GreenTG

Lucky Perv

Strange app - page 20

Dollhouse

— Yes, mommy! Coming! — yelled Jennifer, holding two dolls in her hands. Her blonde hair bounced off her shoulders as she dashed to the door. She carefully set the dolls down on a tiny couch in the miniature living room inside the antique dollhouse:

— Okay, listen up, my sweeties! — she said theatrically, raising a finger. — Grace, you're the nanny. You're so strict and beautiful. You’ve got a boyfriend who's about to show up, but for now, you’re watching this... — she pointed at the boy, — ...this cuuute little Oliver who's totally obsessed with you! He's madly in love and ready to drop everything just to get your attention!

Jennifer giggled, then adjusted the ribbon on her head as she looked at them. The dolls, of course, didn’t react — their eyes remained empty, dead, staring into nothing.

— I’ll be quick, just helping mom with dinner! — she shouted, and with a slam of the door, she was gone.

Silence fell in the room... Then, in that stillness, a faint but distinct click.

— Ugh… — whispered Grace, slowly lowering her plastic eyes to her tiny, inhuman palms. — Finally, she’s gone. I hate it when I can’t move...

— H-hi... — came a voice from the side. It was boyish, but with an uneasy tremble, almost a vibration. — Grace... you... you look... wow...

She slowly turned her head. Oliver was sitting next to her on the little couch, legs crossed, staring at her with wide-open eyes. His small hands trembled on his knees like he was fighting something inside.

— Uhh... Aunt Olivia, what the hell is up with you now? — Grace — not long ago still Greg, Olivia's son’s best friend — leaned forward, her hair slipping gently off her shoulders as she stared at Oliver. Her voice — low, almost lulling, with a rasp but clearly feminine — wavered with irony she tried to mask. Though she herself could barely hold back her own tension.

— I... I don't know, — Oliver (once a mature, commanding Olivia) looked away, as if suddenly everything around became unbearably fascinating. — You just look... totally different today...

— Oh yeah? — Grace’s lips twitched in a smirk as she slightly lifted her knees, pushing her skirt up a bit. — Must be because your daughter decided I’m a “beautiful nanny waiting for her boyfriend.” And you, as you can see, are in love with me. How’s that for you, Miss... I mean, Mister Oliver?

— Stop it, — he whispered, shrinking back like every glance from her sent a shiver through him. — I’m not okay when you talk like that...

— She’s lost her mind. Yesterday I was a schoolgirl, today — “a nanny waiting for her boyfriend.” What’s next? “A seduced housewife in distress”? — She spat. — What kind of fantasies does your daughter have?!

— I don’t know, — Oliver whispered, and without looking away, added, — but right now... I just want to be near you. I... I’m hoping you’ll hug me. Or spank me. Or tell me I’m a bad boy. I can’t stop.

— W-what?.. — Grace nearly fell off the miniature couch. She jerked back until her spine hit the tiny backrest of the toy armchair. — Do you hear yourself?! We should be thinking how to get out of here, not playing along with every stupid game that dumb girl comes up with!

Oliver lowered his gaze, his cheeks flushed red, and his shoulders slumped. He clenched his fists on his knees, and for a moment, a nearly oppressive silence filled the room — only the faint creaking of the dollhouse’s wooden walls and, it seemed, the distant breathing of the very magic watching them.

– She’s not stupid... – he finally mumbled without looking up. – She’s just playing... don’t call her that.

– Wait... are you seriously defending her? – Grace’s voice carried both surprise and a subtle, growing panic. – Oh right... a mother will always defend her daughter. But you have to see how all of this is... messed up!

Oliver looked up at her. His eyes held a strange mix of emotions — shame, confusion... and a strange kind of longing?

– I do. But... – He let out a heavy sigh. – She… puts her heart into it. You get that?

– Her heart?! – Grace hissed. – You’re insane. She locked us inside toys while the real Greg — me — and Olivia — you — are living like her fucking dolls in the real world. And the real us are stuck here, in this damn box, with plastic bodies!

– Y-you’re so beautiful when you’re angry, – Oliver breathed out, and even he froze at his own words. His cheeks flared crimson, he tried to look away, but couldn’t.

– Just stop it already! – Grace’s voice cracked, her chest twisting inside. And right at that moment, there was a knock on the dollhouse room.

Both Grace and Oliver froze, as if the sound had torn a hole in reality. Then the door gently opened… and he walked in. Tall, with a bit of stubble on his cheeks (as much as a doll could have), wearing a leather jacket and a squint that carried both suspicion and... curiosity.

– Hey, – he said, looking down at Grace, then briefly at Oliver. – I... umm... I guess I’m supposed to be your boyfriend? – He scratched the back of his head a little awkwardly. – My name is... Brian. I mean, Brianna... I used to be Brianna, now I’m Brian. Before... Jennifer turned me into this.

Grace pressed herself into the armrest of the couch.

– Brianna? Wait… the same girl who bullied Jennifer at school? You were here all this time too?!

– Yeah, – he winced, clearly feeling something close to shame. – I’ve been here all along... pretending to be a doll too. I thought... maybe she’d let me go.

– You look... not bad, – Grace mumbled, not even sure why she said it, as if it just came out naturally. And, as if trying to patch things up, she added – I mean, a hottie like that could totally earn the trust of a beauty like me if... (Grace suddenly turned bright red, realizing her words only made it worse) shit! What the hell am I saying?!

– G-g-g-Grace! You... you serious right now?! – Oliver’s voice cracked into a broken squeak, like his doll vocal cords couldn’t handle the tension bubbling inside him. His eyes filled with confusion and something painfully familiar — the look kids get when their favorite toy suddenly says it has a “better friend now.”

Grace spun toward him sharply:

– Oliver, no! That’s... that’s not what you think! – She jumped up, teetering on her heels, and almost immediately dropped back into the chair, clutching the armrests.

– I just... – She ran a hand over her forehead, as if trying to wipe away the whole awkward moment. – My mouth works on its own sometimes. You get it? I didn’t mean for it to sound like flirting!

– Really?.. – Oliver asked, but his voice was uncertain, almost pleading. – You’re my... nanny, right?

Grace flinched.

– No... I’m not yours. And not a nanny, – her voice trembled, but she immediately pressed her lips together, like she was afraid of losing control. – I... I’m Greg. Or at least I used to be. I shouldn’t...

Brian’s hand touched hers, making her shift her attention to him. But she didn’t pull away — on the contrary, she felt something pleasant stir inside.

– Baby, it’s alright – he said with that deep, almost cocky tone some “cool” guys have — the kind that know what they want. Then his eyes widened – Holy shit. Did I just say that?

Grace froze, staring at Brian like she was seeing him for the first time. The voice that had just come out of his mouth was... dangerously masculine. It carried arrogance, confidence, even a hint of mockery. There was something in it that made her hips clench and her back arch. She felt her body reacting on its own, and that scared her.

– Holy shit, – Brian whispered to himself, as if repeating his own words. He pulled his hand back and looked at her with a confused smile still laced with shock. – That wasn’t a line... that was me... I actually meant it.

– You... – Grace swallowed, her Breasts rising and falling heavily. – You just sounded like... like you really wanted to calm me down. Or... pick me up. Carry me away. Make me forget who I am...

– Maybe that’s exactly what I want, – he said quietly, leaning in closer again. – I don’t know why, but I... I want you to feel safe. With me.

– GRACE! – Oliver’s voice, shaky and uncertain until now, suddenly cut through the room like a sharp scream, almost hysterical. He jumped up from the couch, fists clenched, eyes burning with... jealousy? Pain? – Don’t let him manipulate you! He’s trying to take you away from me!

Grace took a step back, but stopped almost immediately. She took a deep breath, closed her plastic eyes, and finally said it — as if deciding to surrender to this dumb plot for tonight.

– Go to your room, Oliver. Now. – Grace said it softly, but there was power in that whisper. The fragile, flickering shell of her femininity suddenly gained a steel core.

Oliver froze, like someone had just yanked out his batteries. He stood there for a few seconds, as if waiting for this to be a joke, staring at Grace. Then he lowered his gaze and slowly turned away. His shoulders slumped, and without saying a word, he trudged into the tiny hallway of the dollhouse. His footsteps, absurd as it sounded, echoed with silence — the sound of betrayal, childhood pain, and broken illusions.

Grace watched him go for a long time. Then she exhaled and, without looking at Brian, said:

– Whatever you think this is... it’s not. Tomorrow she might imagine we’re mermaids. Or teachers at some witch school. Or... just forget about us entirely. We don’t get to choose anything.

– Then why not just choose this, – Brian stepped closer, his body radiating warmth even through the plastic. – Right now, you’re my girl. You told him to leave. You chose yourself. You chose us.

Grace closed her eyes. Her Breasts rose heavily, toes curled inside her tiny shoes. Feelings... This wasn’t just sensation. It felt real, and it was hard to fight. Especially when everyone else around had already stopped trying. She leaned her back against Brian, feeling his imagined warmth, and said:

– Just... stay with me. Until she comes back. And hold me.

– Of course, baby, – Brian smirked, pulling her in closer and freezing with her automatically.

Outside, there was the soft sound of a child’s giggle. Jennifer was coming back.

Spider-Maria - 2

Okay, someone convinced me to keep going with this haha 😄

The elevator, obediently counting the floors down to the first, slowly but with merciless calm slid its iron doors open. Right away, Maria saw a couple — a guy and a girl — both buried in their phones, and it seemed they wouldn’t have even noticed the elevator arriving if not for the sound signal.

They raised their heads at the same time, and their eyes widened in perfect sync, as if on command.

— Whoa, — the guy breathed out, clearly impressed by Maria’s curves tightly wrapped in the suit, but immediately got an elbow jab from his girlfriend. — Hey, I was just...

— Don’t you dare! — the girl hissed, snapping her gaze up at Maria stepping out of the elevator, looking at her as if Maria were some kind of walking violation of public decency. — Shameful!

Maria was already stepping out, letting them in, when that hissing “shameful” froze in her ears. She didn’t understand the word, but the tone was absolutely clear — contempt, reproach, almost disgust. As if she wasn’t a superhero but some street chick dressed in a ridiculously revealing outfit.

She stopped abruptly. Her butt tightened under the thin fabric of the suit along with all the muscles in her stomach and thighs. She turned around.

— ¿Qué dijiste? (What did you say?) — Maria asked in a low, almost icy voice and immediately added, pointing a finger at her own chest: — ¿A mí? (To me?)

The girl didn’t even acknowledge her — not because she didn’t hear, but because she deliberately chose not to. She lifted her chin dramatically, tilting her head back, and took her boyfriend by the arm as she stepped into the elevator.

— ¿Estoy hablando contigo, pendeja? (I’m talking to you, dumbass?) — Maria shot out with all her fury, but the elevator doors at that moment closed with a metallic thud.

— ¡Maldita sea! (Damn it!) — Maria exhaled, stomping her foot and instantly regretting it: the vibration shot up her legs, making her wide, soft thighs give a noticeable bounce under the suit. The tight fabric stretched across her tits and she immediately felt that short, almost ticklish touch — but too sharp to ignore — the flick of the suit’s fabric against her nipple.

Her breath caught.

— Ay, Dios… — she breathed through her teeth, barely audible, feeling her voice break from the sharpness of the unexpected sensation.

She took a deep breath to calm herself, but as soon as air filled her lungs, her breasts rose again under the suit, and the thin elastic fabric slid once more across the hypersensitive skin.

Maria bit her lip.

‘Cálmate… cálmate…’ (Calm down… calm down…) she tried to order herself, and it would’ve worked — if the moment she opened her eyes she hadn’t seen that.

First, the guy at the reception desk. He pretended to be reading something on the computer screen, but his eyes kept darting back to Maria. Quick, brief, like he was embarrassed by what he was doing, but unable to stop. His gaze latched onto her thighs, her waist, her tits pulled tight by the suit, then slid down again to her bare feet.

Then the second stare — from a woman in a strict business suit waiting for the elevator. She wasn’t even trying to hide it. She stared with an open, sharp judgment. With a squint that said: ‘What is this supposed to be?’

Her suit, which had seemed like nothing more than a practical working uniform for Spider-Woman, suddenly became something different under those looks. It became too tight. Too revealing. It became… transparent.

Maria immediately felt heat rising up her neck, flooding her cheeks. Not from shame — from something far more dangerous and unfamiliar. From the sudden, almost painful awareness that all these stares felt physical on her skin. Like touches. Like dozens of fingers sliding at once along her thighs, the inner side of her leg, the tight fabric between her legs.

She instinctively pressed her thighs together — and regretted it instantly. The thin layer of her suit between her legs stretched, pressing right into her clit with such accuracy it felt like someone had deliberately tailored the fabric around her new anatomy. A short, electric shock shot upward, making her knees tremble.

‘No… no, no, no… ¿qué mierda me pasa?’ (No… no, no, no… what the fuck is happening to me?) — rushed through her head as she frantically tried to cover herself with her hands. One palm landed on her breast, the other darted downward, to her crotch — which, apparently, only drew even more unwanted eyes and, as a result, triggered a new wave of fantasies.

And maybe everything would’ve turned into some kind of teenage sex fantasy if not for that voice. Too familiar to her, but carrying a sharp irritation and shades she’d never heard in it before:

— María, ¿qué carajos haces aquí abajo? (Maria, what the hell are you doing down here?)

A man of about forty-five was quickly approaching her, dressed in an expensive, perfectly tailored suit that fit his broad shoulders like a second skin. He had dark hair with a touch of gray, cut short, and smart, perceptive eyes in which angry sparks were flickering now. He looked successful, commanding — and painfully familiar. And the resemblance wasn’t just a coincidence.

‘¿No puede ser…’ (This can’t be…) — rushed through her head when she took in his face. The skin around the eyes, the forehead lines, that certain way his lips pressed into a displeased line…

She knew that face. She had seen it hundreds of times. Only usually behind thick-lensed glasses and framed by four grotesque metal arms.

Doctor Octopus. Oliver Octavius.

‘Is it him? Is he the one who did this to me?...’ — Maria thought desperately, staring at the approaching man and trying to form at least some kind of plan in her head.

— ¡María! — he barked when he was already very close, with the same voice Peter Parker had heard a thousand times right before another metal claw tried to crush his ribs. — ¿Por qué te fuiste de la sesión? ¿Sabes cuánto cuesta cada minuto de retraso? (Maria! Why did you walk out of the shoot? Do you even understand how much every minute of delay costs?)

He stopped half a meter from her, towering over her, and Maria suddenly realized just how much taller he was now. In her old body she had been roughly the same height as Octavius, but now… now the top of her head barely reached his chin.

She opened her mouth to throw out something sharp, heroic, in Peter Parker’s style:

— Tú… tú eres… ¡Octavius! ¡Sé lo que hiciste! (You… you’re… Octavius! I know what you did!)

But it didn’t sound threatening at all. It came out too high and even petulant.

The man — Oliver, or whatever his name was — blinked slowly, then tilted his head slightly, like someone trying to decide whether he’d just heard utter nonsense.

— ¿Perdón? (What?) — he asked, taking Maria by the elbow — and the touch sent a real shockwave through her body. Oliver’s fingers closed around Maria’s thin arm, her heart started pounding fast, her lashes fluttered, and a hot wave rolled down her spine, nothing like fear or anger. It was… pleasant. Too pleasant.

‘I… I don’t understand…’ Maria tried to gather her thoughts and feelings, but it wasn’t working. Her nipples were already standing as hard little points under the suit, her heart hammered in her temples, in her breasts, in her stomach, vibrating through her new body in waves she couldn’t control at all.

— María, mírame — he said more quietly now, almost intimately, leaning a little closer. — Estás temblando. ¿Qué te pasa hoy? (Maria, look at me. You’re shaking. What’s wrong with you today?)

The voice was the same. The same tone with which Octavius once hissed into Peter’s face: “You don’t understand, Parker, what kind of power you’re playing with.” Only now there was no madness in it. Only irritation… and something else. Care? Possession? Desire?

Maria raised her eyes — and saw in his expression something she absolutely did not expect to see: genuine concern. There was no threat in him, though he towered over her — only a firm, almost fatherly worry that spread a warm pulse inside her body.

It confused her more than any metallic tentacle that had ever tried to crush her.

— Mi amor… — he added softly, with a slight smile, and at that word everything inside Maria tightened and at the same time melted into a warm puddle low in her belly. — Bueno, en serio, me asustaste cuando huiste así del rodaje... (really, you scared me when you ran off the set like that...)

