Just Two Girls in the Kitchen

"tsk rrk" echoed through the kitchen when Mike knocked the eggshell against the skillet, followed immediately by a sharp "slap" as the white and yolk splashed onto the hot surface. The pan answered instantly with a dull hiss: "chsh chsh chsh..."

— Can’t you be more careful? — Stephen snapped, flinching as hot oil from the skillet splattered right onto his C-cup Tits.

He jerked back from the stove, his palms brushing against the soft, tender skin of his Breasts.

— Well, sorry, — Mike mumbled, flipping the eggs, — I’m just not used to your kitchen. And anyway, you’re standing too close!

— Who even makes eggs in the evening?! — Stephen shrieked, jumping away from the stove, as if trying to hide that he’d actually screamed because he’d accidentally brushed his nipple.

— Stephanie likes eggs in the evening, — Mike said calmly, though tension threaded through his voice. He was clearly waiting for a reaction, but Stephen stayed silent, then added:

— I get it, mine’s weird too. Just yesterday she took my pads and hid them, — Stephen snorted, fiddling in place, trying not to touch his Tits, which had almost grazed the hot rim of the pan. — Like, “you spend too much”… As if I chose my cycle!

— Haha, yeah, — Mike chuckled, finally turning the stove off and stepping aside. — Yesterday Stephanie asked if I wanted to shave “down there” tighter. I said, “What do you mean?!” And she goes, “Well, between your legs, to keep it clean. You know, that’s what men do…”

— Oh God, — Stephen ran his fingers through his thick chestnut hair, tossing it back, but then hissed as the steamed tips stuck to his neck. — Wait, you still don’t shave there?

— Do you already? — Mike replied in surprise, looking askance at him, — Have you completely gotten into it?

— Victoria left me no choice, — Stephen hissed angrily, — But there are upsides to it.

He grudgingly pulled the waistband of his underwear down a bit, as though casually checking the smoothness. The reflection in the toaster smirked — his chest swayed slightly with the movement, the skin beneath dampened with sweat, and it was almost… irritatingly pleasant.

— What kind of “upsides”? — Mike squinted, wiping his hands on the kitchen towel.

— Well, — Stephen grimaced, as if admitting something shameful, — You move easier… nothing gets in the way. And… well, never mind.

Stephen blushed, looking away and scratching the back of his head, then suddenly added, not wanting to continue the topic, as if embarrassed by what he’d remembered.

— Dumb world, right? I still can’t get used to looking like a woman here, having to cook like a woman, put up with these Tits and even… — Stephen paused, grabbing a bunch of carrots and starting to slice them, — But I have to dress like a man, damn it, it’s some kind of mockery. These shorts, these… they don’t even have bras here!

— Yeah, — Mike exhaled heavily, leaning his hip against the edge of the counter and glancing down at his A-cup Tits, — Though, compared to you, my problems are smaller.

— Ha! I’d give the best damn blowjob to whoever finally invents a proper bra, — Stephen blurted out. He said it so casually, on autopilot, like tossing an extra word onto the counter like a carrot peel. And then he realized. He froze.

— Silence fell over the kitchen. Michael froze, staring at him—not laughing, not teasing, but with some strange expression, like something had just clicked in his head.

Stephen let out a shaky breath, like he was trying to wave it off.

— Uh… that was, like… a joke. Kinda. I mean, we always joked, right?

— Yeah, — Michael nodded slowly, wiping his hands on the towel, but without a smile. His eyes slid over Stephen—over his large Tits, over that feminine body that, in this world, passed for nearly ideal, so different from what he himself had. He looked away quickly.

Stephen felt that look.

— Hey, what’s… what’s up with you? — he turned toward Michael, the knife frozen in the air above the cutting board.

Michael didn’t answer right away. He stared at a single spot, as if just beyond Stephen’s shoulder was the door back to their old life. He blinked, shifted his weight like standing there had become uncomfortable, and only then spoke.

— It’s just… — he exhaled, then suddenly smirked. — Just that you’ve got a great pair of Tits.

Stephen froze.

— What? — he asked, but it wasn’t the irritated Stephen from before—it was someone more… cautious. Like he’d heard something he feared, but couldn’t quite believe.

Michael shrugged.

— I mean, come on, you said it yourself—you’d suck dick for a proper bra and… — he trailed off, then gave a crooked grin. — And me? I can’t even get jealous properly. Stephanie keeps hinting I look like a teenager. And now I get what it’s like—not being taken seriously just because your Boobs are smaller.

