Formal Clothing:
- Must be mostly skintight.
- Must be made of latex.
- Must expose at least 75% of your skin.
- Underwear, shoes, and any extra layers of clothing such as coats are not allowed.

You'll find your skin, especially the soles of your feet, are enchanted against damage, so no need to worry about not being able to wear shoes and underwear and the like.  You'll get chilly, but not frostbite.  You'll hate stepping on rocks, but they won't cut you.  Stuff like that.  If it really bothers you, create some shoes or flip flops or something.

But remember, 75% exposure adds up quick -- and every inch of leg you hide is a inch of belly, or arm, or whatnot you have to show off...

Oh, and trust me, you do not want to know what 75% of your skin the curse will pick to expose if it gets to.  Make a mental wardrobe and stick to it, or use the default ones I left inside your brain.  Or just go around naked, I don't give a shit.

Bathing Suits:
- Must be made of latex.
- Must expose at least 90% of your skin.
- Must be the most revealing Bathing Suit within 500 yards.

Think thongs and string bikinis, not one pices.  Oh, and if you see a more revealing bikini, yours will magically become more revealing to match.  I'd avoid beaches where people go topless or god forbid, nude, as you'll find you're still going to be the most "interesting" girl on the beach, no matter what.

Ah, and as an aside:  Don't worry about your bikini line.  You don't have one -- your new body is permanently hairless under your chin.  Oh, and yes, you've aleady got a tan.  Everywhere.  And it won't go away, your skin just automatically handles that itself now.

Excersize Clothing:
- Must be made of latex.
- Must be absolutely skintight.
- Must be less than 1mm thick.

In case you're not getting it, let me explain it - your excersize outfits will be essentually bodypaint, only made out of ultra-thin latex.  You can wear as much as you want, go nuts, but it will be absolutely form fitting down to the molecules.  I suggest wearing dark colors so people can't see your nipples and vulva from a distance, but hey, whatever makes you happy, if you want to go out in translucent white and yellow, more power to ya.

Did I mention you are required to excersize regularly?  You'll go jogging once a day and you'll probably find a yoga or areobic group to work out with too.  You don't need to -- your morphic field won't let your body get out of shape -- I'm just an ass like that.

Sleepwear:
- Forbidden!  You can't channel mana while asleep.
(Don't fall asleep in class!)

Get used to lounging around your dorm room in the nude in the morning and evening -- Oh, I'm sure you can figure out how to create a t-shirt, but, remember, minimum of 75% exposure required.  No, more to the point, you're going to need the time to channel enough mana for your day.

Think about it.  You need purple mana to make these clothes.  Lots of purple mana.  See the trap?  No?

There is no way you can channel enough mana to keep your clothing created for more than a few hours at a time.  Not while you're constantly using it up to keep your clothing around.  You can't channel mana and expend mana at the same time.

If you run out of mana, your clothing vanishes, instantly.  And you'll need time to get enough mana to build it back up.

Every so often, probably a few minutes between each class, you're going to have to let your clothing vanish, just so you can get enough mana to keep it up for another hour or so.  I suggest darting into the bathroom, finding a stall, and spending a few minutes naked until you have to get to your next class.  You might even want to scout out paths between the buildings you could...  discreetly run between.  That would be 5-10 minutes of free mana, at the cost of letting a few people see your tits and ass.

No?  Well, it was just a suggestion.

Do I need to repeat that you can't miss a class unless you have a good reason?

Didn't think so.  But don't worry, I doubt anyone will complain after the President of the college gets onto them.  Oh, and 75% was a "guideline", not a rule -- if you want to just create 3 stickers and a pair of flip flops to lessen the mana drain, go right ahead.  The less "fabric" you create, the slower the mana drains.

The real neat thing about this?  You'll get really, really good at channeling purple mana.  Channeling it pretty much 24x7 for 4 years into a built in transmigration spell?  Not even archmages get that kind of experience.  You'll be so in tune with Transmigration after the first year that you'll catch up with me in no time.  You think you have mana reserves now, you don't know shit -- remember, I just blew most of my mana on the Quaid gambit spell.