Maria swallowed. Her throat was dry, her tongue stuck to her palate, and low in her abdomen pulsed a familiar—but completely uncontrollable now—weight: hot, wet, demanding. What… what kind of reality was this?

Soil Reclamation - Part 4-8

The whole story is on the Discord server.

The bathroom in Pine Bluff turned out to be tiny, with chipped tiles where mold was already creeping out in the corners. Monica — or rather, Arthur — stood in front of the mirror over the sink with a panicked look on her face. The cheap white nightgown, bought apparently for this apartment, barely covered her massive hips, and the thin straps dug into her shoulders under the weight of her tits, which hung like two heavy, unruly fruits.

Her long blond hair, recently tied into a neat bun, was now messy and falling over her face, getting caught in her lashes and making it hard to look at her… at this reflection. She threw it back, but it fell onto her shoulders again right away, tickling the skin on her boobs, whose nipples were still too sensitive from Derek’s touches.

— Come on… pick up the phone, — she whispered, fixing the slipped strap of the nightgown she had been forced to put on after her consciousness finally returned and she realized she was lying completely naked on the bed next to Derek, who was scrolling through something on his phone, humming under his breath.

She dialed the professor’s number again. The phone on the other end stayed silent. Rings. Long, monotone, like tapping right on her nerves. And in her head, like slides from someone else’s unwanted movie, memories of this day spun around — of all those moans, the humiliating but so damn pleasing positions, of how Derek…

She jerked her head sharply, trying to shake these thoughts out of herself, because she felt her body starting to react to those memories again. Her skin broke out in goosebumps. Between her legs, deep inside, that same familiar spark was igniting. A spark she had never felt in Arthur Graham’s body.

— Answer, you bastard, — she hissed through her teeth, staring at her reflection, and at that moment the bathroom door swung open.

Derek stood in the doorway in a white short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned a little above his chest and showing his chest hair, and a satisfied smile played on his face.

— What’s taking you so long? — he asked, his voice soft but with a demanding edge. — I was starting to worry you drowned in there.

Bully me - 2

Loud creaking, the kind they always use in old horror movies, tore through the silence of the theater, making Mia jump in her seat. Her fingers clutched the fabric of her pink dress, and her shoulders tensed up. ‘Fuck! — flashed through her head. — Why is this so scary?! It’s just a movie!’

— Hey, it’s okay, — a whisper sounded beside her. A warm hand landed on her shoulder, and she almost jumped again. — It’s just a movie, you little scaredy-cat.

‘Scaredy-cat?! Me?!’ she boiled inside, but the next sudden scare on the screen made her press even tighter against her date. ‘What the hell?! Again?! Is this movie going to have anything besides damn jump scares?!’

She desperately tried to get a grip on herself, to make her body stop shaking, stop leaning into this guy. But instead her narrow shoulders only curled tighter from fear, seeking safety against her date’s shoulder, like she was some timid little girl. It was humiliating. She, Jaycee, who once loved scaring people like that, now trembling at every shadow on the screen like some pathetic bitch.

— It’s just a movie, — Ryan repeated, her… her boyfriend, and his fingers gently squeezed her shoulder. — Look over there, the first row, — he stretched out his other hand and pointed at two silhouettes twisted unnaturally in their seats. — Look how scared they are. It’s funny.

Mia blinked, dragging her gaze away from the flickering screen, puffing up her full lips, which somehow looked even fuller now from embarrassment. ‘What the actual fuck… — she thought as she looked at the terrified viewers. — …stupid damn curse. Now I feel like crying. Damn. Damn-damn-damn! Hold it together, damn it!’

She pulled air in through her nose, trying to drown out the lump tickling her throat. It had already been a month since she became Mia. A month of humiliation, with Kyle watching her with mockery as she learned to walk in heels, wear skirts, and put on lipstick — because her body, her nerves simply wouldn’t let her do otherwise. She felt physically wrong whenever she tried to wear anything even remotely close to men’s clothing. Sick to the point of throwing up.

To everyone else she was just shy, sweet Mia, a quiet and modest straight-A student. The kind of girl who blushes at any loud word and is afraid of her own shadow.

And the fact that her boyfriend turned out to be Ryan — one of the guys Jaycee used to bully — was the peak of irony. He found her after one of the lectures, when she was sitting in the library completely lost, trying to understand how this new reality even worked. Trying to somehow fix it, but running into nothing except stupid romance novels and makeup advice, in which her mind, already pushed to desperation, drowned instantly. And he was so… sweet. Even though he acted like a complete “nerd” and “geek,” while trying to look like a “cool” guy — which, no matter how hard she tried to hide it from herself, turned her on like crazy.

— Oh! — she squeaked when something boomed on the screen again, and she instinctively pressed into his shoulder. Her thin fingers with long, neatly painted nails clutched at his shirt. ‘God, why! Why did I end up with this nerd?! And why the hell does he have such a nice shoulder?! This is all so… wrong!’

— It’s okay, princess, — Ryan whispered into her ear, and his warm breath sent a weird chill down her spine. Princess… Jaycee would’ve ripped his balls off for calling him that. Mia only froze, feeling her ears burn and her heart pounding so loud it seemed like you could hear it even over the roaring movie. — It’s just dumb special effects. You know I study 3D graphics.

She nodded, suddenly feeling some kind of pride that he was so smart. ‘Fuck, that’s so hot!’ flashed through her head, and immediately she imagined herself sitting at a desk in a slutty schoolgirl outfit, with two pigtails, trying to learn this stupid subject, while he, the teacher, stood in front of her with a ruler in hand and said in a strict voice: “Ms. Marshall… another F… you need punishment.”

Her cheeks burned even hotter, and she turned away from him, trying to hide her embarrassment. She hated him for this. She hated herself for this. And the dumbest thing was that Kyle, the one who caused all of this, didn’t just shove her into this “cute” body. No, he added something extra. He didn’t just change her body — he wove into her mind… this creepy little pervert who now kept thinking about how to “have a really good time” with this “geek.”

And then he just disappeared. Vanished like nothing ever happened. Like there had never been any Kyle. Like there had never been any Jaycee. Like there had never been his curse. Like there had always been only this… “Mia.”

Sweet, modest, slightly shy Mia.

Soil Reclamation - Part 1-3

The whole story is on the Discord server

Sterile air in the laboratory of the Ames Research Center in Moffett Field, California, was filled with the sharp smell of formaldehyde and the quiet hum of equipment. Professor Jacob Stein, a gray-haired man with tired eyes carved into his face by decades of research, leaned over the microscope, his fingers habitually turning the focus knob.

Behind him, inside a glass biocontainer, a hazy pink liquid swayed, and within it slowly rotated a complex organic object that looked like a flower of unearthly origin. Officially, it was “Prototype B-47,” a cultivated biomaterial component for “soil reclamation” under a contract with the corporation “AgroSynth.” Officially. But in truth, it was something far more… ambitious.

Doctor Elara Vance entered the laboratory, her steps silent on the linoleum floor. She held a tablet in her hand, the glow of the screen reflected in her glasses, hiding her eyes.

— Henderson called, — she said in an even voice without lifting her gaze from the screen. — A new contract is coming in next week. From the special department.

Stein didn’t raise his head, but his shoulders tensed. The special department meant the CIA, and the CIA meant their “flower” would once again be used for something other than “soil reclamation.”

— Who is it? — he muttered.

— Who? — Vance raised a brow. — Maybe you meant who we’re supposed to make out of the “flower”?

The professor let out a heavy sigh. He knew. He knew perfectly well that all information about the “before” biography was classified, and all he had to do was perform the transformation procedure.

— I know… It’s just… I’m so tired of all this secrecy. That CIA guy Henderson is getting on my nerves already. — pulling away from the microscope, he looked at Vance.

Elara opened her mouth to say something in response, when suddenly the phone next to the professor beeped. He grabbed it immediately and looked at the screen. A photo of a man in a sharp jacket, a confident smile, hair slicked back. The name under the photo, however, was “Samantha.”

Stein first raised his eyebrows in surprise, then his face slowly shifted into mild irony.

— Samantha… — he whispered, but froze as he noticed Vance sharply turn her head.

— Samantha? — she repeated and smirked. — What Samantha? Did you get yourself a girlfriend, Jacob?

The professor nodded toward the exit door, and after hesitating for a second and throwing him a puzzled look, she still left, leaving him alone. He sat in his chair, leaned back, and put his feet on the table. Pressed the answer button.

— Hello, darling. I’m so glad you called! — he tried to sound like a cheerful guy, but his voice came out strained.

On the other end came a quiet, barely audible, but still too squeaky female voice with a clear note of panic — one that absolutely didn’t match the photo on the screen.

— Darli… What? Jacob, is that you? — the voice trembled. — I’m not “darling”! It’s me, Arthur! Arthur Graham! And I have a huge problem!

Stein scratched the back of his head.

— Arthur… — he snorted, — I don’t know any Arthur. Only Samantha.

On the other end, somewhere far away, a man’s voice muttered something in the background, and then “Samantha” replied loudly in a strained voice: “Yeah, everything’s fine!”.

— Wow, — Stein said, a hint of sarcasm slipping into his voice. — You already got yourself an admirer, Samantha? That was fast.

From Prince to Concubine - Page 13-14

The Morning After Saturnalia

Text in attachment

Points for Ads

— No way! No fucking way! You’re kidding, please tell me you’re kidding! — Victor Carter lamented, not believing his own eyes, as he stood in the middle of a dusty barn behind Aunt Liz’s farm, holding out an unusually dark-skinned arm with his old phone in hand.

The fingers were too thin and too long, with phalanges that were way too narrow, trembling as he held the phone in front of him. On the screen was the very app he’d downloaded a couple of months ago, after finding it somewhere deep in the back alleys of Google Play — “FaceSwap Real+”.

Back then it was a simple evening, when Victor was lying around in his room after college, scrolling the internet out of boredom, tapping on weird ads, testing out useless apps people usually install just for laughs. But this one, with its overly simple interface of only a few buttons and a function way too basic for modern times, didn’t work like a normal app — it swapped faces not only in photos, but in real life. Each swap cost 25 points, which you could easily earn by watching ads.

And, it seemed like the 99 out of 100 points he had should’ve been enough for Victor to fool around with the pre-loaded presets of random people from the internet. One of them happened to be this randomly photographed African tribeswoman whose face in the app photo was now replaced by Victor’s own, after he decided to try it the second he walked into the barn, while Aunt Liz was gone in town all day. Only thing was:

— Oh come on, I’m just one damn point short, just change me back already! I can’t get stuck like this! — he said irritably, taking a small step and instantly regretting it, because at that moment his heavy, firm, huge breasts bounced, slapping against each other. Startled, he threw his hands up, but hit his own breasts with his elbow, and both soft spheres reacted even stronger, spreading and then snapping back with a delayed, dense thump.

— Why the hell… — slipped out of him in a thin, unfamiliar, melodic voice that now sounded especially wild, and definitely not funny like it had a few minutes ago, when he was running around the barn with a stick, babbling nonsense and pretending to be a tribal woman.

The phone blinked:

“Not enough points: -1

Buy premium subscription

Watch ad”

Only the problem was that, due to some bug, the subscription couldn’t be bought from the very beginning — and Victor hadn’t even tried, because who needs a subscription when you can earn points by watching ads? Ads that he now simply couldn’t watch, because the internet out here sometimes just cut off completely.

Victor jabbed the “Swap” button with his thumb in frustration, but it only flashed the same nasty pop-up:

“Not enough points: -1”

— Yeah, I know, I fucking know, goddamn it… — he grumbled and, almost without realizing it, pressed his finger harder against the screen. — You piece of shit app… Aunt’s gonna be back in an hour, and I…

At that moment the screen jerked, and the phone let out a heavy “sigh” of sudden vibration. A submenu appeared on the screen, with three buttons just as dull as the rest of the app’s design: “Genetic Swap”, “Behavior Swap”, “Cultural Swap”.

— What the hell?.. — Victor whispered, feeling an unfamiliar chill run across his new skin, because he had no idea the app even had more functions.

Next to each button was the cost, styled exactly like in the main swap menu — 80 points — but after the “/” symbol there was the precious word “free”.

— Free?… Maybe… maybe this could help? — he muttered, almost daring to hope that this new menu was a chance to get out of all this before Aunt Liz saw some dark-skinned woman with her nephew’s face standing in her barn.

At that moment something shifted in the far corner of the barn, and in the air there came a barely audible shrr-kh, as if hay lightly slid under someone’s foot. Victor jerked in surprise, forgetting about the phone in his hand for a second — but that second was enough. His thumb slipped just a little and tapped straight onto the “Cultural Swap” button.

The phone didn’t even vibrate — instead, something clicked inside his head.

‘Probably imagined it…’ Victor wanted to say, but instead what flew out of his mouth was:

— Ku-mala (Ears deceived)

Victor froze, shocked by what he had just said with his own voice — still high and feminine, but now carrying deeper notes and a drawn-out “u” accent.

‘Uh… I wanted to say…’ he tried to force out in English, but what came out was only:

— A… ku-no… ta-lu? (I… why mouth not obey?)

He touched his throat automatically. Everything was the same as a minute ago — the same narrow neck with smooth skin, still strange but familiar now — so why the hell was he speaking… like that?

His gaze flicked to the phone screen, and that became the next blow — all the symbols that were perfectly readable a second ago had turned into strange patterns, like a mix of small lines, circles, and spirals. What used to be a normal English menu now looked as if someone had swapped the font for a set of ritual pictograms.

‘What the fuck?! Why did the phone change?!’ he started to say, but what burst from his mouth again was foreign yet somehow perfectly clear:

— N’kaza ta-mbu! Ngu-ngu ka ta-ta?! (Cursed spirit! Why talking box become different?!)

Victor’s eyes widened in terror, his breathing quickened, and because of that his heavy breasts began to rise and fall in rapid jerks, once again dragging his attention to them and making his hands — unconsciously, or more likely out of panic — press them tighter against his body. But that didn’t help. Those masses only spread under his elbows, making Victor let out a tiny squeak and immediately clap a hand over his mouth, shocked by how painfully feminine that sound was.

— Ha… ku-naa… (No… this not should…) — he whimpered through his fingers.

He hit the “Exchange” button with his finger, knowing exactly what it was for and WHAT was written there… although he could no longer read it, seeing only something like “—͝1 ᑫᵒᶜᵏ. Na-tu-ra ki.”

— Heh! Ku-fara mi nda! (Hey! Do like before!)

But the screen only popped up the same old message about lacking 1 point, offering to watch an ad or buy a subscription.

Victor turned his head in despair, thinking it might at least help him calm down a little — but that was a mistake. His gaze stopped on the unremarkable, quietly standing tractor in the corner, the one Aunt Liz kept after old Greg passed on. A simple, gray, time-worn tractor that had served faithfully for decades and was now living out its final days here. But to Victor, it suddenly looked wrong, strange, and terrifying at the same time.

It wasn’t just a tractor anymore.

It was a huge iron beast, sleeping, heavy, with a belly full of hidden growl. The wheels looked like legs rooted into the earth. The steering wheel — like curved horns. The cabin — like an empty eye that could open at any moment.

Victor froze, unable to look away, feeling his heart bang harder and his fists clench painfully tight.

He tried to force himself to think: it’s just… just that big thing that used to help Uncle Greg plow the field, but the word slipped away like water through fingers. Only one description surfaced in his head: an iron beast with a belly full of growl and horns rooted in the ground. His legs felt glued to the barn’s wooden floor.

— Ka-bara… ka-bara ta nguu… (Big sleeping beast… don’t move, don’t move…) — slipped out of him in a quiet, drawn-out voice with a deep guttural tone.

His breasts swayed again when he leaned forward, as if trying to hide from the gaze of the iron beast, and the movement pulled the skin on his new ribcage so tight that Victor barely held back a quiet sob, feeling how the skin stretched and the soft, heavy masses dragged downward, trembling lightly with his quickening heartbeat.

He slowly, very, very, very slowly, like a hunter afraid to disturb a sleeping lion, turned his head to look around — and immediately realized the barn around him was no longer a barn.

In the corner where the workbench used to be, with that old faded poster of an anime girl, now stood a witch doctor’s altar, crudely nailed together from wooden planks, and above it hung something that froze the blood in his veins.

It wasn’t a poster.

