Ready to Go Out
I pull out a huge wad of tissues and clean up the floor. Thankfully, none of the semen or love juices had splattered as far as the clothes laid out on the desk. If they had, I would have had to spend the whole day wandering around outside trailing that unmistakable smell behind me, and that would have been far too humiliating to bear.
With the cleanup more or less finished, it's time for a shower. I step into the bathroom and turn on the water. Warm water comes pouring down in a steady rush, sweeping away every trace of bodily fluid clinging to my skin. I glance down to see whether I've rinsed off well enough, and there it is—water pooled in the valley between my breasts. I press a hand to the inner curve of my chest and sweep it outward, and the water spills free, running down the side of my breast to warmly soak the underside.
"Sooo warmmm..."
Standing under the hot water kneading my breasts, I can feel my body slowly heating up. The thought of going for another round does cross my mind, but I give up on it quickly enough. Any more delay and going out would become a problem—and more than anything, the noise worried me.
Sound carries in here.
This bathroom is a sealed little box; if I touched myself in here and let even one moan slip out, there was no telling how far it would travel through the drainpipes. And I'd already been wailing loud enough for the whole building to hear just a little while ago. If I bothered the neighbors any further, who knows when a notice to vacate might come flying my way. I stop kneading my breasts and shut off the water. Okay—hair first.
"Mmm, this is how it's done, right?"
I grab the middle section of my thoroughly soaked hair and fold it up over the top of my head. With a wet slap, the doubled-over strands cling flat against my crown. I work shampoo into every last corner of my scalp and lather it up. I'm probably going through three or four times as much shampoo as I used to. Having experienced it firsthand, I finally understand why women take longer to wash than men. A bob would be bad enough—but for women with hair even longer than mine, how many hours does this devour? I send a silent word of encouragement to every long-haired woman out there battling it out in the shower.
Rinsing is its own ordeal. The moment water hits my head, the foam rides the stream down and clings to the lower lengths, and even just squeezing the water out by hand takes several passes from root to tip. By the time I finally finish washing my hair, I'm already half-dead with exhaustion. Maybe it's because this is a woman's body, but my arms ache even though I barely moved.
Next, the body. I scoop the leftover shampoo suds off every nook and cranny and grab a towel. Breasts first. Upper slope, front, underside, in that order—then I slide the towel into the valley between them and work it up and down. This is... an awful lot like a paizuri, isn't it?
Upper body done, on to the lower half. I spread my legs and bring the towel toward my lower belly.
"Mmh♡"
I'm not masturbating, and I'm not pressing hard, but every time my pussy brushes against the towel, my whole body gives a tiny jolt, and little moans leak out of my mouth in time with each twitch. I've never once heard of a woman getting worked up just from touching herself down there every time she washes. Which means...
"Why on earth did I write it like that when I sent it..."
"Please make it as lewd as possible." That line was surely the culprit. No amount of regret can take it back now, so all I can do is sigh. It lasted less than a minute, but it was still the hardest moment of the entire wash.
Face washed and teeth brushed, I towel the water off my body and step out of the bathroom, picking up the hairdryer.
"Even drying my hair is a pain!"
If it weren't for the leather, I could just rough-dry it and smooth things over with a bit of lotion, but with this body, that would leave hair sticking out in every direction. What's it called again—right, dog fur. No way I'm walking around outside with that hairstyle. I turn the airflow down and alternate between the dryer and a towel, squeezing out moisture from crown to ends. As for the result of that desperate struggle...
"...It's way too smooth?"
Having perfectly sleek hair is a good thing, obviously. The problem is that it's too sleek. Aside from the ends feeling slightly damp, my hair is in fantastic shape—not a single strand sticking out, not one bit of frizz.
I doubt even a professional salon could wash and blow-dry it to this standard. From here on out, whatever happens, I can just write it off with a 'well, it's leather.'
As I smooth lotion onto my face, a thought strikes me: this absolutely does not suit me. It doesn't smell bad, exactly, but it's not a scent for a woman in her early twenties. Unless she's spending the night at her boyfriend's place, no woman would wear something like this, right? And here I thought I'd ordered everything I could possibly need by delivery. Having a problem crop up in such a minor detail leaves me feeling off. Next time, I'm making a thorough list and shopping with a plan.