But not even I can keep these fake clothes on for more than a few hours at a go.

Back to the curse.  This is just part one.  Excited yet?

Second part.  You'll note that you woke up in a rather embarrassing pose.  You should get used to it.  From now on, whenever you do anything -- walk, bend over, sit, eat, etc -- you'll have a habit of doing things in the most flirty, oversexualized manner possible.

Bend over, and unless you really force yourself, you'll do it by bending at the hips.  If there are people in the room, you might just turn your back on them before you do.

Walk, and it'll be with the best waggle you can put in your hips.  The sexiest walk you can think of.  The sexiest run.

Stand still, and you'll subconsciously strike a pose from a greek statue.  Or a pornographic magazine.  Keep your mind out of the gutter, or else.

Sit down, and your legs are going to do whatever they feel like.  Think "Sharon Stone".

Stuff like that.  I picture you'll be real, real popular at the college after a week, especially since, you know, no underwear.

Finally, to ensure you are real popular -- you can't turn down a "social interaction." An invitation to party, a suggestion to go studying, someone asking you out on a date, you simply cannot say no.  You'll agree, and you'll stick with it.  You don't have to do anything else -- like I said, making you a nympho would be too enjoyable for you -- but you are going to have a very "active" social life now.

The only way you'll be able to turn down someone is if you suspect some form of danger (your body is immune to date rape drugs, resistant to alchochol, and can't catch STDs -- you're welcome), are already booked (You can, however, choose one thing over another, you're not "first come first served"), if you honestly have a real excuse (have to study, have to get sleep for class, etc), or if you're dating a guy or girl you honestly care about.

Yes, Guy or Girl.  Did I forget to mention the bisexuality?  Sorry.  I'm so used to it by now that sometimes it slips my mind.

We were a complete shut in the first time we went to college.  This time, we're going to be a party girl.  Should be fun.

Of course, there's other, little changes I'm not telling you about -- your new exhibitionism, your hypersensitive skin, how you're a much more physical person now, how you can't tell anyone about what I did to us or about this letter, yadda yadda, but you'll figure it out.  We're a smart girl.

I can imagine the look on your face as you read this, the horror dawning...  ah, it makes me tingle in all the right places.

Anyway.  Time's a wasting.  I'll let you get settled in.  You'll find a bus ticket at the bottom of this letter.  Don't bother trying to keep yourself from going, you will.  The college is all for the idea, a "poor innocent victim of some perverted dark purple archmage..."

...  Well, you have to admit, they're right ...

Hell, you filled up half their disability quota for the year all on your own.  They'll be completely and utterly open to working around your "hideous and humiliating magical compulsions" and the school paper will let most of the students know the crib notes version.

Did I mention that I screwed the president of the college?  On camera?  Blackmail is such an ugly word, but he won't dare stop us from our fun now.

(Oh, don't give me that look, we looked like a 6 foot tall Asian gothic dominatrix made out of liquid chrome back then.  He won't figure it out.)

No one will help you.  You can't seek help.  Even if someone figures it out, the only one who can save you is...  you.

Your only hope is to go to school, master necromancy and transmigration, and cure yourself.  And the entire time, you'll be "that girl" that everyone gossips about.

How long, I wonder, will it take for you to get used to it?  To start to enjoy the flirting, the attention?

It took me a month to stop bothering to change back at night.  3 months to start calling myself Joan on accident.  6 months before I had my cherry popped.

What are the chances that by the time you do graduate, you just won't...  care anymore?

Pretty good, I'd say.  And if I'm right...  I win.

You'll be me, minus all the emotional baggage I've gained over the last 20 years, with 4 degrees and ready to take on the world.

And if I don't win, at least I die with the knowledge that the little arrogant fuck I was in college (Your speech?  You DICK.) is suffering more than anyone else can ever, ever know.

