You step off the train onto a deserted platform strewn with litter. A single bare halogen light flickers off-and-on, but mostly off. To your partial relief, you recognise the old train buildings as those that exist in your world. At least some things are the same. Yet these are crumbling and decayed, and chunks of them are missing, as though bombed. There are posters covering the crumbling brickwork with pictures of a chubby, dour looking Asian politician. 'Obedience is Happiness,' they read.
"This reality sucks," you moan, limping gingerly out of the station. There is a painful ache between your ass cheeks. "Carrot top gets reefer paradise, and I get the planet of the arse rapers." Your tits jiggle obscenely with every step, and a chilling wind bites through the gauzy material of the top and whistles up the short skirt, tickling across the lips of your new vagina. You've never felt more exposed, but you soldier on towards the bright lights of the neon drenched main street, desperate to find the portal and escape this hellish place.
On the plus side, you think, as you totter on your heels between the rows of gaudy brothels and bars, this place sure has a good supply of whores. In fact, you're not even sure if whore is the proper term - the bars seem to be giving away the sexual services of the women that throng the doorways for free, solely as I means of drawing in punters. You wonder what the women get out of it, although looking at the looks of abject terror on some of their faces, you're guessing it is another day of life.
It never occurred to you that this place might be unsafe, so used were you to the confidence that 6'2 of well-honed physique. But as the reality as your new form starts to set in, you start to notice the eyes of the soldiers turning to watch your boobs and buttocks as you pass, start to hear the cat calls and obscene remarks in broken English. You quicken your pace, trying to push your way through the crowds. The soldiers are closing in around you, hemming you in. Growing desperate, you try to run. The cheap stiletto heel breaks away beneath your foot and you stumble awkwardly, skirt tearing, breasts spilling, a stab of pain shooting through your brutalized anus.
"Fuck, my ass!" you gasp, clutching your throbbing buttocks. Your eyes go wide as three soldiers seize and fondle you roughly. "Wh-wait! Wait! Stop, no! I said 'fuck, my ass' not 'fuck my ass'! There was a comma! There was a commaaaaa!"
--------------------
Timothy Gray couldn't believe his luck. In his bedroom, exactly where his brother had been standing, was a buxom, leggy blonde. She was wearing his brother's clothes, almost as if she'd materialized inside them. She was trembling like a leaf and staring around her in confusion with big, doe eyes.
Christina Gray didn't know whether to feel relieved or afraid. The last thing she remembered, the General had been on the verge of penetrating her, when all of a sudden the world had lurched and she was standing here... in a strangely familiar room... with a strangely familiar boy sat in front of her...
She looked down and shrieked. She was wearing trousers. Male clothes! It was forbidden for women, especially ex-men, to wear male clothes. If the authorities found out, she could be flogged, taken back for reconditioning, or killed.
"I'm sorry! Please, don't tell anybody!" she pleaded of Timothy, desperately tearing off the muddied football shirt and wriggling the trousers down over her hips.
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