And with that, the washing is done. All that's left is to get dressed, and I can head out for a lovely walk!
Underwear first. My eyes land on a pair of black panties with fluttering lace at the edges, sheer enough to let a little light through. So lewd... I never imagined I'd end up wearing something like this. Heart pounding, I step my legs through and draw the panties up.
My verdict after putting them on: a perfect fit. Unlike with a man's body, nothing down there is being squeezed or compressed, so they're comfortable both to look at and to feel. As I keep staring, a curiosity bubbles up—I wonder if, while I'm moving around, the fabric might ride up into the mound of my pussy? Not that I was exactly eager to find out firsthand.
Next, the bra. I press the cups against my breasts and slide my arms through the straps. Now all that's left is to reach behind my back and fasten the hooks, and—
Huh?
The hooks won't clasp. No—it's not the hooks. The band is too short. I strain with all my strength to stretch it, and barely manage to get the bra on.
"Ow, ow, that hurts..."
My breasts ache. I look down to find them squashed flat like steamed buns, bulging out the sides of the bra. There's no way I can go out like this. I undo the hooks and peel the bra away, leaving angry red marks across my chest.
Did I enter the size wrong when I ordered? Or maybe there was more data they needed beyond just cup size? I rack my brain, but no answer comes.
Doesn't look like I can wear this one. But going out without a bra would be a problem in its own right. I picture it in my head: my F-cup breasts going clearly visible beneath a sweat-dampened white blouse, nipples poking out.
"Oh no..."
No way. Absolutely not. Well, nothing for it—the lesser evil beats the worst, right? I frantically rummage through the drawer. Pencil, memo pad, sticky notes, Scotch tape—I'm sure I used it a while back and stuffed it in here somewhere... Found it! Hauled up from the sea of junk: a pack of band-aids.
Two per breast, crossed in an X to cover each nipple. It's humiliating, but I remind myself it's still a better choice than having my nipples visibly poking through my clothes. Number one on the must-buy list: a bra.
Thankfully, after that, getting dressed went off without a hitch. I sort out the rest of my underwear, put on the blouse, the skirt, and even my socks, then take a few test walks around the room.
"Whoa, whoaaa..."
It feels so empty—genuinely empty. Every step sends a breeze brushing between my legs. I'm wearing something, and yet it feels like I'm wearing nothing at all, this hollow, bare sensation. My face burns red with embarrassment at the thought that my bare skin could show at any moment. The fact that lifting just this one thin layer of fabric would expose my panties—it's incredibly decadent. Huh, wait a second. I feel like I'm forgetting something...
Ah. I never bought any safety shorts.
It completely slipped my mind. The skirt I'm wearing now is loose and flowy rather than fitted—one strong gust and it would flip up in an instant, no question about it. The forecast did say today would be clear and sunny with no wind or clouds, but you can never be too careful. It's not just wind, either; catching on a stair railing or the air pressure from a passing car could expose my underwear just as easily. If I'm not careful, who knows when or where an incident might occur.
In front of the mirror, I turn this way and that, double-checking the outfit. A short skirt that covers barely past the top of my thighs, a pure white blouse, and beneath it, a huge chest demanding attention. But the body part that draws the eye more than anything else is my eyes.
"Should I have worn contacts instead?"
Red irises glint in the mirror. Anyone seeing them for the first time would definitely think it strange. I can only hope they'll let it slide with a 'those are some unusual contacts.'
Shoes on, I stand quietly at the front door. Open this door, and it's the outside world. What kinds of looks will I get? Will anyone talk to me? Someone might sneak a photo, or someone might get flustered. Or maybe, contrary to my overactive self-consciousness, nobody will spare me a glance at all. My heart pounds too hard to hold back any longer, wondering what experiences this body will bring me.
Current time: 11:30 in the morning. Weather: bright and clear.
And now, wearing the leather, I take my very first step into the outside world.