Just a Trip to the Supermarket

Pasta, sausage, flour... what else did I need? Shit, some guy’s staring at me again. This time way too blatantly. How old is he? He looks like a kid. He’s practically drooling. It’s both ridiculous and creepy as hell. Was I ever like that? No way—I was a decent boy at his age. Although... it’s kind of weird to even think about this, considering how I look now. And not just how I look—how I live.

Now I’m Tori. But I was born a completely different person. My name back then was Chuck Miller. I taught history at a middle school in Atlanta, ran a local political podcast, and collected vintage vinyl. I was 34 when everything... changed. It was that visit to the spa—a gift from my sister. “Relax, Zach. You need to unwind.” I had a bad feeling, but chalked it up to dumb macho ideas like “men don’t go to spas.” But turns out it was right. I don’t know how, but I woke up the next morning... like this. In the body of a woman with small but incredibly sensitive breasts and a narrow waist. And the most insane part—it wasn’t surgery. It was real. I even get fucking periods now. I’ve been living like this for a few months.

Was it magic? Punishment? Retribution? A gift? I still don’t know. My sister apologized once I managed to convince her who I was—we even went back to the spa—but there was nothing we could change. I tried. I searched online, threatened the spa employees—who just looked at me like I was nuts—and cried a lot. But a couple days later, people in suits showed up at my place. I don’t even know how they got in—I just came home and they were already there. They said, “You’re Tori Lynch now. You moved here from Florida. All the documents are on the table.” And then they smiled and added, “You’ve noticed your new desires, haven’t you? Don’t fight them. Tori was designed to like attention. And we’ll be close by. Don’t worry.”

Back then, I didn’t really understand what they meant. What fucking new desires? I just wanted my life back—my vinyls, my cozy boring classroom, the irritating dust on the shelves nobody touched. And then... it started. At first, it was weird wearing a bra. It chafed, irritated me—especially when my nipples started to hurt, maybe from the weather or just because now they were... real. So sensitive I could barely step outside without feeling every breeze, every fold of fabric brushing against them.

Then came the clothes. I felt... not just uncomfortable, it was unbearable if I tried to wear anything loose, baggy, unattractive. Like something inside me started drilling, whispering: Tori doesn’t dress like that. Tori’s meant to be seen. Feel the eyes on you—you need it. And the more I resisted, the worse it got. Headaches, nausea, weird tingling in my tits. Like the very fabric of my new self was rebelling.

There was even one time when I tried to fight it—put on a baggy hoodie and matching pants. I made it to a café, thinking how nice it was that no one was looking at me, and then suddenly stopped. Tears started pouring down right there on the sidewalk. I was shaking. I rushed into the nearest public bathroom, stripped off the hoodie and pants—even my panties—and stood there naked, feeling the cold tiles under my feet and a sharp draft wrapping around my breasts. They responded instantly—nipples tightening on their own. I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep from moaning. Fuck... What’s happening to me? I felt aroused, like a jolt.

I had packed a red crop top with thin straps and a tight denim mini-skirt in my purse ahead of time. I hadn’t wanted to. I resisted. But I thought maybe it was just about the clothes—not about me wearing them. I thought maybe if I just had them with me, I could manage not to walk around like... like a slut?

But in that moment, I realized it wasn’t about the clothes at all. It was about what they did to me. I put on that top and skirt in the bathroom like I was saving myself from going insane. But with every passing second, I felt more like I was becoming part of that insanity.

When I stepped outside, the wind immediately crept up under my skirt, licked my thighs, and I felt hot. People started looking. One. Then another. An old man at the newsstand, a guy with headphones, even a woman with a kid. It was like I could feel their eyes on my skin. And the more they looked—the tighter that... urge twisted inside me. That perverse craving to be seen. To be noticed. Almost exposed.

And now—the store. I’d made it to the produce section, again wondering what I’d become. Oh... cucumbers. Right, I needed cucumbers. I reached out for a pack, and out of the corner of my eye I saw another man looking at me. He wasn’t alone—he was with his wife. I froze. I wondered what he was thinking. Was it just how I looked or... Oh god! Maybe he’s thinking I want to shove those cucumbers up my pussy. That thought flared through my head like a camera flash—blinding and sharp—but… I didn’t reject it. On the contrary, something inside me twitched. Warmth, deep in my belly, between my legs. I was getting hot. I stood there among plastic-wrapped greens and carrots, in a tight white tank top with my nipples clearly poking through, and short black biker shorts, feeling like I’d just been caught doing something obscene.

He was still staring. His wife had turned away, mumbling something about broccoli discounts, but he was staring right at my tits. Maybe he noticed how hard my nipples were, how they pressed against the fabric. Maybe he imagined what they’d feel like if he licked them. Or how I’d moan if he pressed them through the tank top… Jesus. What the hell am I thinking?! I swallowed hard and suddenly realized I’d nearly dropped the pack. Cucumbers. So green, cold, smooth—and he’s picturing it all? Me doing that...

I felt the muscles between my legs tighten. Clench. Wetness. Real, sticky, raw female wetness. Just a few months ago—six, maybe—I never would’ve believed I’d get turned on like this. Standing in the produce aisle, just from imagining how it all must look from the outside.

I moved further down the aisle, trying to keep my back straight, trying not to let all that trembling spill over. But every step sent waves of heat through me. The tight shorts were so thin, so clingy, I could feel the wetness sticking to the fabric. I was almost sure that if someone stood next to me, they’d smell my arousal. And I... I wanted that. I wanted them to smell it. To know I wasn’t just buying vegetables. That my body was demanding attention and pleasure.

I stopped in front of the bananas. I stared at them, my breathing getting heavier. Is this really my life now?