It was a woman from the flat world, trapped in thin fabric by the spirits of the white men. Her eyes, huge like two full moons, stared straight into the soul, unblinking. Her hair was blue, like the night sky after rain and lightning. Her clothes — strange, too tight, as if her skin had been painted with bright colors and stretched back on. She was smiling, but the smile was wrong — too wide, too calm, too empty. No fear, no hunger, no pain lived in that smile. Only eternal, inhuman bliss.

Victor recoiled instinctively, and again his heavy breasts swung, slapping against each other and hitting the ends of his ribs with a dull, wet thump. He wrapped his arms around himself under his breasts, trying to press them down, hold them still, stop this constant irritating swaying — but his wrist only sank into the softness, and his nipples, suddenly sensitive, responded with a sharp sting against his skin.

— Ta… ta-lu na… m’bora kwe? (This… this woman? Or demon pretending woman?) — he whispered, and his voice trembled on a high note, almost breaking into a squeak.

He forced himself to turn away.

Next to the “altar” stood a can with dried paint — the same one Victor had recently used to repaint his old bike. But now it was a pot of spirit blood. Thick, black, crusted around the edges. He knew — felt it in his bones — that if he dipped his fingers into it, he could call the voices of the dead. Or drown in them. He tore his gaze away quickly, his heart pounding so hard that every beat echoed low in his stomach with a strange, deep vibration, as if something alive and hungry was waking inside him.

Victor swallowed. His throat tightened, as if wrapped in a dry vine.

And then from above, through the gaps in the barn roof, came a low, muffled, vibrating “uuuuuooo-rrrrrrr.”

A plane. Just a regular damn plane flying somewhere over the farm — but to his ear, the sound unfolded inside him like the roar of a massive sky-beast.

Victor’s face went pale. His eyes widened. Air burst out of his lungs in a hot jolt.

— KA-BALA NGUU!!! (SKY BEAST!!!) — he screamed, his voice breaking into a high shriek that made the earrings in his earlobes tremble in panic.

He instinctively ducked, his breasts swinging with huge inertia, hitting painfully against his forearm from below, and then, driven by pure animal fear, he bolted toward the nearest place his mind recognized as shelter.

The pile of hay by the wall.

He lunged toward it, clipped the wagon’s edge with his elbow, slammed his hip into it, lost his balance, and the phone in his hand jerked.

— No-no— ku-maa—! (Stop— don’t—!) — he exhaled, trying to hold onto it, but the phone had already slipped from his fear-dampened hands, arced briefly through the air, and landed face-down in the dust with a dull thud a bit past the hay pile.

Victor hesitated for a split second, but the howl of the plane snapped him back to reality. The phone wasn’t important. Survival was. So he dove forward, behind the mound of hay, closer to the wall, curling into the corner, feeling his breasts crush against his knees and his trembling fingers clutch at the stiff stems of dry grass.

Outside, the plane’s noise faded… but in his ears it still thundered like a roaring beast flying far too low.

He sat there, shaking, pressing his head to his knee, burrowing into the hay, feeling every drop of blood pulse with heat in his breasts, his belly, his throat, and he whispered through ragged breaths:

— Ha… ha-kuu… sa-mala… (No… no… take me not…)

Vivi_Courtesan_42

— Well… do you believe me now? — slowly turning her head, she caught his gaze and yanked the wig off completely, as if tearing away the last curtain between them.

— Ethan?.. — Mark stepped back, his palm still hanging in the air over the interface. — No. This… no. I had a beer with you in Brooklyn yesterday. You were laughing at my new helmet. You were… — he stumbled, shifting his eyes from the masculine features of her face to the outline of the dress. — You were yourself.

— Yesterday in Brooklyn it was someone who was supposed to be me, — she said, trying to keep her voice steady. — I told you where we hid the batteries in the school lab, and how you broke the server room key. You can’t fake that.

— Anyone could know that if they dug through our old networks, — Mark threw back stubbornly, but quieter now. He looked up at the interface and flinched. — The name above you says “Vivi_Courtesan_42.” Player tag: missing. Shit. Is this… is this a bug? An exploit?

— It’s a nightmare, Mark, — she crossed her legs, feeling how the tight skirt pulled her knees closer together than her old body was used to. The high collar covered her neck, and she felt like it pressed a little, hiding what she didn’t want to see. — I can’t log out. The exit button is greyed out. The AI says I’m an NPC. If I get killed here, I’m not sure I’ll wake up.

— And I’m not sure you’re not messing with me, whoever you are, — Mark gave a nervous chuckle, trying not to panic. After all, it was just a game, even if the most popular one now, since the full-dive tech was released. — Head transplants? Yeah right, you really do look like Ethan, exactly the same face.

— Because I am him, — she replied, — Turn off your overlay and look deeper.

Mark twitched his fingers, bringing up the system windows. His face stayed stubborn, but his gaze was already drifting over the lines.

— “Vivi_Courtesan_42,” — he read aloud. — Player tag: missing. Owner: encrypted. Last activities… — he fell silent, glancing sideways at her. — Fines in the “Hookah Alley” district, interactions: “invite to room,” status: “scripted actress,” interaction: “Open all holes” and—

— You’re looking in the wrong place, idiot… — not harsh, more softly, and blushing right after, she looked away, adding in a tone that was too sexual, too gentle — God, even here I can’t raise my voice.

Mark’s mouth twitched as if he was about to joke, but he froze. His eyes lingered on the line of her thigh, where the skirt had stretched just slightly, barely hinting at a curve. Then he looked up toward her masculine face, but his gaze kept catching on the shape of her breasts, which the dress made all too obvious. She felt the fabric tug slightly at her skin and pressed her knees together even tighter, as if trying to control what she could no longer change.

— Ethan… or… Vivi… — he pressed his lips together, — So you’re saying that three months ago you, if it’s really you, took some quest thinking it was a unique scenario, but failed it, and instead of killing you they took you to… where was it?

— The “Vixens of Dawn” lab — she said, feeling her mouth go dry. — I thought it was just going to be the ending. You know “Vixens of Dawn,” they hate men. I thought they’d kill me and I’d respawn in my apartment, but when I woke up I wasn’t home, I was… in that whore dorm where I live now. — she almost whispered, her throat trembling.

Mark frowned, but in the corners of his eyes she caught something — an interest he was trying to hide.

— And you… — he hesitated, picking his words slowly, — all this time… worked as an NPC?

— Worked? — she gave a bitter smile. — No, Mark. I lived it. Every day — in this body, in this dress, in these scenes. They made me… “perform.” I was scared they’d kill me… I… I talked.

He looked away, but couldn’t help throwing a quick, almost hungry glance at her body.

— Ethan… — he said quietly, — If that’s true, then… who’s in your real body now… an NPC?

She froze. The look in her eyes, which had been full of exhaustion and bitterness, suddenly turned sharp.

— That’s exactly what I’m afraid of — she said, leaning forward slightly, the hoop earrings trembling with the movement. — I thought about it, but since time runs slower here (author’s note: 1 day in real life = 1 week here), I was scared my body was lying unconscious somewhere, but you just told me it’s not like that, and now I really don’t know what to do.

Mark smirked, though he realized it was unnecessary.

— What do you mean? Call the admins.

— Call the admins? — she raised an eyebrow slightly. — Mark… I thought about that too, but right now, after what you told I though… they might just send me straight back to that brothel when they see I’m not a player. I just escaped from there and I’m not going back. It’s a horrible place.

Mark leaned back in his chair and nodded, as if making a decision for himself.

— Alright. Let’s say I believe you. You want… what? For me to hide you in my apartment while you’re here?

She lifted her eyes slowly, as if afraid he might read everything she’d been hiding for the past three months.

— Yes. You can. You still have that penthouse in the Green Quarters, right? It’s safe there.

— And you know I don’t just let anyone in — he narrowed his eyes slightly. — Not even old friends.

— I thought we were friends. — She crossed her arms, and the soft fabric of the dress stretched across her breasts, making Mark get distracted for a moment. She noticed it, and the corners of her lips twitched. — Or is it hard for you to remember me… under all this?

He let out a heavy breath.

— Fine. But I want to check something. You’re saying all of this started when you took that quest?

— Yes. “Rite of Dawn.” In the Red Sands district.

Mark nodded, leaning forward.

— I’ll go there. Take that quest. See what happens.

— Are you insane? — she straightened sharply. — Mark, if they catch you, they’ll… — she broke off, lowering her gaze to her own body, as if it had become an argument in itself.

He smirked.

— I doubt it. Honestly, right now you just seem like some bug to me, although a very realistic one. So if it’s a quest, I need to take it, and if you really are Ethan, then I need to take it even more. Got it, babe?

Her face twitched, as if he’d slapped her, not spoken.

— Don’t call me that — she said quietly, her voice rough, and in that tone was all the weariness that had built up over the past three months. — You have no idea how many times I’ve heard that… and in what situations.

Mark raised an eyebrow slightly.

— Alright, alright, don’t get heated. It’s just a joke.

— A joke for those who paid for “extra scenes” — she cut him off, not taking her eyes off him. — When they lift you up like a doll and sit you on…

She stopped herself, realizing she was saying too much. Deep down she still wanted to get back to her life and didn’t want anyone, not even her best friend, to know such details.

The room fell into a pause, as if even the interface had frozen, listening in. Mark stared at her a little longer than usual, as if trying to match her words with the image of Ethan in his head.

— Alright — he said finally, leaning back in his chair. — Until I figure this out, I’m calling you Vivi. I’ve already got enough of Mark’s head in my own. And put the wig back on, please.

She slowly lifted the wig, as if weighing in her hands a piece of her lost freedom, and reluctantly pulled it back on. The soft synthetic hair fell over her shoulders, covering part of her face and neck, and with it came back the feeling of that role she had been trying so hard to escape.

— That’s better — Mark remarked, but there was something in his voice that sounded like nervous concern. — Let’s go.

— You’re an idiot, you know that, Mark? — she smirked, picking up her purse and walking gracefully after him, taking his arm with professional ease.

— What’s that about? — he asked, flustered, stopping at the door.

— Habit — she replied almost casually, but with that same perfected sway of her hips that had become reflex over these months. — Besides, it’s easier not to fall in heels if you suddenly decide to yank me somewhere.

He snorted but gripped her elbow a little tighter.

— Alright, Vivi. Just make sure you don’t get used to it.

She smirked with the corner of her lips, looking ahead.

— You make sure you don’t get used to it.

The Weight of Womanhood

Part 1

"I am a laureate of the Nishina Memorial Prize, honored with the strict Japan Academy Prize, the holder of the international and almost mythical Japan Prize, once in my youth also an honorary recipient of the Young Scientist Award from the Physical Society of Japan, and several times listed for the Nobel Prize in Physics. I am Saito Masanori, and I will never be some kind of girl who—"

— Harumi, tell me honestly, — the voice of Hisamori Tatsunori, the head of the clan, her father, cut off the girl’s thought as she sat in seiza opposite the heavy shadow of his massive figure, which loomed over her with knitted brows. He spoke calmly, like an executioner who is merely clarifying something with a criminal before the execution, — is all of this meant to disgrace me?

Harumi, who in truth was Saito Masanori, a 62-year-old Japanese man who, after an experiment with the fabric of time, ended up in the past and in her body, slowly drew in a breath, feeling how the tight red collar of the kimono pressed under her throat. Her breasts, already quite heavy, felt as if they had been filled with lead, expanding with that breath and becoming exactly the kind of center of attention she did not want to think about right now.

"He accuses me of disgrace? Me? I have done more for this world in a year than the entire Japanese civilization would do in the next hundred years."

She raised her gaze. The glasses, her own invention, slid along the bridge of her nose. The tall, elaborate hairstyle pulled at the skin on her temples, forcing her to keep her back straight so she would not accidentally tilt her head back and appear weak.

— With all due respect… — quietly, almost in a whisper, — my achievements—

— YOUR achievements?! — Tatsunori roared so loudly that the sliding doors trembled, and a cold shock ran down Harumi’s spine, making her shoulders involuntarily draw in under the weight of the kimono sleeves. — You call this achievements, Harumi? A girl is supposed to be silence and serve the house with modesty!

He took a step forward, and a heavy shadow fell onto her knees, as if pressing down from above, pinning her to the tatami together with this entire ancient system into which Saito had fallen a year ago.

Harumi sharply lowered her gaze, trying to hide the rage boiling inside. Her breasts obediently swayed from the sudden movement, and that alone became an insult to her current existence.

"Stupid military idiot!" — Harumi thought, clenching her teeth and taking a deep breath to calm the trembling in her body, which seemed to openly enjoy the chance to expose her as weak.

Tatsunori remained silent for too long. This silence was worse than a shout. It pressed down, like his shadow on her knees.

Part 2

A soft rustle came from behind the door, and she understood that it was her “mother.” She stood there, not daring to come in while her husband was speaking. And that was the maximum she dared at that moment to support her daughter. But Harumi only snorted when she heard those faint sounds.

"I know how much I’ve done. She hears everything right now. And she still stays silent. A cowardly woman. And he wants me to become like that? Never."

— Answer me, — Tatsunori said, no louder than a whisper, but there was katana steel in that whisper. He slowly lowered himself to his knees opposite her, resting his fists on his thighs, meeting her gaze. — Did you deliberately decide to disgrace our family name?

Harumi jerked her chin angrily, feeling how the tight obi painfully bit into her waist, not even letting her breathe properly. Something heavy shifted in her breasts — as if her own body was reminding her of who she was considered to be now. She clenched her hands on her knees, her nails digging into the fabric of the kimono.

— I, — she said quietly but evenly, — I solved problems that—

— THAT men are supposed to solve! — he raised his voice again, but he was not shouting, no, it was the growl of a beast that had returned from war and saw something wrong at home.

— You questioned the order. You forced the council to say your name out loud. You forced men whose wives and daughters stay silent behind screens to hear that a woman of the Hisamori family is smarter than them.

Tatsunori leaned closer. His shadow became shorter but heavier, as if pressing locally — straight onto her breasts, forcing her breathing to become shallow.

Harumi — or Masanori, inside shaking with rage — slowly exhaled, feeling how her soft, heavy breasts under the kimono unpleasantly swayed and rubbed against her ribs.

"Yes, smarter. Much smarter. I am smarter than everyone here."

Making an effort, she adjusted her glasses, trying not to look away from her “father’s” gaze.

— The council… — she tried to keep her voice even, — the council is waiting for my answer. Scientists from the capital want—

He cut her off with a simple, not even sharp, movement of his hand, and that made it worse. And in the next moment his palm came down, grabbed her glasses, tore them off her face, and immediately threw them aside. The world before her eyes instantly became slightly blurred, soft, irritatingly unclear.

— You don’t need these, they only make you uglier, — he said, as if placing the final seal on a sentence. — And I don’t give a shit about the council and the scientists. What matters is that everyone already knows. This is shame. And if I allow you to continue… thinking like men, — he spat to the side, — the Hisamori house will lose its face.

The silence thickened, and then he said the words that made everything inside her collapse, like poorly secured scrolls falling from a shelf.

Part 3

— In a month, you will be betrothed.

Harumi slowly raised her head. She felt something shudder in her breasts. No equation, no time paradox ever struck her nerves the way those two words did.

— What? — she breathed out.

The words rang in her head like after a bell strike. Something twisted inside her.

"Married? To a man? Me? I’d rather…" — the thought broke off, crashing into the reality of her current body: heavy breasts, a tight obi, long feminine arms resting on her knees.

— A groom is already being considered, — he reported calmly, as if he were talking about moving barrels of rice, not about her life. — But before I allow anyone to take you into their house, you must cleanse our name.

He leaned forward so that she caught the smell of ash from his armor.

— Starting tomorrow, you will begin service at the Hiruyama temple. Sweeping the courtyard, ritual ablutions, assisting the shrine maidens. You will show humility.

Harumi’s breath caught. She imagined it: the cold stone floor, water that made the skin tighten, endless bows… and her own body, which over the past year had already forced her through many things she would rather not even think about.

"He wants me — one of the smartest people of the 21st century, a person the most influential people in Japan listened to, and certainly, even in this ridiculous body, the smartest person of this era, the one who solved equations that made their entire council nearly faint — he wants me to… wash steps?"

She swallowed very slowly the lump that rose to her throat, understanding that in this time openly opposing men, especially her father, was akin to death. And yet—

— Scientists are waiting for a meeting, — she said, trying to keep her voice even. — My developments—

— NO ONE is waiting for women, — he cut her off sharply. — Men are enough for them.

