If you had asked me in the past what I wanted to look like, I wouldn’t have answered; but I would’ve thought Anne Hathaway.

Truth is, I just wanted a body that matched how I felt inside.

Which is to say, I would’ve settled for anything that didn’t have a dick.

It certainly wouldn’t have been what I saw in my reflection.

That was just beyond all hope.

I’d grown up in a state which tried to ban any reference to anything beyond a man and a woman rutting in missionary position. Exhibit A: my parents, who went to a prosperity gospel church whose tithes ensured that only one who prospered was the groping pedophile who preached hell and damnation against people like me.

Maybe if I’d won the genetic jackpot from the numbers on my parents lottery ticket, then taken puberty blockers, then started hormones from an early age, then submitted myself to the scalpels of the top South Korean plastic surgeons, I might’ve grown to be half as gorgeous as Anne.

Anne wasn’t a millionth as stunning as the beauty in the mirror.

A fantasy illustration couldn’t hope to match her, let alone a real human.

Amethyst irises flecked with gold stared back at me. The slender nose, large eyes, full lips bore a symmetry that could only be achieved in our world through Photoshop.

I tested a smile and a lift of an eyebrow to ensure that was indeed my reflection, and not an image where someone had spliced a picture in half to the exact pixel, cut it, flipped horizontal, then pasted it back.

Whereas the halves of Alyna’s face might’ve been perfect reflections of each other, her wild hair contrasted but accentuated that perfection. Lustrous copper locks cascaded in ripples past a perfect neck marred only by bruises from acts of sacrilege.

I shrugged out of my robe, letting it fall and pool at my feet. While my shoulders back home could’ve belonged to Michelangelo—the pizza-loving ninja turtle—these here might’ve been sculpted by the actual Renaissance artist.

When I’d awoken in this world, I’d appreciated the sweep of Makayla’s collarbones; and mine followed a comparable line. The similarities didn’t end there. The shape and perkiness of my breasts could’ve only been possible if gravity had stopped to admire them. I cupped one, enchanted by how their soft weight fit in my palm.

I wasn’t so gaunt that my bones showed, though there was a definition where my ribcage tapered to my waist. My cute little belly button suggested that elves gestated the same way as humans.

Then I gasped. Back home, if there was one thing I came close to hating as much as my misappropriated sex organs, it was my way my waist sagged over my hips. I’d already delighted in how that sad excuse for a gown hung over my new hips, but it was one thing to see them from above and something completely different to view them in a mirror.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

They arced along a magnificent stroke, a line achievable in the real world only through a controlled diet, lots of exercise, and a little surgery.

Turning around, I looked over my shoulder. Though I’d gotten a vague idea of how full my butt cheeks were from the gown’s string between them, I was fully unprepared to see how Arial font 3 looked lying on it’s side.

(How any of you just checked to see what that looked like?)

(How many of you switched to Times New Roman for a comparison?)

What celebrity’s lower body looks best in a little black dress? I’d choose Blake Lively; but she would’ve envied Alyna’s legs, the way my thighs and calves curved from hip to knee to slender ankle.

My thighs, my calves?

No, Ayna’s thighs and calves.

I shouldn’t have been ogling her figure.

No, not ogling, appreciating.

After eighteen years of being in the wrong form, I wasn’t just in the right one; I was in a perfect one.

In the unexpected battle between my sense of social justice and my secret need to be beautiful, the latter won out. Crossing my wrists above my head, I twisted my torso to a quarter angle and arched my back to admire ass, waist, and side boob.

Yes, I’d just objectified myself.

Well, Alyna.

Damn my conscience.

Coming out of the sexist pose, I bent over to retrieve the nightgown…

…and froze.

Whereas just an hour before, I would’ve fallen on my face, the movement had been effortless. My new supple hamstrings were pliant like vines instead of the barely-flexible steel cables of my former body. I can’t tell you how many times I’d nearly sent myself to the hospital trying to imitate Simone Biles’ Summer Olympics floor exercise, or Karen Chen’s Winter Olympics free skate.

I turned to look at my reflection, admiring how I’d folded myself in half like a yogi. Even if I’d somehow managed to achieve half of such a stretch in the past, I would’ve face-planted from lack of balance. For all my unsteadiness earlier, I must’ve already grown accustomed to this new body.

It was time to test my limits. Staying bent, I lifted my right leg, forming a straight vertical line from foot to foot. The movement came with such ease, so I tried to hold my legs in position while I straightened my body so it was parallel to the ground. With my arms outstretched it was simple to maintain equilibrium. I must’ve looked like Russian figure skater’s Evgenia Medvedeva performing a spiral, like capital Arial T on it’s side.

(You didn’t bother to check what that looked like, because the shape of my ass was much more interesting than this more impressive feat of balance. Pervert.)

Bending over, I set my hands on the floor and eased myself to an inverted side split. Since that came easily, I lowered myself down onto my elbows and arched back; and after holding that for a moment, continued the motion so that I ended in a front split on the floor.

An hour ago, doing this would’ve been crushed an anatomical part that Alyna’s body didn’t have. Swallowing through the tightness in my throat, I came up onto my knees as I faced the mirror.

Again, my gaze lingered on the way my hips flared to my waist. A tiny little bone protruded near the crest, marking the start of a flat, dick-less plane that triangulated to the hint of the cleft at the apex of my thighs.

My real lady parts. Real lady parts.

Mouth dry, I slid my knees across the floor, widening the angle between my legs. How I’d always imagined what it would look like, wearing a bikini bottom with nothing bulging out.

Acquired without surgery, no less.

Of course I spent hours studying pictures of the wide variety of vulvas. How I wanted to see how my new anatomy compared.

Well, Alyna’s anatomy.

Guilt warred with excitement.

Would elven nethers even look the same as humans? The way things felt when I’d ground against Makayla’s knee suggested they were.

For purely scientific reasons, I would need to look.

Bending my ankles to bring the balls of feet to the floor, I shifted my weight off my knees and rocked back onto my butt. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and spread my legs.