First Time

The sickly-sweet scent of perfume, which had no business being in such a filthy little room they dared to call a "bathroom", clung to her nostrils, making her slightly nauseous. Jason—now formally "Jasmine"—stood in front of the cracked mirror, staring at her reflection. Soft waves of platinum hair, neatly pinned back, brushed her bare shoulders and looked nothing like the respectable 45-year-old man who once took pride in being Deputy Director of Hold Industries LLC. Pressing her lips tightly, Jasmine cast a furtive glance at Emily—the one who used to be Mark, also quite a "big shot" at Hold Industries, more precisely, the former Chief Financial Officer.

– You’re putting on lipstick so calmly... – Jasmine muttered, watching the lipstick glide along the crimson curve of Emily’s mouth in her thin, delicate hand.

Emily smirked slightly, not looking away from her little mirror, her voice far too calm, far too distant:

– Because if I start thinking, I’ll scream, Jasmine. And screaming with this voice is the last thing I want to do.

Jasmine swallowed, feeling the fabric of the nightgown flutter slightly from the draft, brushing against her new body—over hips that were now fuller, over a belly far too flat with lace clinging to it, and especially over her breasts—not that big, but still heavy and oddly perky, constantly jiggling, with nipples far too sensitive.

– You're… doing well, – she said weakly. – Like you've already… gotten used to it.

Emily finally turned around. She wasn't just calm—there was something in her eyes Jasmine couldn’t quite place: a mix of bitterness, self-defense, and—however terrifying it sounded—a hint of acceptance.

– They told us: "Handle it, and you’ll get new IDs, a job, and at least some kind of freedom back." Don’t handle it (she slid her hand across her neck, mimicking a knife). So what do you want, Jasmine? That, or freedom?

At her new name, Jasmine flinched, as if someone had run a cold spoon down her spine.

– Jasmine… – she whispered, tasting the name. It was like a candy with a fake fruit flavor—bright, sticky, intrusive. – It sounds disgusting.

Emily snorted, pressing her lips together so the lipstick would set evenly.

– Get used to it. You’re “Jasmine” now, I’m “Emily”, and that doll over there with the doe eyes and million-dollar tits? She’s “Belle.” And tonight we all have… our first femininity exam. – The last part she said while pouting, as if rehearsing how to flirt with a client.

– Fucking hell… – Jasmine turned and caught the gaze of the very "Belle" in the mirror—the former Chief Operations Officer, if she wasn’t mistaken. Now—a tall blonde with the kind of body that would make any guy drool. The walk, the curve of the waist—it all seemed disturbingly… natural. Almost real.

– Do you think they… will touch us? – Jasmine whispered, instinctively covering her breasts with her hands, which made the thin straps of the gown slide off a little, revealing the rounded tops.

Emily looked at her like a child who just realized a shot hurts.

– Jasmine, sweetie. They’re not just going to touch you—have you forgotten what it was like being one of them? They’ll expect you to laugh, whisper in their ear, and wiggle so everything… jiggles. – She deliberately shrugged her shoulders, and her tits bounced slightly under the thin fabric, causing a strange, uneasy response between Jasmine’s legs. The old instinct, but now without the usual body part.

– This is humiliating, – Jasmine muttered, feeling herself shrink inside at the thought. – We were top execs at Hold Industries. We had offices. Subordinates. Fuck, I had a driver!

– And now you’ve got stockings, – Emily smirked, glancing down. – And I’d fix the garter if you don’t want it sliding under your skirt halfway through the walk. We don’t want to “ruin the impression,” do we?

Jasmine stepped back, stumbling in the narrow locker room and almost dropping the perfume bottle. Everything inside her was boiling. She’d cursed that day so many times—the day she got on that damned plane with almost the entire executive team, the one that, according to the official story, had crashed. In reality, they’d all been knocked out with gas, carefully packed up, and delivered to some kind of medical facility that looked more like a zombie spa—everything sterile, white, and terrifyingly quiet. Jason had woken up in an isolation pod, unable to move a finger, only able to see someone in a surgical mask peering in through the glass, smiling like he was about to give a manicure instead of performing surgery.

Jasmine remembered how, still in Jason’s body, she’d been strapped down while the surgery turned her ribcage into breasts, step by step, and her hips into curves that would’ve taken her own breath away before. It wasn’t magic. It was… surgery, pharmacology, a bit of neurostimulation, and some twisted brilliance. They—once lions of the business world—had been transformed into “projections of female sexuality” in the eyes of some insane rival and his plastic-surgeon Frankenstein. Tits straight out of a catalog: some round, some perky, some “girlish.” Bodies sculpted like the devil himself had studied every male fantasy.

Once fully awake in their new bodies, they were brought to what looked like a school. Lessons in walking on stilettos (in tall halls with mirrors stretching to the ceiling), flirting practice (with male actors who had no clue who they were training), lectures on client psychology, and even… lingerie fashion trend analysis. Jasmine still couldn’t forget how they’d made her stand in a corset for three hours while “Madame Yvonne” explained the importance of the “hourglass silhouette.” She’d been nauseous—both from the pain in her back and from the sheer absurdity of it all.

– Well, girls, are you ready? – Madame Yvonne’s ringing voice called out from behind the door, where they were already expected.

– Ready as ever, – Emily nodded, standing up and adjusting her bust, making her tits bounce delicately under the fabric.

Belle twirled in front of the mirror, her dress hugging every curve so perfectly it made Jasmine’s cheeks itch.

– Be honest, – Jasmine whispered. – Do you… actually like this?

– And you don’t? – Emily raised a brow in return, sliding a finger along her thigh where the silk of the stocking disappeared under her skirt. – It’s basically the same as chasing success at Hold Industries—except now our lives are on the line – she finished, and her voice suddenly carried that old, familiar confidence—almost like back in the days when she, still in Mark’s body, dissected reports with the cold precision of a surgeon.

Jasmine froze, staring at her partner in misfortune—or in fate? Her lips twitched, as if wanting to say something, but instead she just snorted and turned toward the mirror, wanting to curse. She looked at herself, realizing that there was, after all… something there. Unpleasantly thrilling. As if the whole world wasn’t waiting to humiliate them, but to see whether they—former titans of industry—could now conquer it in a different way. Whether they’d even deserved their places before that “plane crash.” Like it was a challenge from the universe itself—or from God.