He tilted his head slightly, examining her like a failed sword: too flexible, too shiny, too noticeable.

— After the temple — courses in women’s arts.

He said it so casually that Harumi did not even understand at first.

— You will learn embroidery, quiet walking, manners before guests. Everything girls are taught. — he took a breath, — And before men you will become an example of modesty. You will serve tea. Bow. Speak little. Not a single hint of your… intellect.

He pronounced the word “intellect” as if it were something dirty.

He narrowed his eyes for a moment:

— You will sit next to those who cannot read. And you will learn from them. Understood?

Part 4

Harumi felt the air in the room grow thicker. She swallowed, even though her throat barely obeyed her.

— …learn? From them? — the words slipped from her lips on their own, and she cursed herself for how alive it sounded, almost like a frightened girl, and that, it seemed, was already the last straw, she added, boiling over — they’re just stupid bitches!

She couldn’t hold it in. The phrase burst out on its own, though it should have stayed only in her head.

Tatsunori froze, watching how his daughter’s hands jerked toward her lips. But it was already too late.

It felt as if a soundless shockwave rolled through the room with such force that everything inside Harumi clenched. His eyelids twitched almost imperceptibly. He did not blink. He did not breathe. He only slowly, very slowly straightened his back, as if that short remark were a blade she had thrown straight into his face.

— Stupid… bitches? — he said so quietly that the silence around them seemed to fade.

The shadow of his figure grew wider. It crawled across the tatami, blocking the light, blocking the air, blocking everything.

Harumi felt the blood drain from her face, and her breasts swayed again as she tried to inhale. The long, tightly pulled knot at the back of her head began to ache, as if reminding her: you are in ancient Japan now. You are a woman now, a daughter. You said that — as a daughter.

— Father… — she began, but he raised his palm like a judge who had already decided everything.

— I will pretend I did not hear that. No one heard it! — he said louder, looking toward the door.

But in the next moment his face twisted with something like personal humiliation. The kind that burns beneath the armor of a man who returned from war, only to receive a wound at home far deeper than any saber cut.

— NO ONE HEARD IT! — he repeated, as if trying to drown out the very fact of her words.

Behind the sliding partition came a hurried, sobbing sound:

— Yes, husband…

Harumi felt a heavy shiver of helplessness run down her spine. She understood her position too well — the one she had tried to escape with her mind all through the past year, while her “father” was at war.

Tatsunori slowly turned back to her. And what had once been anger had now become something far more dangerous.

Cold resolve.

— You have disgraced my house, — he said quietly, but in a way that made the air in the room turn hard. — And worse than that… you have shown that the rotten root in you runs deeper than I thought.

He rose to his feet, and Harumi had to lift her head to see him.

— The temple, — he said. — A year. Marriage can wait. The insolence must be torn out of you completely.

— A YEAR?! — it tore out of her, too sharp, too loud, almost with the same desperation as a drowning person clawing at air.

She heard her own cry as if it had not come from her breasts at all, but from somewhere outside — too thin, too high. Her breasts jerked painfully with the sharp inhale, shifting heavily under the dense fabric of the kimono, and the belt bit into her body so deeply it was as if it were trying to choke her protest by force.

Part 5

Tatsunori turned back to her in a single step, and she felt the wave of his cold fury wash over her completely. His gaze narrowed as if throwing blades were about to be launched from it.

— Two.

A pause. A pause that made the fingers resting on her knees go cold.

She swallowed, clenching her teeth and her fists.

— …two? — the breath slipped out on its own, weak, almost torn.

Tatsunori straightened up like a man to whom everything had finally become clear. And when he spoke again, his words were measured with heavy, cruel precision, as if he were chopping into stone.

— The term will only grow with every objection you make to me.

Inside Harumi, everything collapsed into some empty well of her consciousness. It was worse than any sentence. It was a noose tightening not by rules, but by the whim of one man whose power here was absolute.

Tatsunori no longer looked at her as someone to talk to. Only as a problem that had to be crushed until it disappeared completely.

— Do you want to say anything else? — he said slowly. — Maybe another objection? Or something about the council?

Her lips trembled.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to laugh — hysterically, viciously, the way people laugh when reality suddenly becomes so absurd that the mind refuses to accept it. But she stayed silent.

Her father nodded approvingly — briefly, dryly, as if stamping a document, finally sealing her fate. Harumi lowered her gaze, feeling hot shame spread across her skin beneath the layers of silk, feeling how her breasts, heavy and so large, shuddered in rhythm with her desperate breathing.

Tatsunori no longer thought it necessary to speak to her. He turned sharply and took a step toward the exit. The long shadow of his figure slid across Harumi’s knees, and for a moment she let out a barely noticeable exhale, not yet fully understanding why, and closed her eyes. When he slid the door open, “mother” slipped past — small and bent — and her gaze lingered on her daughter for only a second, and there was no compassion in it, only some kind of resigned horror.

Tatsunori, without turning around, said coldly, "Prepare yourself. Morning will come early," — and his footsteps, heavy and confident, vanished down the corridor, leaving Harumi in the half-dark room alone with such a silent humiliation that it felt as if it pressed on her harder than the heavy hairstyle on her head.

Incident at the Police Station

The silence in Lieutenant Barry Jones's small office had become almost tangible over the past few minutes. If it weren’t for the soft sniffling of that hot Latina—Victoria, according to the file he found—you could almost reach out and touch the air.

– So, miss— Barry began, but the girl suddenly snapped her face toward him.

– ¡No soy la "miss", idiota! – her voice boomed through the room in waves, just like the ones rippling across her full tits, barely contained by the plunging neckline of her dress. – ¡Soy hombre! ¡Yo soy senador Richard Falkner!

Barry raised an eyebrow slightly. He’d already heard this bullshit half an hour ago. A whole stream of crap about how yesterday morning this girl supposedly woke up not in her mansion, but in some sweaty room above a brothel in East L.A., with boobs, shoulder-length hair, and lips swollen after... as she put it, “some kind of orgy.”

– Uh-huh, – Barry exhaled slowly, staring at her seriously. – Maybe that’s enough. I’m just trying to understand why you even came here. Is this some kind of plan from your pimp or... what the hell are you playing at?

She clearly didn’t catch all the words, but her face twisted into such a smug, arrogant expression that Barry, for a moment, actually thought she might’ve been someone important in this world—rather than an illegal hooker who now was completely under his control.

– ¡Exijo! I want... I need... – Victoria burst out passionately, jumping to her feet, her breasts in the tight red dress pushing forward and nearly spilling out of the deep cut. – Me... need... lawyer! And phone call! Senate... embassy... you get this? I no this... no should be here!

– Sit down, – Barry said firmly, slowly rising from his chair. – You don’t even have any ID. You’re listed as an illegal. You’re not a senator. You’re a prostitute from East L.A. Victoria Juarez.

Victoria exhaled loudly, puffing out her lips, and sat back down, stubbornly crossing her legs and folding her arms under her breasts, as if trying to shield her new womanhood.

– This… all mistake – she pushed the words out with desperation. – I not whore! I… be man! I be white! Tall! I have wife, son in Harvard…

– You’re getting deported – Barry said slowly. – You get that, right? Within 72 hours.

– No! – her voice cracked. – You no have right! I not this latina whore! I hombre! Man! I vote against such latina whore! Give me lawyer!

– Alright-alright-alright, easy, sweetheart – Barry said with fake calm, raising his hand to his ear like he was trying to hear her over the shrieking and hysteria. – Don’t make this harder on yourself.

He stood up, walked around the desk, and leaned over, looking down at the girl—or more precisely, at her cleavage.

– You came here. To the station. No ID, dressed like this, and with this… – he waved his hand, like swatting away the absurdity – this crap about being a “senator.”

Victoria flinched like he'd struck a nerve. Her tits bounced again.

– I… not crap! I was man… real, important! – she struggled to find the right English words. – They switch me! I wake up – and this! – she stood up, squeezing her thighs together, pressing her palms on the table, shoving her deep cleavage almost in Barry’s face. – You think I come here looking… like this – her voice trembled – for nothing?! I demand investigation! I need body back!

Barry squinted.

– So, you want me to believe that a senator—that Richard Falkner, one of the loudest voices against illegal immigration—woke up in the body of… – he looked down at the tits spilling out of the dress and the short skirt – a young Latina whore from a brothel in East L.A.?

– ¡Exactamente! – she shouted, clutching her hair in panic. – I don’t know how! But this… this nightmare! I not even can talk right! I… I cry when I see… – she suddenly stopped, lowering her head – …these…

She put her hands on her breasts, like feeling their weight all over again.

– This not mine…

Barry looked at her with a new expression. Mixed. Something in her desperation, in her voice, in the tears starting to form—there was something strangely genuine. And completely insane at the same time.

– Look, Victoria. – He sat back down and sprawled in his chair. – All I’ve got is a girl with no papers. You’re booked for prostitution, you’re illegal, and you’ve got zero proof of who you say you were. You even got a Mexican accent, you know that?

She jerked upright.

– I not fault! I now… think like this! In Spanish! I wake up – and all head be different! I write, I read… only in Spanish! – she suddenly reached for her bag, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper with trembling fingers. – Look! This… my handwriting! My notes! I try remember… what happen! I write… in English, but come out this…

Barry took the piece of paper. The lines were uneven, in Spanish—written in desperation, with attempts to squeeze in English words, but everything came out jumbled.

– "Mi cuerpo desapareció esta mañana... siento algo en mi pecho... hay algo extraño en mi piel... alguien tomó mi vida..." – he read aloud, then looked up. – You’re getting deported, Victoria. In 72 hours.

– I do everything! Give all I have! Just find my body! – she screamed, breaking down. – I buy, I powerful! I… – and then she faltered. Her eyes dropped to her own tits, and her expression turned… angry.

– Hm... well, if you’re ready to do anything, then... – Barry walked over to the door, locked it, and slowly turned back to her. His gaze slid from top to bottom, lingering on the boobs spilling out of her dress. – Show me how ready you really are.

Victoria’s head snapped up and she saw how he looked at her. At her tits, her lips, the short skirt. And suddenly, something clicked inside. Her old mind—senatorial, proud, disgusted—screamed in panic, but at the same time she felt something she’d never felt before… the body seemed to respond to another voice. Commanding. Degrading. And that made it even worse.

– What… you… – she swallowed. – You want… I give you money? Or… information?

– Money? – Barry chuckled. – Sweetheart, you’ve got no money. And you’re an illegal with zero rights. One word from me, and in three days you’ll be dumped in Tijuana with no chance of coming back to the U.S.

He leaned in closer, their faces now nearly level.

– I’m offering you a deal, Victoria. I forget that one Latina whore in a red dress walked into this station without any papers and started ranting nonsense. Might even help you with your little weird problem, if you try real hard and be a good girl.

Victoria froze. Her lips parted, but the words got stuck somewhere in her throat. He didn’t just not believe her—he was making her an offer… one that, in her past life, in her real life, she wouldn’t have even listened to.

– You... want me to... – she swallowed, her eyes darting around the room, landing on the locked door. – I... not whore! I... senator!

Barry exhaled loudly and turned toward the door.

– Alright, Senator! Good luck in Mexico – he said, glancing at her over his shoulder with a smirk, already reaching for the radio.

Victoria jumped up like she'd been stung, knocking over the plastic chair, her tits bouncing under the dress like they were ready to make a run for it first.

– Wait! Please wait! – her voice broke, scared and desperate. – I... I can...

Barry paused, a victorious look in his eyes.

– You can what?

She swallowed hard, cheeks burning, heart pounding like mad.

– I... do. What you want – she forced out, eyes cast down. – Anything... so you... no tell anyone. You help me, and I...

– Do you know what you’re saying? – Barry asked slowly, stepping closer. – Or are you gonna start again with that bullshit about not being a whore?

– I’m not a whore! – she shouted, then instantly recoiled, glancing away, her brow furrowed. – I... What you want?

– What do I want from a whore? – Barry snorted. – You seriously want me to spell it out?

Victoria took a step back but bumped her hip against the edge of the table. Her dress hiked up, revealing the top of her stockings. She felt her ears burning, her breasts rising heavily with shaky breath.

– I... not know – she whispered. – I never... I... I can't... – she faltered, and for a second, it was like a flicker of pride flared up inside her, the last remnants of who she once was – I never...

Barry raised an eyebrow.

– Then three days. And you’re back in Tijuana.

Victoria closed her eyes. Her arms dropped to her sides. Then, very slowly, she stepped forward, now standing right in front of him. She leaned in slightly, and whispered, barely audible:

– I no want go Mexico. I want... my body back. I do anything.

Barry looked at her and smiled.

– Then get started – he exhaled, placing his hand on her waist.

Victoria slowly sank to her knees. Her tights stretched tight on her thighs, the weight of her tits pulling the neckline so low one strap slipped off her shoulder. Her knees immediately felt the roughness of the floor and how cold it was, and she cursed herself for ever walking into that police station.

Little Mouse

The old Lancaster estate was one of the largest and most striking landmarks in the area, and that was exactly why any shadow of awkwardness within its walls felt twice as loud. It was as if every wooden panel, every portrait on the walls, and every heavy curtain knew what was going on and only silently watched this performance, which had already been going on for the third month in a row.

Hannah, or rather, just yesterday, Edward, who still kept mentally slipping up from time to time, unable to accept the fact that the past could not be brought back, froze right on the threshold of the study that once had been hers. Her fingers, already almost professionally, adjusted the ribbon of her apron and her dress behind her back, while her eyes slid over the spilled coffee she was now supposed to clean up. In moments like these, for some reason, she cursed her youth, gained in such a way, more than anything else. Maybe it was influenced by memories of lost power, or maybe it was about how exactly this young body reacted to stress, making her feel helpless where she once controlled every person and every object in this study, and now was… nobody. The thought of that burned the most.

— Hannah. — a female but strict voice of Veronica Lancaster, the mistress of this house, rang out. A voice that once lit a fire in her heart, inspired her, him, Edward, to all those actions he committed, to that very inner steel with which he committed them, to how to be “Edward”, now made her flinch and shrink inside like a schoolgirl caught in the act of a wrongdoing.

She turned sharply and only then noticed how close Edward was already standing to her. He was literally looming over her, and she yelped. Quietly, but enough for his right eyebrow to lift with that same predatory curiosity that made everything inside her tighten. She hated herself for such feminine behavior now, but it was as if it was already part of her, part of her nature that she received along with this body and the youth she had dreamed of so much while being Edward and performing the ritual. The ritual that gave her youth but took away everything he had been so proud of and left him in this body.

— Careful, Hannah, — he said calmly, taking a barely noticeable step back, as if granting her that “freedom” which only made things more unsettling. — You flinch as if you’re hiding something.

— I… uh… forgive me, sir, — she breathed out and felt her back instantly grow damp with sweat under the fabric of the dress. The apron ribbon slipped down again, and a thin strip of fabric brushed against her skin, causing a strange sensation, as if her body itself was reminding her: you’re just a servant now. Don’t forget.

Veronica studied her with a cold gaze for several seconds, as if scanning her with a scanner built into her eyes.

— We’ve been standing here for several minutes already, and the floor is still covered in coffee, — she said sharply, — and you’re still in the doorway, staring, sighing. Maybe you need some help to start moving?

This tone was soft, but that softness only made it worse. As if it wasn’t enough that she had lost everything, but now the very one who once confessed love and loyalty treated her like… like some stupid child.

Hannah humbly lowered her gaze and took a deep breath. She felt how the hem of the light dress lightly touched her legs, how at that moment her breasts seemed to grow heavier and slip slightly out of the bra cup, making her think that she should fix this already so familiar and dear, yet still so чужой piece of flesh. She immediately pushed that thought away, realizing that it would be completely inappropriate right now, and that only made everything inside feel even more humiliating because of this whole situation.

“If only you knew, Veronica… if only you knew who I really am…”, flashed through her mind, but she immediately forced herself to exhale and say:

— No, ma’am, thank you, I don’t need any help, — she finished and lifted her gaze, immediately noticing that Edward, damn him, Edward was looking straight at her breasts. And yet not so long ago he himself had been Hannah, that modest 22-year-old girl who completely forgot who she was because of the spell. Now “he” is being assured by everyone that it’s just “amnesia” and that “he” has always been Edward, which, of course, has its effects.

