Chinese Dress

Mike Williams leaned back in his chair as he let out a satisfied sigh. The young journalist had been tasked with writing an article on the comparisons between American and Chinese culture, hence his current location: a restaurant in a quiet corner of Shanghai. With enough money to live their comfortably for a year, the New Yorker would be able to start his research whenever he saw fit. Though of course, he had already begun with the cuisine. He had only been here a day and he had already been wowed. Of course he had tried the dumplings for breakfast, along with what was called wonton soup, and they were better than he could have imagined! They were worth every yuan!

At least they would have been, had he intended to pay for them.

Indeed, in his twenty-three years on the planet, Mister Williams had gotten quite good at dine and dashing, saving himself quite a bit of cash. And a new country meant new meals, but the same old tactic. And as he pushed the dish that formerly contained a steaming hot serving of duck, and started to creep out of his seat. He chuckled and glanced around to ensure there was no one else in the restaurant. Empty, aside from the Mister Miyagi lookalike behind the counter, who was too focused on preparing his ingredients for the day to notice. Mike grinned and made a break for the door...

...except his body refused to move.

"What the?" he tried to say, but his lips remained perfectly still. His eyes darted around, looking up and down for the cause of his sudden paralysis. As he did, he spotted a mirror hanging on the wall. The black haired journalist's reflection looked back at him... wait, black haired? Mike was blond. Why did his reflection have black hair? And come to think of it, his blue eyes had darkened into a deep brown colour.

As if to answer his question, his darkened hair began to grow in his reflection. His eyes shot wide open as he saw his follicles go into overdrive, his now jet-black hair growing out of the short and shaggy style he had grown accustomed to. Glancing downward, he saw the dark locks growing past his shoulders, confirming what he had seen in the mirror. The hair reached past his shoulders, flowing down his back. If he could speak, he would have screamed. He was so focused on the length that he failed to notice the way his fringe arranged itself neatly to expose his forehead, or how the unkempt ends had straightened themselves out as they neared his hips.

But the changes didn't stop there. As Mike's eyes stared at his new hairdo, he noticed that his jacket had slid off his shoulder. It seemed odd, since it was a perfect fit, but as his gaze travelled down his shirt sleeve and to his hand he saw the reason immediately; a slim, dainty appendage was poking out of his cuff, looking more like a little girl's hand than a grown man's. His arm was smaller... no, the rest of him quickly began to follow suit. He was shrinking! He could only watch in horror as his shoulders slimmed down, followed by the rest of his body as he felt his coat slide to the floor, his belt being the only thing to hold his now too-big pants up and his shirt practically draped over his body. He had lost roughly a foot in height, and his frame had shrunk down into something far more frail than before.

"What the hell is happening!?" he wanted to scream, but a muffled yell was all that escaped his lips.  He had to get out of here, yet his body still refused to move despite his best attempts. Even as he did, felt his clothing starting to shift. Looking down, he saw his baggy shirt starting to tighten and cling to his form, darkening from white to a scarlet red colour as the material shifted from cotton to silk. His tie seemed to slither from his neck down the edge of the placket, stretching itself over as it merged with the material and transformed into gold piping. His sleeves seemed to pull in on themselves, shrinking into the main body of the shirt and leaving behind only a few inches of silk in their place.

It wasn't just the shirt that had changed, as he felt his pants rapidly begin to tighten and dissolve, changing into nylon as they merged with his socks to coat his entire lower body. The hem of the shirt seemed to unfurl, reaching all the way to his ankles before the sides split open as if cut with an invisible knife. The transformed pants changed colour, lightening from khaki until they matched his skin.Underneath, his vest and boxers had both shrunk and shifted to lace, as he felt an uncomfortable wire seem to thread through the bottom of the vest before the heels of his black leather shoes began to rise up, the front opening up as they transformed into a pair of pumps.

Panic was really beginning to set in as he stared at his body, before he felt a strange tingle focus on his chest. Before he could question what would come next, the front of the dress began to push forward, his chest forming a pair of globes to fill the cups of his "vest". Even as he prayed to whatever deity might be listening that it wasn't what he thought it was, a diamond-shaped hole formed in the chest of his "shirt" to expose exactly what he didn't want to see.

Cleavage.

Another muffled scream escaped, his voice rapidly raising up several octaves as his Adam's apple shrank away while his hips widened slightly. He felt his facial features shifting and reforming as his mouth finally opened, the tail end of his shriek echoing through the restaurant. Panting, he turned to face the mirror again.

A very cute Chinese girl was staring back at him, clad in a pair of pantyhose, high heels, and... what were those called? Keepows? Chungsem? Some sort of Chinese dress, anyway.

A chuckle caught the transformed youth's attention, and he turned to the restaurant owner who was leaning through the hatch in the wall. Mike growled and stormed over... or at least he tried to, but in his unfamiliar outfit it was less "storm" and more "teeter".

"What have you done to me!?" he screamed in anger, but that wasn't what came out. instead, his adorably high voice made a variety of sounds he vaguely could identify as Mandarin. Instead of answering, the chef reached under the counter and attached something to the front of Mike's dress. Though he didn't recognise the symbols, having never spoken a word of Chinese in his life, he somehow felt the meaning enter his mind; "Wong Mei".

"Better get to work, Mei." The old man said. Or rather, that's what Mike understood him to be saying, as the restaurant door opened and a trio of young men entered. Mike wanted to scream some good old-fashioned American obscenities at them all, but instead he found himself walking over to the three gentlemen, his heels clicking on the wooden floor and his skirt swishing around his nylon-clad legs.

The cook chuckled as he watched his new waitress approach the customers, greeting them with a bow and an awkward "nihao" as the lads eyed her up lustfully. He chuckled and returned to preparing his wares. If the young lad had to learn about Chinese culture, well, he always said there was nothing better than first hand experience!