I blinked, clearing my sleep-blurred eyesight. Still wobbly, my stare slid along the coloured ceiling, down to walls of the same material, and stopped at a small window positioned near the ceiling. Its weird-shaped, narrow sill was amusingly reminiscent of canonical prison windows seen in old history dramas.
I felt my eyebrows rise at the tinge of the narrow shaft of light it let through. Who uses stained glass for windows, and such a weird, purplish-coloured one at that?
Okay. It seems safe enough to assume it is not my room. Nor is this my bed, I thought, feeling my left side hanging perilously close to the edge of the support on which I was lying. This felt more like a narrow bunk than a bed.
My sleep-addled brain lazily went on sorting through a list of probable scenarios as if waking up in an unfamiliar place was something it dealt with regularly.
That took a few moments. All I was getting were lines like, --What the actual fuck? This is as cliche as it comes, ha-ha. That and unhealthily large amounts of cheesy scenarios originating from consumed literature.
With regret, I dismissed all of the nonsense overflowing in my head. The most likely explanation probably was the most embarrassing one.
As unlikely as it sounded, it was not out of the realm of possibility that I had continued with the party, and after getting too drunk, I crashed at the place of one of my colleagues. They liked me well enough not to drop me off in a park. Thank God for that, I guess. Thank you, guys!
On the rare occasions I did drink, it all had ended much the same way. Yeah, I am a terrible drunk.
Last night must have been a blast, too. I expected to recall at least some inkling of to whom of my colleagues I owe thanks, but my mind came up with a clean slate.
It sounded neat, so I felt annoyed when the nitpicking part of me, my analytical mind, finally awake, started to have fun, poking holes in that theory.
Why do I not feel like death warmed over If I had passed out?
Keeping still, in case a hangover was just waiting for this moment, I opened my eyes again. It was still the same place, with the same walls and ceiling. Wooden walls and ceiling. Correction -- it was rather picturesque, decorated with well-made carvings, wooden walls and ceiling.
Um, what? Who, which one of my workmates, was rocking such a posh-looking house?
Huh, and when could I see fine details at such a distance? What kind of hangover makes you see better?
I moved, reaching up to rub the numbness off my face, still not quite believing the image my eyes were showing me.
Amused, despite the weirdness of the situation, the smirk I felt starting to shape on my face evaporated when I felt my fingers sliding over delightfully soft, silky skin on a narrow, delicate face instead of the expected slap of rough hand on hard two days bristles adorning unshaven mug.
For a short, panicked moment, my brain tried and failed to explain the insanity of my arm resting on what felt like a delicate female face while my fingers explored it at an increasingly frantic pace.
My arm snatched away from it as if I was touching live fire. Something unintelligible that I felt forming in my throat died without ever getting out when my eyes fell upon fingers long fingers attached to a delicate hand.
It was not my hand.
The gears in my head revved up in full power, the shock of the situation making sure of that. I remembered going to a pab, a boring waste of time that, an occasional glass of beer, and then another pub. Dwindling yet increasingly loud crowd, milling around, coworkers saying their goodbyes and then...nothing. The ceiling and the funny-looking carvings on it.
I stared at the hand hovering above my face.
It made a fist at my command, wriggled fingers, bent at the wrist, flipped me a bird.
Checks out --- I own those fingers.
Those could not be my fingers.
The sleek digits of a woman who looked like they had not been touched by anything tougher than silk and velvet were a universe away from the hairy, calloused spade I used to scratch my mug with.
I let this outlandish thing to lower, cautiously touching my face again. Soft, silky skin, full, tingly lips, and a small nose. Yep, this checks out too -- that is not my face, no, sir!
I wasn't losing my mind, was I?
I shot myself up in bed, or at least I tried to.
Thick waves of red, luscious hair landing on my bare shoulders, tickling and sliding down onto my chest, would be reason enough to scream in fright in another situation.
Those didn't even start to approach disturbing, not when faced with impossibility, swaying lazily on my chest.
Two quivering cones, standing proud on my chest where there should be none. Disturbed by my movement, they swung in eye-catching motion, the inertia of the movement echoing in my shoulders -- proof that they were real. A flow of cool air brushed up against my skin, and the hefty sensation of them, which I had somehow ignored, hit me in full.
Motionless, I watched as fleshy jugs that had no place on my chest stood still, their tips rising up to my googled-out eyes. As I watched them, they visibly tightened under my incredulous gaze, sudden change in temperature, making them even firmer looking.
Breasts. I had a woman's breasts.
Nice looking ones, too, I admitted with a calmness, a sure harbinger of oncoming hysteria, as I idly reached to prod them.