He looked openly, without embarrassment, as if examining a well-known piece of furniture that had suddenly revealed new shapes. And she knew, she knew perfectly well that she wouldn’t be able to do anything if Edward decided to go further. She knew this too well. From the inside. No one would say anything to him, not even Veronica, because such things used to be considered normal in the Lancaster house.

— Hannah, are you sure you’re managing your work? — Veronica said, stepping forward so that the lace of her dark blue dress swayed slightly, as if emphasizing the pause.

— Yes, ma’am, — Hannah lowered her head again, feeling how her breasts softly pulled downward when she took a breath. The dress seemed to remind her of every movement: the thin fabric of the hem touched her legs, the apron rustled slightly, and the ribbon behind her back again seemed to ask to be adjusted.

But touching it now would be like shooting herself in the foot.

Veronica slowly stepped around the spilled coffee, and her heels rang loudly against the parquet.

— Because from the outside it gives the impression, — she continued, — that you’re having… trouble concentrating. Even though the task seems simple enough.

Edward, standing almost at Hannah’s shoulder, let out a quiet, barely audible chuckle. She felt his gaze sticking to her just as confidently as he used to look at subordinates when he was still a man.

“What are you laughing at? You’re even worse than I ever was…”, flashed through her mind.

— I… — she swallowed, feeling as if the coffee on the floor was glowing with her shame. — I’ll clean everything up right now.

— It’s not about the cleaning, dear, — Veronica sang softly, stepping closer and lifting Hannah’s face by the chin. Her fingers were burning-cold, even though they were the same fingers that once…

— Look at me, — she demanded.

Hannah obeyed. Resisting was pointless, not only because she was no longer the mistress of this house, but because her new neck itself seemed to submit, thin, flexible, almost obedient under the touch. Everything was far too humiliating.

Veronica studied her in silence. Not the way a woman looks at a maid. And not the way she looks at a rival. But like furniture that might need to be moved somewhere or slightly remade.

— God, what a little mouse, — Veronica finally said so quietly that Hannah’s skin went cold from the words. — Small, beaten-down… and completely not understanding where she’s standing.

Hannah felt her breath catch on its own. The word “mouse” seemed to bite into her skin like a mark you can’t scrub off. Once they had called her “Lord Lancaster,” “master of offices,” “owner of the study.” Now — a mouse.

Veronica leaned even closer, so that her dark-blue dress lightly brushed the hem of Hannah’s. From that touch, Hannah involuntarily swayed back, as if stepping into her own shadow, but at that moment she felt, with her ass… Edward’s hand. It landed on her left butt cheek as if by accident, but the hand was firm and sure. It didn’t twitch, didn’t try to move away, it just lay there, as if measuring the flesh through the thin fabric of the dress, and Hannah froze, torn between Veronica’s icy gaze and the hot touch behind her back, not daring to move.

— You look like you’re about to cry, — Veronica noted without the slightest sympathy, and Hannah felt her eyes really moisten, betraying her with the same stubbornness with which this чужая ribcage rose on every breath.

— No, ma’am, I… I... let me clean it… — she breathed out, feeling the words cling to each other, as if trying to break into a completely different sound.

But she wasn’t allowed to finish the sentence.

With the lightest motion, Veronica lifted her chin higher, only by half a centimeter, but it was enough for Hannah to feel again how her breathing pressed into her breasts, growing heavier with each inhale. The hem of the dress barely touched her knees when she instinctively shifted her weight onto one leg, and that movement gave away the tremble she had hoped to hide.

— Let you? — Veronica repeated, as if tasting the word. — Sweetie, you’re talking like you have a choice.

And before Hannah could lower her gaze, she felt Edward’s hand behind her back squeeze her left butt cheek just a little harder. It wasn’t even bold — it was simply хозя́йски, just a “check.” From that simple, almost businesslike touch, it was like something pushed through under her ribs: some mix of humiliation she’d been carrying for three months, and a furious, desperate desire to break free anywhere, even one step, even just in her mind.

But the body answered differently. The body of this age, with skin that reacted faster than consciousness. And she hated that most of all, hated that she actually liked it.

Edward quietly leaned forward, as if examining her hair gathered into a neat bun. He reached out and slightly fixed a loose strand. His fingers slid along her neck, and Hannah felt heat run down her back from the back of her head to her lower spine, to where the apron fabric was pulling unevenly and where the ribbon already, it seemed, had finally given up.

— Hannah, — he said softly, — I’d like to watch how you clean. Right now. Very closely.

Veronica smirked with the corner of her lips.

— Of course, dear. Let her show it. Since she’s insisting so much.

Veronica’s hand, as if conspiring with Edward’s hand, released her, and inside Hannah a breath of relief ran through her, immediately replaced by even greater anxiety. She immediately stepped toward the stain and slowly bent down, trying not to show how unpleasant it was that both of them were standing behind her, watching. But even this bend betrayed her femininity now. The dress stretched over her breasts, the apron slipped slightly, the hem lifted. She heard Edward exhale a little deeper. She caught that old, familiar intonation again, one she knew too well, because she herself had used it for so many years while looking at maids.

“God… no… not this… did they really mold my worst version out of you? That… that means that he… that back then I with him… no, just don’t think about it, just clean. You still have a chance… you just need to stay in the estate.”

Her fingers trembled as she picked up the rag. It felt as if the entire study was staring at her, not just those two who were clearly enjoying it. She knew it. She knew it for sure. Since the moment of the “amnesia,” Victoria had been shaping this person out of “Edward,” and it seemed she had succeeded.

Hannah bent lower to blot the coffee, and at that moment her heel slightly slipped on the floor. Edward immediately lunged forward, grabbing her by the waist — hard, firm, the way one holds property that might fall and get damaged. His palm landed just above her thigh, his thumb pressed into the soft fabric of the dress, and Hannah sharply inhaled.

— Careful, — he said quietly, almost tenderly.

Veronica crossed her arms.

— So, how is she, dear? Remembering anything? Shall I leave you alone with her?

“Alone?!” Hannah thought, trying not to think about what exactly Veronica meant, and freeing herself from his palm as carefully as if her own skin had become thinner than paper.

But Edward didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered for another moment. They were confident, studying, far too calm for a man who supposedly remembered nothing. Hannah felt something turn cold in her stomach, while under her ribs, on the contrary, something flared up. This new body seemed to confuse sensations, mixing shame with something like… interest? God, no.

She finally slipped out of his hands. Too sharp a movement, but she couldn’t bear it any longer.

— I… I’m finished, ma’am, — she tried to say, but it came out too quiet, too soft, almost like that Hannah she now was. Halfway through the words her lips trembled, and she pressed the rag to her breasts, as if it could somehow protect her.

Edward straightened unhurriedly. His gaze slid over her from top to bottom — slowly, like a piece of merchandise he was considering buying. He leaned against the edge of the desk, and everything about him said: yes, leaving them alone — that was an interesting thought.

— She is… quite beautiful, — he said, as if assessing a new kind of household item. — And obedient.

Hannah clenched her stomach as if she’d been hit there, even though no one touched her at that moment. She lowered her head so far that she could see only the toes of her shoes and the hem of her dress, which barely brushed her ankles.

Veronica slowly turned toward Edward, and her earrings swayed softly.

— But you didn’t answer, dear, — she said, looking at her husband as if measuring his reaction millimeter by millimeter. — Do you remember anything… old? Something connected to… young maids?

Hannah froze. Her breathing faltered, and she involuntarily pressed her palms to her knees, as if trying to hide herself entirely.

Edward tilted his head slightly back, looking at the ceiling, then slowly shifted his gaze to Hannah. He stepped closer — and she, already knowing that any movement would betray her trembling, stood rooted to the spot.

— You know… — he said, stopping almost right in front of her. — Sometimes it feels like I really do remember something. Some vague habit… keeping girls like this close at hand.

Hannah felt something snap inside her, as if her last “self” was being taken away.

Veronica leaned toward her husband and lightly touched his elbow.

— Then maybe I really should step out? — she said quietly, almost tenderly. — So you can… sort out your memories.

No.

Panic rose inside Hannah, faster and stronger than before. She took a step back and pressed her back against the large cabinet.

— Ma’am… sir… please let me… — her voice broke halfway through. She didn’t know what to say. What could you even say in a situation like this?

Veronica turned toward her slowly, as if the silk of her dress itself was unfolding the movement.

— Let you? — she repeated with a thin smirk. — That word again. Do you want to work here or not?

Hannah nodded convulsively. Her throat was so dry that the words didn’t want to come out at all. Through the pounding of her own pulse, she heard how the study became… too quiet.

Veronica stepped closer.

— Then stop mumbling, — Veronica said evenly. — And answer clearly. Do you. Want. To work. Here?

Hannah’s hands were shaking. The dress pulled tight over her breasts so that she felt every millimeter of fabric. The apron ribbon started slipping again, and it felt like if she moved even a little, it would come undone completely.

She forced out:

— Yes… I do…

Veronica narrowed her eyes.

— Then don’t be so scared. Nothing has happened yet.

Hannah nodded almost inaudibly.

Her legs felt like cotton. Her heart pounded too loudly inside her, echoing with a heaviness that pulled down in her bra and threw her off balance.

Edward reached out his hand, and Hannah froze. She didn’t know whether he would touch her face, her shoulder, or her thigh again — but he, as if deliberately dragging out the pause, simply took the rag from her hands.

— It’s all right, sweetheart, I don’t bite, — he said calmly, examining the cloth as if it were evidence. — You don’t need to be afraid of me.

Hannah wasn’t breathing anymore — at least that’s how it felt — but her heart was pounding like mad.

Veronica stood there for a second. A long, agonizing second. And then she gently ran her fingers along Hannah’s cheek.

— A good girl, really, — she finally said, — she’ll manage.

At those words, her palms suddenly turned cold, and something twisted in her stomach. She’ll manage… She’ll manage!?

Veronica inhaled, as if making a decision, then turned toward the door and stopped at the exact moment her fingers touched the handle.

Hannah froze. In that instant, her entire world — all her past and future — shrank to a single point: would she leave, would she leave him with “him,” and if she did leave, then what would happen next.

Hannah knew the answers to those questions perfectly well, knew them, but didn’t want to hear them, pushing them away along with that sensation burning somewhere low in her belly and growing stronger and stronger with every second.

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.

Strange app - page 19

Oh God… why is everything always so dramatic?

Paris, Paris!

— Oh shit, Chuck, that’s really your clothes! — Jason drawled, staring at the neon-green tracksuit hanging on the mannequin. — You were posing in it yesterday!

— Well, didn’t I tell you! — muttered the brunette with tanned skin, brushing a lock of hair from her face. Her glasses slid a bit down her nose, and she gave a cat-like snort, fixing the purse that kept slipping off her shoulder. — That’s my tracksuit. Was. Now it’s showing off on a mannequin. And me — you can see for yourself who I am now.

— Chuck… — Jason shook his head, staring straight at her. — Do you realize you sound like a total psycho?

— At least I look like a tasty bitch, — the girl twisted her face into a smirk, stretched out her hand with a bottle of pineapple juice cut with alcohol, and took a greedy gulp. Her skirt rode up her thigh, showing smooth skin, making Jason clench his teeth. — Go on, tell me you wouldn’t stick it in.

— I still think this is just another prank from that asshole, — said Sam with a wrinkled nose, the tall one and the only voice of reason in this whole bunch of Chicago students who had decided to spend their vacation in Europe.

— A prank? — the girl snorted, catching the purse that was slipping off her shoulder. — A prank is your fat mommy screaming into your phone every time, “Sammy, did you remember to wear your hat.” A fucking hat! In Paris! In summer!

She burst out laughing as if it was the funniest joke in the world, then let out a loud belch. A few passersby turned with offended faces, someone muttered something in French and hurried away, and a couple of tourists even stopped to watch the scene.

— Shut the fuck up, idiot! — hissed Sam, stepping forward and clenching his fists.

His massive figure loomed over the girl, but she only gave a lazy smirk and swung her hip. The purse slipped off her shoulder again, and she hooked it with her elbow, swaying a little — the booze had already gone to her head, the old brain still refusing to accept that old doses were no longer possible.

— What’s this? You gonna hit a woman? — she sneered, pushing her hip out even more, as if deliberately provoking him. The skirt slid dangerously upward, and Sam turned his eyes away, clenching his jaw so tight that his cheekbones bulged.

— Not funny, Chuck, — he forced out through his teeth. — Not one bit.

— Ah! You heard it! You hee-eard it! — she yelled triumphantly. — Our skeptic himself admitted I’m still Chuck!

She spun around in place like a top, and a moment later flopped down on the asphalt, clutching the bottle to her chest like a baby. The sun hit her eyes painfully, and Chuck — now a brunette with long hair falling across her face — burst out laughing right there on the sidewalk.

— Oh, mademoiselle, soyez prudente ! (Oh, mademoiselle, be careful!) — someone called out in French while passing by.

— Mademoiselle! — she mocked, taking a loud gulp from the bottle and wiping her lips with a hand that had long black nails. — Chuck, for fuck’s sake, mademoiselle…

— Get up, dumbass, — Jason, the one with freckles and the eternal “Chicago Bulls” cap, stretched a hand toward her. — People are staring!

Naturally, she shrugged her shoulder on purpose and ignored him. The purse finally slipped off and smacked onto the asphalt, spilling out makeup, cash, and some tissues. Chuck just cackled:

— Oooh! Holy shit! Looks like I’ve got the full set here! — Chuck shouted with hysterical glee and, still sitting right on the pavement, started digging through her purse. Lipstick — bright red, lip gloss, powder, even a tiny perfume vial. She picked it up between two fingers and, bringing it theatrically to her nose, inhaled noisily. — Well, that’s it, guys, now I’m officially a fucking chick.

— And you act like a drunk chick, — Sam muttered, picking up the lipstick that had rolled almost to a passerby’s feet.

— And I am a drunk chick! — Chuck snapped triumphantly, shoving the lipstick back into her purse, almost dropping the bottle. — That’s what I am, take it or leave it!

And at that moment, right at the intersection under the sign Rue Saint-Denis, a whistle cut through the air. Sharp, commanding. All three turned their heads. A tall man in uniform was approaching — white shirt, blue pants, a cap with a cockade. On his chest shone a Police Nationale badge.

— Mademoiselle! — he said sternly, stopping in front of Chuck. — Vos papiers, s’il vous plaît. (Your papers, please).

— Ooooh! — Chuck drawled with a grin, pointing a finger at Sam. — Hear that? He called me mademoiselle! You heard it, right? Officially!

— Shut the fuck up, Chuck, — Jason muttered through clenched teeth. — We’re screwed now.

The officer — judging by the badge, Lieutenant Arnaud Lefèvre — frowned and repeated:

— Les papiers.

Chuck batted her eyelashes theatrically and pulled a lip gloss out of her purse instead of a passport. Waving it like a credit card, she stretched it toward the officer:

— Here, take it! Full set of lady’s documents!

Jason squeezed his eyes shut. Sam exhaled:

— God, she’s gonna get us killed.

The officer frowned even harder, but his gaze lingered — and for a long time — on her legs, on the skirt that had ridden up again after the sharp movement, showing more than it should. At that moment Sam couldn’t take it anymore; spotting a document sticking out of her purse, he grabbed it and handed it to the officer.

— Voilà, monsieur, — he said curtly, trying not to look at Chuck, who was already sprawled shamelessly on the asphalt.

Lefèvre opened the passport, ran his finger along the page, and raised an eyebrow slightly:

— Élodie Martin, vingt-deux ans… (Élodie Martin, twenty-two years old…) — he read aloud, then lifted his eyes to the girl standing before him, comparing the photo.

— Élo… who? — she started, reaching for the document, but Sam caught her hand just in time.

— Keep quiet, you crazy bitch! — he hissed in her ear, making Chuck whip her head around at him with a sulky face.

— …Résidente de Paris, dixième arrondissement, rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis… (Resident of Paris, 10th district, Faubourg Saint-Denis Street…), — Lefèvre recited, once again checking the photo before raising his eyes back to her.

— What the hell is he babbling!? — Chuck, eyes wide, jerked toward the officer, but Sam gripped her hand so hard she winced.

— He’s reading the address, — Jason translated flatly, never taking his eyes off the cop. — Like… your new home, Chuck. Or whatever you’re supposed to be now…

— Mademoiselle Martin, il est interdit de consommer de l’alcool dans la rue. La prochaine fois — une amende. (Mademoiselle Martin, it is forbidden to drink alcohol on the street. Next time — a fine.) — Lefèvre said firmly, handing the passport back to her.