— Are you… are you serious right now? — Stephen stared at him.

— Forget it, alright… — Michael tried to change the subject, but then added unexpectedly — So things are okay with you and Victoria? I mean, in bed?

Stephen froze, gripping the knife a bit tighter than necessary. The carrot cracked under the blade, but he didn’t continue right away. The question had clearly hit something deeper than just small talk.

— Are you fucking kidding me? — he finally muttered, not lifting his eyes.

— What do you mean? — Michael stepped closer, resting a hand on the edge of the table. — You literally just said—

— I didn’t say shit! — Stephen snapped, but his voice wavered. He felt it and immediately twisted his face in frustration, like he'd just slapped himself. — It just… fuck, it slipped out. Don’t start, okay?

Michael didn’t respond. He just stood there, watching—no judgment, but too damn attentively. Stephen felt everything inside tighten.

— You don’t get it, — he whispered, much quieter now. — She… she looks at me differently now. Like with interest, hunger, this… smirk. And me? I feel like I’m trapped. My brain’s screaming I’m a man, but my body… my body’s doing the exact opposite.

He ran a hand down his cheek, brushing off a damp strand of hair stuck to his temple. His Tits shifted slightly with the motion—he caught the movement again in the glossy reflection of the microwave.

— She touches me like I’m… like I’m some chick. Says, “You’re so cute when you’re mad.” Sits there, stroking my thigh while I’m reading the news. And I… I can’t do anything about it! — He turned toward Michael sharply, like hurling out a confession. — I start getting hot. And down there… it starts… reacting.

He froze, covering his mouth with his hand like he realized too late what he’d just said. His eyes dropped—down to his slender fingers, to the outline of his Tits under the tight shirt, to his hips—fuck, those round hips.

— And you... what, you... — Michael started, leaning forward slightly.

— Yes! — Stephen almost shouted, flailing his arms. — Yes, I suck dick sometimes, and not just that!

Silence rose between them again, like steam over a pot of soup. Only now, there was nothing funny about it.

Michael slowly sat down on the stool, like his legs had buckled. His mouth parted, but he didn’t know what to say. Stephen, still standing, was breathing fast and shallow, like he’d just run a marathon. His Breasts under the shirt heaved, and fuck, he felt the weight, the movement, the fabric rubbing against his nipples.

— Steve... — Michael finally said, staring at the floor. — How long have we been here?

— Four months. — Stephen’s voice was hoarse, almost breaking. — A hundred and twenty days. A hundred and eighteen mornings waking up with Tits, no dick, and the feeling that you’re not just in a different body—you’re in a different fucking world. Though... I guess we are.

— Yeah... — Michael nodded, his shoulders slumping. — Remember how it all started?

— Of course, — Stephen gave a bitter smirk, full of desperation. — The presentation. Conference room. You and I were laughing about that chick from HR bringing pastries again and putting on heels “so the boss would notice.” And then...

— And then that white light, — Michael picked up, — and I thought the projector broke or someone yanked out the USB stick. And then... blackout. And you wake up and someone’s yelling in your face in a deep voice: “Come on, Stevie, we’re gonna be late!” I was so fucking shocked.

Stephen nodded silently. Then quietly added:

— Yeah. Same. I remember looking in the mirror... and seeing her. Or me, I guess. Those lips, that shoulder-length hair, the Boobs. Big fucking Boobs. At first I thought it was a dream. But when I went to the bathroom and tried to feel myself down there...

He didn’t finish. Just shook his head.

— And me, — said Michael, — every day I wake up, and there’s Stephanie next to me. In a man’s body. Buff, a bit balding, jaw sharp like one of those cologne ad models. She smiles, strokes my back and says: “Your shoulders are so soft. I’ll buy you some breast oil today.”

Stephen growled, but the sound of the oven timer beeping made both of them jump.

— Shit, — Stephen exhaled, jumping up and opening the oven. — The girls’ll be here any minute, and we’ve got nothing ready!

— Exactly, — Michael stood, helping with the tray. — And I haven’t even changed yet. Stephanie’s gonna say I’m a “messy dude” again.

Stephen snorted, wiping sweat from his forehead:

— And Victoria’s gonna smack my ass again “for motivation.” Just what I need—to get punished for undercooked chicken too...

They exchanged a glance. In that look was everything: exhaustion, resignation, quiet rage—and along with it, that strange smile. Because only irony could keep them from completely losing their minds.