A special little screw you from yourself, 20 years too late,

- Joan"

John stared at the letter for a good minute before he realized he was walking down the path to the road.  When his concentration broke long enough to try and stop his legs, he looked back to discover the letter melting away to a rubber scented cloud, leaving just a small bus ticket in his hands.

Somehow, he knew it was for the Greyhound station down at the edge of the street.  He had no idea how he knew there was a Greyhound station at the edge of the street, having ostensibly never been to this town in his life, but...  His feet seemed to know where they were going.

He nearly tripped as he kept walking, causing him to instinctively look back, his legs not stopping even to let him do that properly -- he had a bus to catch, after all.  A large purple-black sheet of rubber was flying behind him, dissolving in the wind.

His brain had almost, but not quite figured it out when the first gust of wind tickled his suddenly exposed nethers like a bemused friend.

The feel of purple mana filled his body as he prodded it like a child trying to test the temperment of a new cat; it seemed to hiss and jiggle as it fell into the clothing he was in.  Before his eyes figured out how to look around his new breasts, he felt the loincloth recreate itself, his eyes nearly climbing out for a better vantage point as tears and holes in the rest of his clothing started to patch themselves up.

Distracted for a minute.  That's all it took, apparently, and his "clothing" would melt away like so much ether.  Forget the handicap of so many soulbound spells dragging his mana levels down, if he didn't constantly work on keeping his clothing together, he'd be naked in minutes.

The bus station attendant was bemused and insulting.  He discovered his new name was "Joan Brown", and he couldn't correct the jerk behind the counter, no matter how hard he tried.  There was no hint to his real name there, no way for people to recognize him, no way to hint of his predicament.  Instead he found himself giving a vague "It's a sorceress thing" and finding a nice quiet corner to hide in.

"Hello Dear, are you heading to Miami?"

John's head snapped up, looking vaguely in the direction of some older gentleman, who was sitting in a decidedly less "quiet corner" location.

He tried to ignore the fact that something inside him tingled at the sound of the british accent.

"T..that general direction, yeah."

"Splendid!  Well, we have about an hour before the bus arrives, lets step next door and have a bite to eat while we can.  I'd love to get to know someone I'm going to spend the next 24 hours traveling with."

No.  I'd rather be alone.

Nah, no thanks, I have things to think about.

I really don't think that'd be appropriate.

A thousand replies bounced through his mind.  His traitorous mouth refused to say any of them.

"Um..."

"Ah, my treat, I insist!"

No, no, that's ok.

I...  I really don't want to miss the bus.

I'm not hungry, really.

"Sure thing, I'd like that."

It took a second for him to realize the flirty female voice who agreed was his own; he felt a stupid smile plaster itself on his face as his body stood up and let itself be led out of the lobby and towards the cheap diner next door.

By the time the cow bell tied to the door made it's horrible noise, he had tried every trick he could think of to stop himself from walking, to somehow tell the older man about his situation, to somehow break free and go hide.

Instead, he found himself shoving his hips out a touch too far as he sat down, the man getting a free show as he gently pushed in his chair for him, the openly laughing waitress taking their order for "two lunch specials, two burbons and two sodas."

He was animatedly talking the entire time, John's own mouth refusing to stay shut, flirting the whole way.  The attention he was getting, not only from his lunch date, but from the small crowd of patrons who were all watching his every movement, was electric.

He knew his nipples could be seen through the ... thing he called a shirt.  He couldn't figure out a way to make the padding there thicker.

It was then that it dawned on him:  This was his life, at least for the next 4-5 years.  Helplessly pulled along with whatever everyone wanted to do with him, his only break classes and studying for a degree in a form of wizardry he had absolutely no interest in.  His only hope becoming not only a master of that wizardry, but one of the world's pioneers in it, all so he could undo what he somehow did to himself.

...  All while his traitorous body did it's best to brainwash him into enjoying it all.

From someplace beyond hearing, a voice that sounded suspiciously like his new feminine voice laughed, and laughed, and laughed...