— Une amende ? Mais t’es complètement fou ! J’ai rien fait de mal ! (A fine? You’re completely crazy! I didn’t do anything wrong!) — Chuck yelled, not even noticing she was speaking fluent French — and of course not paying attention to the fact that even Sam’s eyes went wide at that moment.

Lefèvre pressed his lips into a thin line, clicked his tongue, clasped his hands behind his back, and slowly turned away.

— Faites attention la prochaine fois, mademoiselle… (Be careful next time, miss…) — he threw over his shoulder before walking off, his boots striking sharply against the asphalt.

— You… you heard that?! — Jason clutched the brim of his cap like he was trying to hold his head together, which refused to believe. — You just… you just yelled at a cop in French! And he understood you!

— Hein? Quoi? (Huh? What?) — Chuck blinked, staring at him blankly, the bottle still dangling from her hand. — Je comprends pas… tu dis quoi, Jason? (I don’t understand… what are you saying, Jason?)

— That’s the crazy part! — Jason nearly screamed, looking at her like she had turned into an alien instead of a girl. — You understand me?! In English?!

Élodie tilted her head to the side, pressing her lips together, and then, just a second later, suddenly screamed.

— Exactement! Parle putain en anglais ! (Exactly! Speak fucking English!) — Élodie shrieked, her voice breaking, and only then slapped her own lips with her palm. Her eyes went wide. She froze.

— Chuck… — Jason blinked. — You just did it again… in French.

Élodie stood there for a few seconds, trying to process the new data and fit it into her already pretty drunk brain. Her eyes shifted from Sam, then to Jason, and finally landed on the street sign. She squinted, moving her lips. Moments later, her mouth was once again wrapped around the bottle of alcoholic punch, this time pouring into her with furious force. Élodie gulped greedily, as if she wanted to drown the whole world and all that rising awareness inside her. Drops slid down her chin, catching on the hollow dip between her breasts.

— Give me that! — Sam yanked the bottle from her and tossed it into the trash bin by the billboard.

— Hé ! Rends-moi ça ! (Hey! Give that back!) — she reached for the bottle, but instantly swayed and nearly toppled over. She clung to Sam, hanging on him like a cat clutching a tree. Her hot breath burned his neck, her hair tickling his cheek.

— Christ, Chuck… — Sam grimaced, struggling to keep her steady. — You’re wasted, and there was barely any booze in that shit.

Élodie went still in his arms, tilted her head, and pressed herself against him. Her eyes were shut, her legs buckling, and a second later she collapsed like a rag doll. Sam barely caught her under the arms, the weight of her unexpectedly soft body hitting his palms and chest.

— Shit… — he muttered, looking down at the girl in a tight top and short skirt. — She’s out cold.

— Chuck?! — Jason crouched beside her, shaking her shoulder. — Hey, man! Wake up!

— Man? — Sam shot him a glare. — Are you even looking at her? What fucking man?!

Élodie stirred slightly, her lips moving, and in her sleep a faint mumble slipped out:

— Je me sens maaal… je veux dormiiir… (I feeel siiick… I want to sleeeep...) — she moaned, and a second later her whole body jolted violently.

— Hey, hey, wait! — Sam tried to set her on her feet, but it was too late. She made a muffled sound and threw up all over him.

— For fuck’s sake!.. — he jerked back, but still held her so she wouldn’t crash face-first into the asphalt. Warm puke splattered his shirt, slid down his arm, while Élodie hung limply on his shoulder.

— Putain… j’vais crever… (Fuck… I’m gonna die…)

Jason winced and glanced at Sam:

— Did you catch a single word of that?

— Yeah, — he nodded grimly. — She said she’s gonna die. Check what it says in her document. The cop mentioned some address, — he finished, holding Élodie up even though the stench was making him gag.

Jason, scrunching his nose, pulled the passport from her purse. The photo page stared back at him calmly — a young Parisian woman with straight hair and a faint smile. Under the picture it read neatly: Élodie Martin, 22 ans, Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, Paris.

— Well, there you go, — Jason lifted his eyes. — Can you read it?

Still bracing Élodie with one arm across her back, Sam looked at the passport page. Right then he was glad he’d studied French in school.

— Yeah… — he rasped. — Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis.

Élodie let out a weak moan, her legs buckling, and if Sam hadn’t been holding her, she would’ve collapsed right into her own vomit on the pavement. Without thinking twice, he bent down, hooked her legs, and lifted her into his arms. The body was unexpectedly light, soft, warm. Élodie squirmed faintly, then pressed her cheek against his shoulder, wrapped her arms around his neck, and started snoring softly like a little girl worn out after a carnival.

— Holy shit, — Jason exhaled, scratching the back of his head. — Like fucking “Sleeping Beauty,” man.

— Shut it, — Sam muttered, grimacing at both the stench and the damp stain on his shirt. — Grab her purse and passport, we’re getting out of here.

The guys moved along Rue Saint-Denis. Paris lived its own life — tourists laughing, the smell of roasted chestnuts, café doors slamming shut. Élodie, clinging to Sam’s neck, stirred slightly and mumbled something:

— Mmm… Sam… plus doucement… (Sam… slower…)

— What’d she say? — Jason asked.

— Told me to carry her more gently, — Sam translated darkly. — She’s giving orders even in her sleep, can you believe that.

They stopped at the corner, and Jason pulled out his phone to call a taxi.

Soon a yellow cab pulled up to them, the driver, an Arab around forty, raised his brows in surprise.

— Mademoiselle… elle est malade? (Mademoiselle… is she sick?) — he asked, staring at Élodie.

— Nooon… pas malade… trop de vodka… — Sam answered wearily, picking through his French words.

Élodie stirred a little, cracked her eyes open and managed to push out in English, with effort:

— Ai… I’m… fine… just… sleeeep… — the words came with a heavy accent, like she had to drag each one out from deep in her memory.

Jason smirked:

— Whoa, she said “fine.” Chuck, that you?

But the girl was already out again, lips pressed against Sam’s collar.

— Jesus, this is fucked up, — Sam muttered, shoving her onto the backseat, then slid in next to her, while Jason climbed up front.

The taxi started moving. Storefront lights flashed by outside, the Eiffel Tower glowed in the distance, lit by spotlights. Élodie slept quietly, pressed so tightly against Sam’s shoulder he could feel every breath. Her hair tickled his chin, her warm breath touched his skin, and he just couldn’t make himself relax. His head was a mess. On the one hand, this was a sexy girl — soft, warm, smelling of booze and vanilla. On the other — it was his buddy Chuck, with whom just a week ago he’d been scarfing down burritos in Chicago and arguing about who could sprint faster back to campus after the pub.

— Fuck, — Sam shut his eyes and leaned the back of his head against the window, trying to ignore her tits pressing rhythmically against his side with every breath. — None of this is normal.

— Not normal? — Jason twisted around from the front seat, smirking, but clearly nervous. — Dude, this is some fucking movie shit. This doesn’t happen. This isn’t “not normal,” this is fucked beyond belief.

Sam stayed silent. Élodie, in her sleep, clenched his shirt like she was afraid he might let her go and pressed closer, burying her nose into his neck. A warm scent of alcohol mixed with something sweet came off her — maybe perfume, maybe just vanilla lotion. Sam tensed up even more, feeling her breasts sliding against his side with every inhale.

And Paris. Paris flashed in the windows, shifting between storefronts, streetlamps, noisy cafés, and the occasional passerby. Sam sat motionless, with Élodie’s soft body pressed against him, feeling more than ever that all this was unreal and real at the same time. Jason stayed quiet, crushing his cap in his hands. The cab carried them down the narrow streets toward the address that now was her home, and with every meter it grew clearer: there was no road back.

Misfire

Pam-pam! It’s been ages I posted anything new in comic format, so I figured it’s time to spice up the feed a bit =)

Test-Tube Body

Text in attachment

The Gift

The room smelled of cheap perfume and, of course, the acrid stench of cigarettes, mixed with a heavy, almost bodily scent, as if someone had just been fucking here hard and rough, though in reality, nothing of the sort had happened. The atmosphere was oppressive, despite the bright outfits of the women working here. At least, for everyone except them and the two men in the next room, it was.

— Damn it, son, — muttered the brunette with massive tits, slouching at the edge of the bed. Her high-platform sandals pressed against the floor, her knees spread apart, and the pose, together with the bra about to burst, looked extremely provocative. — We’re fucked. Literally. I am this… this. — She shook her shoulders, and her huge breasts in the red bra bounced, squeezed tight by lace.

The blonde stayed silent, arms crossed under her breasts, staring at a single spot on the wall, as if trying to see something hidden there. In reality, her mind was running slow, strict calculations: as though she was solving a complex equation, with the variables being her new hips, tits, narrow waist, and the red dress clinging to it all so tightly that every breath came with the feeling of fabric stretching.

— Stanley, — mumbled the brunette almost under her breath, glancing up from below — don’t just sit there, say something!

The blonde flinched, as if waking from a long sleep. Her lips twitched, but no sound came. Instead, she turned her eyes to the brunette sitting at the edge of the bed and said, with a strange, almost mathematical coldness:

— Dad, panic won’t help here, — the blonde said firmly, clutching her arms tighter against her chest, — We need to think.

— Think? — the brunette on the bed jerked her head, and pink strands fell over her face. — Sure, professor, you can think all you want, but right now I can’t think of anything except the fact that I’ve got… — she gripped her thighs and shoved her elbows off her knees. Her huge tits shook, almost spilling out of the bra. — These fucking… melons!

— Let me remind you that you’re the one who brought me here, and you chose these women, — the blonde said coldly, turning her eyes away again, staring as if through the wall. His voice was steady, but there was something in that steadiness that made the brunette’s cheek twitch.

— I wanted to give you a gift! — the brunette jumped up sharply, but the insane platform heels wobbled, and she had to grab the edge of the bed not to fall. — You’d be thanking me if everything had gone the way it was supposed to!

— A gift, — the blonde repeated and slowly turned her head, examining her father in a woman’s body. Her eyes narrowed slightly. — You call it a gift that you tried to make me fuck a prostitute?

The brunette blinked, looked away, then glanced back up with a kind of defiance.

— Yes! A man should… go through this. It’s normal. I… I wanted you to become… like everyone else. You’re already 24!

— “A man should,” “normal.” All of it has always been about how you wanted me to live. You never asked what I want.

— Because you don’t even know what you want! — the brunette tossed her hair off her face and exhaled noisily. — You hide in your books, in formulas, in that… science. And life is passing you by!

The blonde sighed, clearly showing she didn’t want to continue this conversation.

— Life… — she said slowly, as if testing the taste of the word on her new lips, and a thin smile briefly twisted her stern features. — Well, it looks like that word has a different meaning now, doesn’t it?

— What meaning? — she snapped, but it came out too loud, too sharp, too feminine. Her face twisted. — God… I even sound like…

— A woman, — finished the blonde, tilting her head and watching her “father’s” every move. — Just like you look. — She loosened her arms slightly. — And that’s already a fact, no matter how much you scream.

The brunette grabbed a pillow as if she was about to throw it, but froze, remembering an image in her head of girls at some girly party, tossing pillows at each other, squealing, laughing, then collapsing on the bed, naked and flushed. Her fingers clenched the fabric tighter without meaning to, and a shiver ran through her body, whether from disgust or from how easily she could picture herself there, she couldn’t tell.

— Shit… — she exhaled and tossed the pillow back, tugging up the bra straps that had slipped off her shoulders. — We’ll just rot here if we don’t figure something out.

Laughter echoed behind the wall. Their laughter. The exact voices they themselves had owned just an hour ago. Too familiar intonations — only now they sounded cheerful, dirty, smug.

The brunette flinched and looked toward the door.

— They… they’re laughing? Those two sluts think this is funny?! — the brunette cried out, almost hysterical.

The blonde gave her a long, cold, studying look.

— Are you fucking stupid? — the blonde said coldly, her eyes narrowing. — They’re right where they’ve wanted to be their whole lives. — She tilted her head slightly, as if conducting an experiment: observing her father trapped in a woman’s body, overflowing with tits and weighed down by heels. — And we… are here. In their skin.

The brunette froze for a second. Her lips trembled, her tits shifted.

— You mean to say… that those… — she jerked her head toward the wall, where the same laughter kept coming from. — Those sluts… are happy about this?!

— And why not? — the blonde answered calmly. She uncrossed her arms, pulling them away from her breasts, and looked down with interest, as if for the first time she dared to seriously examine her own curves. — Think about it. For them, this is a win. From back alleys and cheap rooms — into men’s bodies. Strength, freedom, the chance to set the rules. And you think they’ll come back willingly?

— Of course they’ll come back! And if not, I’ll make them! — the brunette barked so loud that the laughter behind the wall went quiet for a moment, but then burst out even harder.

The blonde tilted her head slightly, watching her father with a kind of cold, almost frightening calm.

— And what will you do? Give them the best blowjob of their lives? A threesome? Or put on a strip show? — the blonde’s words came out far too calm, almost dry, but that calm tone only made it worse.

The brunette choked on her own breath. Her eyes widened, her cheeks flushed, and she yanked her arms over her tits, as if her son’s words had suddenly thrown a spotlight on the ridiculous picture: her, a 48-year-old man, now in the body of a cheap bombshell, dressed in lace and platforms.

— You… how dare you… — she hissed, but her voice shook. — I’m your father!

— Father? — the blonde tilted her head slightly and, with cold curiosity, ran her hand along her own thigh, as if studying the reaction of fabric stretched tight over skin. — All I see is a busty little shorty on platforms.

— Shut up! — she shrieked, panting. — I’m still your father, got it?! I… I’m a man!

The blonde sighed, realizing there was no point in continuing the conversation. The laughter behind the wall stopped. The door suddenly creaked, and they walked in. In their bodies. Male figures filled the room at once, carrying with them the stink of cigarettes and cheap beer.

The first one, in the father’s body, smirked with a cigarette between her fingers. The powerful frame moved with a cocky ease, as if she’d lived in it her whole life.

— Well, ladies? — she drawled, letting her eyes roam over the blonde and the brunette. — Getting comfy in your new skins?

The second one, in the son’s body, casually slammed the door shut behind her, drumming her fingers against the frame.

— God, what a drama, — she laughed hoarsely. — One’s standing there like a cold doll, the other’s clutching her tits like that’ll save her. Jesus, what a sight.

The brunette jumped up, her face burning, her tits jiggling in the tight bra, threatening to spill out completely.

— Give us our bodies back! — she screamed, stepping forward, but the heel wobbled again, and she had to grab the wall. — Right now!

— As if we knew how! — the “father” laughed, blowing a stream of smoke straight toward the brunette. His male face twisted into a smug grin, with a flame of satisfaction dancing in his eyes. — I think it’s easier if you just accept it. You girls look perfect right where you are.

— You came to tell us you’re leaving? — the blonde said calmly, not even flinching.

— Bingo, doll! — the “son” in the man’s body grinned, folding his arms across his chest and spreading his shoulders on purpose. — Just wanted to grab a little something before we go.

He stepped up to the dresser, and his massive hand pulled open the top drawer without a second thought. The brunette jerked forward:

— Hey! What are you doing?!

— Relax, doll, — the “father” in the man’s body waved her off, pulling out a bundle of crumpled bills tied with a rubber band. — This is our money. Well, technically yours, but you understand you didn’t earn it. Don’t worry, you will.

— Whaaat?! I’m not going to… — the brunette choked on the words, but cut herself off mid-sentence when the man snapped a commanding gesture at her, closing his fist in a sharp “shut up” motion. Her plump lips clamped shut—unexpected even to herself—which made the man laugh out loud.

— You’re not going to? — the “father” stepped closer, towering over her. — Sweetheart, nobody gives a fuck about your “going to” anymore. When Johnny comes back, he won’t care.

— When Johnny comes back… — the brunette blinked rapidly, a shiver running down her body. — What… what do you mean?

The “son” in the man’s body chuckled lazily and snapped his fingers, like calling for a dog.

— I mean our—oh, sorry, your pimp.

— Pimp?! — the brunette gasped, pressing her hands to her tits so hard the lace cut into her skin. — You… you’re insane!

— No, sweetheart, — the “son” in the man’s body smirked, patting the pocket stuffed with her money using her former hands. — The only insane ones will be you two if you start babbling about being men.

The “father” in the man’s body opened the door, tossing over his shoulder:

— Johnny will be back soon. Try to look… appetizing.

