A retelling, with permission and differences, of C.D. Rudd's classic webcomic SailorSun.org.

Billy Jones, a film student and extra, seems to have been exposed —if that's the word— to some sort of special effect.

I couldn’t help it; I grabbed at my chest, feeling two soft mounds there where I knew there had been no such things before. I made a startled sound, rather like a turkey might make when questioning the reality of his existence. Something like “Gawp?” I looked down, my hands moving under the globes I saw, pushing them upward and feeling their weight.

They seemed heavy, huge, and soft as pillows. Okay, yes, I did squeeze them. Almost anyone would have. The sensation was astonishing, especially since I could feel nipples under my shirt; and feel them feeling my hands back, an electric tingle, followed by a crinkling twinge. I made more turkey noises.

The sun had set several minutes ago, and I stood partly in shadows as unnecessary lights around the studio lot were turned out. I moved sideways, finally turning to dash into the shadows. No one seemed to have noticed my reaction, though I felt awkward with my hands still on my chest. Otherwise, the bouncing and jiggling made me feel like I was losing my mind.

I squeezed gently, both sides, twice. It felt weird but kind of… exciting? I gave up making inarticulate noises and asked myself, aloud, “What’s happened? Did I get hit in the head by a falling light or a mike boom?” I could feel nipples under my thin t-shirt getting hard against the palms of my hands. I looked down, turning a bit, so I had better light.

Reddish-blonde hair fell into my face, and my right hand automatically rose to push the wandering locks back. Meanwhile, my left hand tried another honk-honk double squeeze. “Jeez!” I whispered. That felt amazing! So amazing that I jerked my left hand away from my chest as if I had been burned.

I used both hands to push the hair back —so much hair!— in order to look down at myself better. The swellings on my chest looked exactly like what they had felt like — large breasts covered only by the cloth of my shirt. I ran my hands down my sides, finding a narrow waist and the top of a pair of low-riding jeans.

Another double grasp behind me proved that I had two large half globes of jiggly flesh back there, too. “Bubble butt,” I said and heard my voice squeak in a very girlish register. I put my hands over my face for a moment, certain that it resembled a stoplight.

At last, I had to check out the front of my jeans. Completely flat. Suddenly almost frantic, I tried to plunge my hand down inside my pants, but the denim was stretched too tight. Scrabbling over the cloth didn’t reassure me. No male bits were hiding down there. When I clenched muscles in that area, the sensations were like nothing I’d ever felt before.

The world seemed to spin around me, like a tilt-a-whirl ride gone mad. I staggered out of my shadows back into the lights near the studio entrance. Barely catching myself from falling, I plopped down on the in-studio shuttle bench directly under a bright light. The impact squeezed the cushiony butt I seemed to have grown and —jiggled my breasts. Breasts, boobies, hooters, funbags: I had tits! I gasped.

Feeling bewildered and beleaguered, I pulled hair away from my face again and saw the security guard at the gate looking at me. “Oh, God,” I whimpered. “This can’t be happening.” I watched, horrified, unable to imagine what might happen next as the security guard started toward me. “Wake up, wake up,” I told myself. Though I wasn’t convinced that I was dreaming, it seemed hard to imagine that I was awake.

The guard paused before crossing the paved lane between the gate shack and the shuttle stop, then raised his hand to his cap as a car, a late model Lexus, pulled into the space between us and stopped. The right-hand window rolled down electrically. And I could see Mr. Harrelson through the windshield beckoning to me.

“Waiting for a ride, Billy?” the assistant director asked.

I blinked. How could he look right at me and not seem to notice anything wrong? Maybe I was dreaming? Hallucinating? Stark staring bonkers? “I’m…,” I started to say, then stopped. My voice sounded odd. I’d sort of noticed that earlier. I tried again, cringing at the high-pitched, breathy, girly tones. “I-I usually take the bus back to campus, sir,” I stammered.

“What? At this time of night? It’s after eight, and you shouldn’t be riding the bus after dark, sweetie. And we need you here early tomorrow for makeup and costuming, so you need to get home. You live in Westwood? Near the University?”

“Yes, sir,” I heard myself confirm. He was smiling at me. Did he see my old self? Probably not. Most guys don’t smile like that at other guys. Was he hitting on me? He called me ‘sweetie.’ Yikes!

“Hop in,” said Harrelson. “It would probably take you two hours on the bus, and I live in Santa Monica, so it’s hardly out of my way at all.” His hand hit some buttons, and the passenger side door locks clicked open.

“I-you-um?” I explained.

“Get in, sweetie,” Harrelson said. “I’ll run you home. It’s no trouble.” Reaching across the front seat with his long arms, he opened the door, forcing me to step aside to avoid being hit.

He called me ‘sweetie,’ again! I knew my face must have been as red as my old high school sweater.

Harrelson grinned charmingly. “I don’t bite, Billy. And this isn’t some casting-couch-type ploy.” He laughed.

I had a momentary panic attack that must have shown on my face. Hollywood ‘casting couches’ were legendary; I’d always wondered if they were a real thing. I glanced down at myself and wondered if I were now going to find out. Despite him saying it was no such thing, I still felt that he was trying to come on to me.

“Get in,” he ordered me again, still smiling.

I got in. He was my boss, after all. The door seemed awfully heavy as I pulled it closed behind me.

“Buckle up,” he said as he moved the car toward the gate. “Already, you’re saving time by not having to wait for the shuttle to take you to the bus stop.”

“Oh, jeez,” I thought, having my consciousness raised when I noticed where the shoulder belt was going to cross my chest: right between my new accessories. A woman never designed these things, I decided, with a tiny bit of resentment.

The Lexus glided out of the main gate of the studio and turned west on Melrose. “You’re a film student? Right?” Harrelson asked, glancing over at me.

“Y-yes, sir,” I stammered in my new, higher-pitched voice. I looked at Harrelson behind the wheel, then looked away. Had the man always been so big? I knew that the A.D. had been well over six feet tall, seven inches taller than me, but sitting in the car within a couple of feet of the man, I felt tiny like I’d shrunk another half-a-foot or more. At five-ten or so, I hadn’t been exactly tall, but now I felt distinctly short.

Girls are short, I reminded myself, morosely.

“We like to give the students overtime and extra days when we can,” Harrelson was saying. “It can be very valuable when you’re taking classes.”

“Uh-huh,” I murmured. I suddenly remembered that I had spent two hours, more or less, in front of a weird contraption that was supposed to be an antique special effects camera. At the end of that time, I had somehow been turned into a girl.

Something had turned me into a girl! The whole realization hit me again, and I almost reached up to feel of my breasts too, but Harrelson was right there and would probably misunderstand. I know I would have if some girl had started feeling of herself right in front of me.

But hadn’t someone said the A.D. borrowed the strange camera from a museum?

Had I been turned into a girl by being filmed with a weird antique camera? It seemed fantastic, but nothing even half as logical seemed nearly as likely.

Talk about a Special Effect!