That's an understatement, mate, the autonomous part of my brain, the lizard brain, chose this moment to pipe up. It cared not for the insanity of the situation.
Smooth and pliable to touch, just as heavy as their size might suggest, yet inexplicably also firm, not a sign of sagging or being affected by gravity at all, they rose up, as if belonging to a rubber doll or the work of a skilled surgeon.
Nonsense, mate, these are the real deal, the horny reptile in my head scoffed at such blasphemous thoughts. Have a feel-- do you feel how your fingers sink in sending the tactile response?
They were sensitive. Very, very sensitive, as I found out when my shaking fingers ended up on the pointed tips of the nipples. It felt as if I had touched naked nerves there. The blinding jolt flashing through my head in response felt like my brain was introduced to a taser.
See? I told you it is all a real deal...The imaginary voice of my libido dispersed into nothing as reality sunk in instead.
My mind blank, with no sensible thought in my head, I stumbled out of the bed, almost landing on my face in the process. My sense of balance was screwed, I discovered, as the floor was closer than I was used to, and merrily bouncing jugs on my chest seemed to have it as their goal to send me crashing, screwing with my coordination.
The grey blanket I was covered up with fell on the floor, revealing the narrow soffa I slept upon. I looked around reeling drunkenly and my frantic gaze fell on a large mirror attached to the backside of the door I was facing.
I didn't notice how I made it to the mirror, only stopping to freeze at the sight revealed in it.
The woman in reflection, shaking and looking on the verge of a panic, was gorgeous. Standing shorter than I used to be, she exhibited taut, feminine shapes, hinting at delicate but well-shaped muscles beneath the pearly white skin. Curly blood-red hair cascaded in coiling waves over her shoulders and chest, complimenting her pale face but doing little to obscure her spacious bust.
Delicate, sleek arms ended in long, thin fingers tipped with snug, pointed lady claws, armed with pearly nails, sharp and pointed, as if a manicurist had just done them. A slim, waspish waist flared into broad hips, the proportions of her legs just right to not destroy the ensemble of symmetry of her flawless alabaster limbs. Her groyne -- bare and smooth, with not a tuft of hair on it, an enticing marvel, cunny lips almost invisible on the alabaster skin.
But the most notable feature that captivated my attention was her eyes. Unusually large irises burning with flickering blue glow, their sclera's coated in turquoise haze, they didn't even remotely resemble anything a human might have.
I recognised her.
Mess in my head, images and sounds, of whom I was not aware before my eyes fell on reflection, cluttered in a spongy mess in my head and jamming my memory, fell apart with the force of a broken dam.
I drank something, something a woman, no, a demon, a succubus, gave to me. I was poisoned and dying. Words she said caused me to see the spectre of a woman, one I see in the reflection right now.
I am her.
The turquoise eyes in the reflection flashed, and I felt a familiar pressure in my head return. It felt different now, as if it was something natural, a part of me. The air around my body thickened, viscous, buzzing and cracking with static, sharp, popping bursts melding with the sounds of my panicked breathing.
Hit by a sudden shortness of breath, I dropped to my knees, bending over, unable to keep myself upright.
I found myself on the floor, squinting at bright discharges snaking up my arms. The wailing of a panicked animal fighting its way out, I slammed my fist on the floor, and I felt the power encasing me responding.
The floor shook violently, and the mirror fell, its shards scattering around me. I screamed, unable to hold in any longer the raging panic, my voice drowning in sounds of discharges and the rumbling, muffled noise of objects crushing beyond the walls.
What the hell?! What kind of fucked up turn of events is this?
I felt a movement. Blinded by flashes, I reeled, raising my arms as the smell of ozone and something burning crawled up my nose. Inexplicably, though near deafened, I felt the fast-approaching presence of life.
The eye-watering light of sparks parted as I squinted at the figure in a dark leather uniform revealed by the door springing open. It was subtly reminiscent of ancient Romans if those had decided to come up with a uniform for the modern police force. A yellow badge on the chest of its owner looked out of place, though more in tune with the wild West.
The woman shot a glance at me and scrambled away, narrowly escaping the hit of a buzzing arch of lightning. The door was not nearly as lucky -- it shattered in a rain of burning debris.
The uncontrollable surge of rage and panic engulfed me as I started to rise, urging me to follow, to smash and mime and turn the fleeting thing into charcoal.
The sensation of getting slapped in the face felt so real that I flew back, slamming into a bed behind me, my back crying out in pain. The blow sent my head spinning, and I reached up, fully expecting to find a patch of stinging skin there.
Someone was looking at me wordlessly. I swivelled my head in a panic only to realise that there wasn't anyone. The sensation came from inside of me. The stare, as weird as it was to think of it in such a way, felt feminine--a female.