The door slammed shut.

The brunette dropped onto the bed, curling up as much as her tits allowed, which immediately spread across her thighs, wrapping them in soft warmth. Her shoulders shook, her eyes darted in panic.

The blonde, however, stood motionless, her gaze cold, and said quietly:

— Just as I thought.

And for the first time, her lips curled into a wider smile.

The World Will Collapse If You Don’t Wear the Skirt

The cold metal table burned my elbow as I looked up wearily at the big guy in the suit across from me, making no effort to hide how little I cared about whatever he was saying.

– Ashley... – his voice came out like a smoker’s baritone, like he was trying to sound authoritative, even though I’d seen guys like him dozens of times. – Do you even understand how serious what happened is?

I tilted my head slightly, resting my fist on my cheek. My fingers felt the warm, silky tone of my new skin – fucking weird. Inside, I was still boiling from the fact that I ended up as... Ashley. A girl. Thin, fragile, with those damn long hairs tickling my neck and slipping into my eyes. I kept mentally repeating that this was temporary. Just a glitch. A system error.

Even though it had already been two weeks.

– Mister... – I squinted for a second, trying to remember his name. Still couldn’t get used to how these long strands instantly dropped into my eyes, damn them. – Ah, right. Mister Brown, when are you finally getting me out of here?

He shifted his gaze to me, one of his eyebrows arching.

– Get you out? – Brown smirked with the corner of his mouth, eyeing me with a look that was part genuine surprise, part annoyance. – You’ve been Ashley for two weeks and you’re still asking that... – he paused meaningfully, stepping toward me, the sound echoing in the empty room – You could at least wear a skirt.

I swallowed, feeling a shiver run down my back like someone was deliberately reminding me of the absurd shitshow I was in. Me, a 42-year-old retired captain, former interdimensional gate security specialist, a man who, until recently, believed men should be men, women – women, and all this multiverse “blending” – a joke for the nerds in the science division... A skirt?

– I’ve heard that one too many times already, Mister Brown, – I exhaled, looking away. – From you, from my so-called mom here, and from...

– George?! You actually talked to him? – I flinched. George. Fuck. Ashley’s boyfriend, that damn jock who, ever since I started acting not like the Ashley everyone was used to – the giggly cheerleader laughing at his dumbass jokes – but like... well, like me, he hadn’t shown the slightest interest. And that was the last thing I needed... The last thing...

– If you don’t live like Ashley, it’s all gonna collapse, sweetheart, don’t you get that, Ashley?

I exhaled sharply, feeling my breasts shift again under the T-shirt with the movement. I used to think stuff like that didn’t matter. Now every single breath reminded me I was no longer me.

– But I’m not Ashley, old man, I—

– YOU ARE ASHLEY! – he barked so loud the walls seemed to shake, and something in the air snapped, making the space ripple like film fluttering in the wind. – And there’s no other option, Ashley! Either you live like her, or there’s no you, no me, no one in this goddamn version of the universe!

I clenched my teeth, the fist under my cheek trembled, nails digging into the smooth skin of my palm, feeling how soft and thin it was.

– I already know that, – I muttered, lowering my gaze to the side, just so I wouldn’t have to look at his smug fucking face. – You keep repeating it like a broken record. “Ashley,” “skirt,” “smile”... I’m fucking sick of it all.

– Sick, huh? – he smirked, leaning on the table with both fists and looming over me again. – You know what makes me sick? That damn T-shirt, those shorts, and that miserable look you drag around campus. People look at you, and the fabric of the universe starts to tear at the seams, because sweet Ashley – from their perspective – is not some tomboy who glares at George like he’s a bag of cement, but a sweet, flirty girl who enjoys life. You get what I’m saying?

I rolled my eyes, though honestly, inside everything had already curled into a tight knot of humiliation. Just thinking about being that “sweet, flirty girl” I was supposed to pretend to be – it felt like spitting in my own face.

Old Volkov… captain, security specialist… And now here you are – shoulder-length hair, Tits that move with every step, and a guy asking you out on a date.

– I need time, – I forced out, feeling the lump in my throat getting heavier. – You want me to dress up tomorrow, smile at George, and pretend to be… that?

He leaned in closer, his gaze turned sharp:

– Yes – he said calmly, but that tone... it sent chills down my spine. – You’ll grab that pink purse, do your makeup like a fucking princess, and put on a sweet, dumb expression.

I looked away sharply, staring at a patch of peeling paint on the wall. It looked like if I just stared at it long enough, all of this would disappear. This new world, this new me – gone. I swallowed, trying to keep my breathing steady.

– How long? – my voice came out hoarse, like it was scraping its way up my throat. – How long do I have to... put up with all this?

Brown straightened, shoved his hands in his pockets, and smirked like a man who had figured everything out a long time ago.

– A year, – he said, stretching the word out like poison. – A year, Ashley. You play the part – and the door back opens. That’s it. End of the nightmare. Your captain’s tie again, your epaulettes, your man’s boots.

I said nothing. A year. A fucking year.

But his eyes... His eyes told a different story. There was this strange glint in them, the same one I noticed the first time we met after the “incident.”

– You’re lying – I whispered, tilting my head down and letting the long hair fall back over my face. It tickled my cheeks, pissed me off, but I didn’t move it away. I just kept breathing through clenched teeth. – It’s not a year...

He didn’t answer. He just turned his back to me.

– A year – he repeated. The walls began to tremble, his silhouette started to fade, becoming semi-transparent. – Either you make it... or there won’t be any ‘or’ left...

His words grew fainter and fainter as he disappeared, and in his place the features of a now all-too-familiar room began to emerge — my room. Posters with dumb quotes, plush toys on the shelves, that fucking pink heart-shaped lamp shining right into my eyes like it was mocking me.

Instead of the metal table and chair, I was now sitting on a bed covered with a pink blanket, scattered with cloud- and cat-shaped pillows. My thin thighs pressed against each other, and I instinctively wrapped my arms around my knees, lowering my head and cursing those long damn hairs again.

– Ashley! Can you hear me?! – came a voice from behind the door. Mom’s voice… I mean, Ashley’s mom. – Come downstairs! Your father wants to talk to you!

I clenched my teeth, remembering how, right before my little chat with Brown, Mom – goddamn her – had given me a full-on lecture about “feminine dignity.” About how a “proper girl should watch her reputation,” how I “shouldn’t disappoint George,” and how “everyone’s so worried about me after the accident and how much I’ve changed.”

The accident... Changed... Yeah, if only she knew her daughter was now in another fucking dimension, in my... in MY damn body, while I...

– Ashley! – she shouted again, tapping on the door. – You’re acting like... like a boy again!

I winced. I wanted to yell something back, something sharp, but the lump of anger and fear in my chest made it hard to even breathe.

– Coming – I forced through my teeth as I got up from the bed.

A year, huh... A whole year...

But I’ve got this feeling Brown’s not telling me everything. Fine. Fuck it. I’ll figure it out. Somehow.

Inside the Sitcom

Part 1

— You! You seriously don’t hear that? — Tiffani said nervously, staring into Britney's face, while Britney just rolled her eyes like nothing happened.

— Hear what, Tiffani? — Britney drawled with fake confusion, crossing her arms over her chest. — The sound of your brain cells dying off one by one?

Click!

Laughter. Loud, absurd, canned laughter. Only he — well, now she — could hear it. Tiffani Blake, formerly Alex Gromov, 36 years old, an IT engineer from New Jersey, who literally just last night was digging through piles of old junk from eBay and stumbled across a weird remote.

‘What a dumb retro gadget,’ he thought back then while ordering it. And today, turning the cheap plastic thing in his hands with the faded inscription "Channel Reality Adjuster," he pressed it.

There was some stupid '90s sitcom playing on TV — Cherry High — where half the characters looked like walking parodies of high school stereotypes, and the other half seemed like they escaped from a laundry detergent commercial.

And just moments later, he — or rather she — stood in the middle of some sterile, glossy hallway with cheap plastic plants and glass partitions, trapped in the body of a ridiculously sexy bimbo — long blonde hair falling into her face, a white T-shirt with a deep neckline clinging to her tits, and a cherry-print skirt barely covering her thighs.

And the laughter… that stupid, canned laughter sticking to her brain like popcorn to the roof of your mouth.

— You don’t hear them laughing?! — Tiffani threw up her hands, feeling her breasts bounce heavily under the T-shirt. — They… they’re laughing! Again! Right now!

— Uh, maybe you like, inhaled too much hair spray or something? — Britney smirked, giving her outfit a mocking once-over. — Then again, what am I saying… that's basically your daily diet.

Click!

Laughter, applause. Alex clenched his teeth… if only not for the glossy lipstick he could feel on his lips. Everything was exactly like those dumb ‘90s sitcoms he always hated.

And now, he was part of one.

Part 2

And the worst part — according to the script, Tiffani Blake was always made to look like a dumbass, whose overconfidence constantly crashed against Britney’s sarcastic jabs and ridiculous situations. She was the classic antagonist, but the kind everyone laughed at, not feared.

— This, uh… — Tiffani stumbled, feeling how her voice naturally turned high-pitched and slightly hysterical as she looked around, searching for cameras, the audience, or anything that could explain this madness. — This… This isn’t funny! I’m seriously not having fun here!

Britney smirked crookedly, about to say something, but at that moment she appeared — Cassie Wilson, the know-it-all, the main character of the show, a walking encyclopedia with perfectly styled chestnut hair, massive glasses covering half her face, and that damn book always in her hands.

Click!

The canned audience burst into applause, like Beyoncé herself just walked on stage, not this annoying-as-hell "nerd of the year."

— Oh my God… — Tiffani exhaled out loud, not even understanding why she suddenly said that, or worse, why she said it in that way — loaded with sarcasm, jealousy, irritation, and an unwanted, sticky sense of her own clumsiness all at once.

Tiffani instantly clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide in sudden realization.

‘What the fuck is this?!’ — flashed through her head, in Alex's voice. Her lips, glossy with pink lipstick, felt wet and plump under her fingers, and it distracted her. Badly distracted her. And humiliated her all the same.

But when Cassie came up to them, Tiffani, overcome with some sudden instinct, struck the classic ‘bitch’ pose — hands on hips, hips cocked to the side, speaking loud with fake arrogance (but sounding dumb as hell):

— Oooh… Well hello there, Miss… Book Carrier… — You could see Tiffani fishing for words, trying to sound haughty and dramatic, but it came out so ridiculous and stupid, the hallway instantly erupted with a Click! and loud, cutting canned laughter, as if the whole crowd was mocking her very existence.

Tiffani’s cheeks flushed hot. She froze in place, cursing everything — starting with that damn remote and ending with her own pathetic, inexplicable urge to act like a “cool girl.”

Part 3

Cassie raised one brow, glancing at Tiffani over the top of her oversized glasses.

— Oh hey, Tiffani. Practicing how to form sentences again today? — Her voice was sweet, polite, but every note of her tone sliced through Tiffani’s pride like a knife through butter.

Click! — the crowd roared with laughter again.

— Uhh… — Tiffani twitched her shoulders nervously, this time feeling completely stupid. She knew she was talking nonsense and wanted to disappear right then and there, but something inside wouldn’t let her. She frowned, brain scrambling, but the more Alex — now Tiffani — tried to think, the deeper the idiocy settled in, and her lips stretched into a fake, forced grin all on their own.

— I… like… — she pouted her lips, momentarily catching the wet, slippery taste of her lipstick, and tried to cross her arms over her breasts, but the tits under the tight T-shirt shifted heavily, her hands awkwardly catching the neckline and almost pulling the fabric up.

— I’m just too… hot… to even care about your stupid books! — she blurted, like it was some kind of devastating burn, but she immediately felt how dumb and strained it sounded.

Click! — the crowd laughed, squealed, someone clearly clapped at how idiotic she was.

‘God, shut the fuck up…’ — Alex cursed in his head, but Tiffani’s lips were already parted, and standing there, half her T-shirt riding up, her tits jiggling — that was the worst part.

Cassie smiled sweetly, like she was talking to a child, then turned to Britney and calmly, evenly, without even looking at Tiffani, asked:

— Did she forget how words work again, or is this some kind of “improved” update? — Her voice sounded innocent, but every syllable dripped with sugary, hidden poison.

CLICK!

The canned laughter flooded the hallway like an avalanche, and Alex — Tiffani — felt boiling anger rise inside. Those two acted like she didn’t even exist! And he… well, she… wasn’t going to just stand there grinning like an idiot, letting these nerds wipe the floor with her.

‘Alright, pull yourself together, Alex. You’re still a dude… technically… Just… wearing a skirt. And… with tits. Fuck… these… heavy-ass tits…’

Part 4

— Yeah, looks like her “blonde mode” kicked in again. Couldn’t string three sentences together this morning. But hey, Tiffani always finds a way to entertain the crowd, — Britney put extra emphasis on the last word, winking at Cassie.

CLICK!

The crowd burst out laughing again. Tiffani could feel the heat rush to her face, her head buzzing with a panicked thought: ‘They’re talking about me like I’m not even here! What the actual…’

She straightened up sharply, pushing down the irritation, and felt her tits bounce from the sudden movement as she lifted her chin proudly. The thin bra straps she’d been ignoring dug uncomfortably into her shoulders, and somehow, that only fired her up more — she had to prove she wasn’t some dumb broad, but a smart middle-aged man who just got caught up in this crap.

— Uh, girls? — Tiffani slapped her thigh loudly on purpose, stretching her lips into a stupid, cocky grin. — Maybe you should like… give me a book too? So I can… uhh… be just as… educated around here? — she stumbled a little, tripping over the fakeness of her own voice, but decided to ride it out.

CLICK!

The crowd laughed, someone whistled hysterically, and in that moment, Alex didn’t just feel like an idiot — he felt the humiliation crawl down his back like cold sweat, and the fabric of the T-shirt stuck uncomfortably to his skin.

Cassie looked at her again, this time studying her more closely, like a professor inspecting a lab rat.

— Tiffani, to get a book you’d need to at least master words with two syllables, — she stated calmly, then turned to Britney with a smile and added: — Let’s go, we’ve got physics class. I can’t afford to lose brain cells from the local… acoustic pollution.

CLICK!

They walked off, leaving Tiffani standing alone in the hallway, watching them go, thinking about how much she hated them, how they thought she was dumb, how she’d show them all, she’d show them…

But the farther the girls walked away, the clearer her mind became — she didn’t really want to "show them." She wasn’t even Tiffani for real, all of this was fake.

Alex could literally feel his brain, smothered by the absurd sitcom haze, slowly regaining control.

He wasn’t Tiffani. He was Alex Gromov, an engineer, a man who never in his worst nightmares imagined himself squeezed into a tight white T-shirt with his tits spilling out, or wearing a pink cherry-print skirt riding up with every awkward step.

Part 5

CLICK!

Alex didn’t even have time to blink before he found himself in a new location. His eyes flew open on instinct, and he — no, Tiffani — suddenly realized he was standing in… a library?

Wait… no…

Sure, it looked like a library, but everything around screamed “Instagram backdrop” — neat shelves with perfectly arranged books, wooden panels, a fake fireplace with decorative logs… And of course, soft lighting to make your hair shine and your skin glow.

But the worst part was what he was wearing.

Tiffani looked down and… ‘You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!’ — Alex’s voice echoed in his head.

She had on a light green dress with a tiny floral pattern, held up by thin straps barely clinging to her shoulders like they were ready to slide off at any second. The dress hugged her tits and waist, flowing down in a light wave, but still short enough that Alex — or Tiffani — instinctively yanked the hem down, feeling her exposed shoulders and thighs blatantly displayed for everyone to see.

‘Great… now I’m in a dress like… not even gonna finish that thought…’ — he muttered darkly, glancing around the library.

Everything was too perfect, too symmetrical. The bookshelves — straight as a ruler. The fireplace — fake, with plastic logs and painted flames. The wooden wall panels — polished smooth, straight from a studio catalog.

‘This isn’t a library… it’s a damn set!’ — Alex scowled, feeling the long hair brushing his shoulders, tickling his skin.

He took a step, trying to walk confidently, despite the awkward bounce of his tits and the annoying bra straps digging into his skin.

The remote. He had to find the remote.

But there was no sign of it — just shelves, sofas, and stage decorations.

Alex approached one of the shelves, reaching out to grab the first book he saw. The cover was ridiculously glossy, bright, with a dumb title: “Geometry for Girls: Make Your Angles as Sharp as Your Eyeliner!”

Alex’s eyes widened — clearly, that was supposed to be funny, because immediately the CLICK! rang out.

The canned laughter echoed through the library, like someone once again thought his every move was entertainment.

— Oh for fuck’s sake… — Alex cursed, flipping the book open. His eyes quickly scanned the text.

Part 6

“To find the area of a triangle, first pick the cutest angle, then draw a heart around the hypotenuse and imagine it’s your ex…”

Alex froze, staring at the absurd lines on the page.

— What the… — he flipped through the book. It was the same nonsense everywhere — meaningless, idiotic garbage, like a textbook written straight out of some teenage rom-com script.

— The perfect area is the space under the moonlight… on your perfect date! — he read out loud, and once again — CLICK!

The crowd laughed. Alex slammed the book shut, grinding his teeth. His whole body trembled from everything, but especially from that dumb, canned laughter.

— So? Getting inspired by all that nerd wisdom? — a familiar male voice suddenly spoke behind him, right before two strong hands wrapped around his shoulders.

Alex flinched, feeling the firm grip and that unmistakable masculine scent — a mix of sports body wash and minty chewing gum. He turned and saw Rick.

Tall, ripped, perfectly styled blond hair, a smile bright enough to light up a stadium, and that look… full of dumb, overconfident tenderness.

According to the show — the captain of the football team and, worst of all, Tiffani’s boyfriend.

— Dude, back off— — Alex started to say, but Tiffani’s voice turned his angry warning into a high-pitched, whiny — Duuude, baaaack off… — and it came out sounding more like playful flirting than rejection.

CLICK!

The crowd giggled, someone clapped, and someone off-stage yelled — Give him a chance, babe!

Of course, Rick took it exactly the wrong way. He leaned in closer, his chest almost pressed against Tiffani’s back, warm breath brushing her ear, hands squeezing gently on her shoulders.

— Hey, babe, don’t pout — he smirked, running his finger along her neck. — You know you can’t stay mad at a stud like me… — he winked boldly, not even giving her a second to respond.

Alex groaned inside, pure despair flooding his mind. He could feel Tiffani’s body reacting — goosebumps spreading across her skin, her tits squeezed under the tight dress, her stomach knotting with some weird warmth.

— Listen, Rick, I… uhh… I… — He tried to pull his thoughts together, but his tongue fumbled, Rick’s name slipping out as his brain scrambled, and her face stretched into a dumb, flirty smile all by itself.

— Like… I’m actually a serious girl… — Tiffani mumbled, feeling everything inside her shrivel from the sound of her own voice.

CLICK!

The crowd went wild — cheering, clapping, squealing.

Part 7

Rick chuckled, pressing in closer, his arms wrapping around her waist, and Alex could clearly feel her tits lift slightly from the movement under the dress. With every breath, it felt like the dress would slip right off her shoulders, the thin straps digging in uncomfortably, the light fabric brushing against her skin.

— Serious? — Rick laughed. — You? Babe, you’re way too cute to be serious… — and before Alex could say a word, Rick was already gently pressing his lips to hers.

Inside, Alex exploded with protest. His mind screamed — Stop! No! What the fuck?! — but Tiffani’s lips — plump, soft, glossy — parted on their own. A strange, sticky warmth washed over him. His knees went weak, arms hanging uselessly by his sides.

CLICK!

The crowd squealed with excitement — clapping, cheering, shouting — So hot! — They’re perfect!

Alex could feel his consciousness dissolving into this idiotic sitcom. Her tits pressed into Rick’s solid chest, her lips trembling, her stomach twisting from a ridiculous cocktail of disgust, panic, and growing desire that didn’t feel like his own.

Tiffani’s arms wrapped around him tighter, her tongue slipping into his mouth, and Rick obviously took it as a green light. His hands confidently slid lower, grabbing her thighs and ass through the thin fabric of her dress, making Alex’s insides twist with awkwardness and panic.

But the worst part — her body — that cursed body of Tiffani’s — reacted on its own, following some stupid sitcom script: heat spreading across her skin, her Breasts rising heavily with each breath, legs barely holding her up.

‘God, what a fucking disaster…’ — raced through Alex’s head as Rick’s tongue pushed deeper, his hands gripping her thighs, the dress riding higher, exposing her skin to the cool air. The slippery, light fabric bunched up, the thin straps on her shoulders threatening to slide off completely.

And then…

strange music starts playing

The crowd fell silent, holding their breath, while Tiffani couldn’t break the kiss, though she noticed something was wrong.

The library door creaked open, and standing in the doorway… was the Principal.

Part 8

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a perfectly slicked-back hairstyle, a striped shirt, and an absolutely ridiculous tie covered in flying owls. His face — a mix of constant irritation and fake friendliness, like every secondary character in a sitcom.

— Tiffani Blake! Rick Sanchez! — the voice rang out strictly.

Sure, the voice sounded more cartoonishly strict than genuinely authoritative, but Alex flinched all over, shoving Rick away.

The dress was hitched up almost to her thigh, the straps slipping off, her Tits nearly spilling out of the neckline.

CLICK!

The crowd burst into laughter, someone clapped.

— I… Umm… This is… — Tiffani fumbled to pull down the dress, feeling the smooth fabric sticking to her skin, her Breasts heaving with every breath. — We were… uhh… discussing geometry! — she blurted, cringing inside from how dumb that sounded.

CLICK!

The crowd laughed harder.

The Principal furrowed his brow, eyeing her over his glasses:

— In that outfit? With those methods? You want me to call your… mom… again? — he paused pointedly on the word “mom,” making the situation sound even more ridiculous.

CLICK!

The crowd giggled.

‘Mom?! What the hell…’ — Alex froze, biting his lip, tasting the sticky gloss, his cheeks burning hot. He was a grown man — thirty-six years old — what mom, what school?! But in this stupid show, Tiffani was just a high school girl, always in trouble, with a stereotypical housewife mom full of constant drama.

— No-no, like… no need for that… — she rushed to say, shaking her head, her hair falling over her shoulders, tickling her skin. — I’m just… way too… hot for boring classes, you know? — Tiffani threw out her signature cocky but dumb excuse, and inside Alex wanted to die from pure shame.

CLICK!

The crowd squealed, someone shouted:

— Bring the heat, Tiff!

Part 9

The Principal sighed heavily, shaking his head in disapproval:

— And you, Rick… — he shot the football captain a long, judging look — Mixing up the library with a date spot again? This… isn’t your locker room, Mr. Sanchez.

Alex — or rather, Tiffani — felt her face flush with heat. Her dress still hitched up, shoulders exposed, Tits heaving, the straps barely hanging on.

But worse — he caught himself… defending Rick.

— Hey, like… — Tiffani tilted her chin up, her lips quivered, her voice turning all high-pitched and annoyingly flirty on its own. — Maybe… umm… you shouldn’t be so hard on Rick, he’s… he’s, like… totally hot… — the last words slipped out like swallowing a cactus, but worse — her body reacted, goosebumps down her spine, her eyes sliding shamelessly over Rick’s broad chest.

CLICK!

The crowd screamed with excitement. Someone yelled:

— Tiffani, you’re such a cutie!

Alex nearly groaned out loud from the embarrassment.

‘Fuck, what the hell am I saying… What is this fucking show… Why… Why the hell am I looking at him like some lovesick idiot…’

Alex’s thoughts spun like laundry in a washing machine, while Tiffani’s lips already stretched into a smug, playful smirk.

The Principal sighed, rolling his eyes:

— Charming defense, Miss Blake. Just brilliant. But next time, please keep your geometry… and your chemistry… strictly academic.

CLICK!

The crowd laughed again. Rick smirked smugly, wrapping his arm around Tiffani’s waist. Alex wanted to pull away, to scream — but the body… the damn body relaxed, and that weird warmth curled through her stomach again.

‘I hate this… I hate this…’ — but deep inside, every second that “hate” was getting quieter, while that sticky, ridiculous, absurd feeling of infatuation tightened its grip on his mind.

— Let’s go, babe — Rick whispered into her ear, and Alex could feel his own lips whispering back on autopilot:

— Only for you, handsome…

CLICK!

The wave of laughter and applause filled the library, as Alex — now Tiffani Blake, the dumb but irresistibly hot blonde — slowly realized… there was no way out of this madness.

How to Meet Girls in the Library?

Goddamn, it’s so quiet in here that it feels like the silence is almost tangible. No, seriously. It’s like you dove into water, but instead of water there’s this empty smell and, from time to time, faint rustling, sniffing, and the sound of pages turning. Dead boredom. I’d never come here of my own free will.

*bzzz

My phone made a soft vibration sound, and I immediately caught the stare of one of the old men—probably some professor from my university. There were more of them here than flies on my grandpa’s farm. He looked over his glasses at me like I’d just spit on the first page of the book he was reading. I quickly checked the notification, realized it was just another spam message, and pretended nothing had happened, shifting my gaze back to the shelves where she was sitting.

To be honest, I didn’t even know her name yet. Well, I did know it, but I wasn’t sure it would help me in any way. I mean, it would be kind of weird to walk up to a stranger and say, “Hi, I’m Mike, and are you Alice or Elizabeth or just Ellie? I’ve been watching you for a while, and once I heard someone call you that. So is that your name, Ellie?” Yeah, that would be a total failure right from the start.

I shifted in my chair, and the traitorous creak of it scraping against the floor spread even louder across the entire reading room. Even she twitched a little, or… did it just seem that way to me? I didn’t have time to think before I heard a cough from that “professor,” or whatever he was. Obviously, that was aimed at me.

I was already about to say something, but I reminded myself why I was here and shifted my gaze back to her, afraid of catching some kind of judging look. But no. She was still sitting there in her beige cardigan thrown over a cream-colored blouse that hugged her lush breasts so damn sexily.

“Calm down. Don’t stare.”

I looked away for a second, but my thoughts stubbornly kept coming back to her. To how focused she was while reading. To how she would occasionally nudge her glasses up with a finger without even lifting her eyes from the page. God, I want her so bad. Ugh! No, that’s not the right word. Though in that sense, yeah, I want her too. What I mean is—just look at her, she’s pure perfection! Modest, smart, and with a body and a face like that! And most importantly—she doesn’t have a boyfriend! Can you imagine? She’s a walking jackpot!

Phew… Calm down. Calm down. Just don’t fuck everything up if you’ve already decided to introduce yourself, Mike, okay?

Okay… Great. Now I’m talking to myself. But then again, what else am I supposed to do? Still, I really should go up to her. Only… how do you even approach someone like that?

Ask about the book? No, that’s stupid. Say, “Wow, you’re reading that? Cool, I’m a fan too”? Ugh, I can already hear the cracking sound under my feet as I fall flat on my face in that moment. Maybe I could just pretend I lost something and I’m looking for it between the shelves? Yeah, sure, I’ll say: “Sorry, you wouldn’t happen to have seen my self-esteem lying around here? I think I dropped it somewhere near you.”

Shit. All of it is shit. I just need to be myself. No. Actually, the opposite—be cool. Yeah. Shy girls like her always go for bad boys. It’s a classic.

I looked at her again. She turned the page, frowned slightly, and the tip of her tongue touched her upper lip for a second—but to me it felt like she didn’t touch her lip at all, but my erogenous zone in that moment. I had to sharply look away and close my eyes before my heart jumped out of my chest.

Fuck.

— Calm down, — I whispered to myself. — Bad boy. Yeah… That’s our choice.

I stood up. This time without pauses, without rehearsing in my head. I just stood up and walked, like I had every right to. The shelves parted, the floor softly answered my steps, and with every meter a strange feeling grew inside me, like I wasn’t walking toward her, but toward a point of no return.

— Hi, — I said in a low voice, trying to give it a slight rasp. — You look like this reading room is your territory. Like a lioness in her pride.

She didn’t lift her gaze right away. First she slowly finished the line, then carefully marked the page with her finger, and only then looked at me. Over her glasses. Her eyebrows lifted slightly, and on her face there was no surprise—just a cold statement of fact: “another dumbfuck.”

— Lioness? — she quietly repeated, not changing her tone, — The zoo is three blocks away. This is a library.

I swallowed. My mouth suddenly felt empty.

— Just… — I smirked, hoping it looked bold and not like a nervous tic. — You don’t see someone every day who looks like they own the place.

She closed her eyes for a second, as if deciding whether to kick me out right away or first take me apart morally, piece by piece.

— Own the place, — she repeated slowly. Then she opened her eyes and looked straight at me. — Maybe you should just leave.

I froze for a moment, feeling everything inside tighten, warm sweat breaking out between my shoulder blades. But no. Leaving was definitely not an option. A bad boy doesn’t leave when he’s told to fuck off. A bad boy grins even wider.

— Leave? — I tilted my head slightly, looking down at her. — Seems to me like you’re bored. Sitting here for hours, flipping pages, and around you there’s nothing but dust and old men snoring over newspapers. At least I brought… some excitement.

She slowly took off her glasses, wiped them with the edge of her cardigan, and put them back on. Her gaze became even colder.

— Either you leave right now, — she began, — or I’ll ban you from this place forever.

The word forever clicked somewhere in my head, like a switch. I smirked, trying to hide the fact that everything inside was shaking.

— Wow, — I drawled. — Straight to a lifetime ban? Maybe you could at least tell me your name? Or no, wait. I’ll guess. Alice, right?

“Fuck, Mike, what the hell?! You didn’t want to give away that you know her name!”

She didn’t even blink. Not once. She just stared. Only the corner of her lips twitched slightly, showing not a smile, but something more unpleasant, like a mix of disappointment and fatigue.

— No, — she said calmly. — Not Alice.

A pause. Too short and too dense.

— And you just told me that you listen to conversations that have nothing to do with you.

“Fuck. Fuck-fuck-fuck.”

The “bad boy” plan was starting to crack, but I stubbornly clung to my grin like a life buoy.

— Oh, come on, — I spread my hands. — I was just passing by. My name’s Mike, by the way.

— I don’t care what your name is, — she cut me off instantly. — And I don’t care where you were “passing by.” You’re interrupting my work.

She spoke evenly, coldly, confidently, and for a moment I felt like a naughty schoolboy standing in front of a kindergarten teacher.

— Work? — I snorted. — You’re just reading.

She slowly exhaled through her nose, like she was counting to three so she wouldn’t say too much.

— I am working, — she repeated. — And you—

— Okay, okay, okay! I was joking, all right, — I interrupted her, frantically grabbing the first book I could reach from the shelf. — I just… here. See? I’m actually here for a reason.

She looked at the cover. Then at me. Then back at the cover.

— “Ancient Incan Rituals and Human Sacrifices”? — she asked in a way that made it clear that, in her mind, me and this book could never exist in the same room.

— Well… yeah, — I shrugged, trying to look confident and opening the book, pretending I knew what I was looking for. — Here. It’s… somewhere around here.

She silently watched my fingers quickly flip through the pages while I tried to look smart. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her left eyebrow lift, and I didn’t yet know how to take that, but I knew one thing—I wasn’t going to make a better move than this.

— Put it back, Mike.

— No-no, — I waved her off, feeling sweat bead at my temples. — I just want to show I didn’t come up for no reason. Look… here.

I jabbed my finger into a paragraph, trying not to look at her. My heart was pounding like I was standing in front of the dean again after a dorm party.

— This is… uh… about the connection between generations, — I started, stumbling over my words. — Like, or rather, about perception culture and— Anyway, listen.

— Stop it, — she said sharply. — You’re—

But I was already reading.

— Imbra, durka bur…

The words—or rather, their transcriptions—I was reading seemed to hook into me. I only wanted to read a few and stop, but the further I went, the stronger the urge to keep going spread inside me, like every word was hitting my dopamine receptors harder and harder.

At some point—or at least it felt that way—everything around me went dark. There was only me, the book, and her, who also seemed to freeze. No, she definitely froze with her mouth open, like she was saying something.

— Bara, brandaka…

My voice spread through the hall with a strange echo, like I wasn’t speaking with my mouth, but through a speaker hidden somewhere under the ceiling. I flinched at the sound myself, but I couldn’t stop anymore.

Everything around me seemed to slide backward. The shelves grew farther away, the ceiling higher, and the silence thicker. I felt warmth rising from inside, spreading across my chest, my stomach, my thighs.

— Bira, dur. BARA!

I finished by shouting the last word in a voice unnaturally high for me, like my vocal cords suddenly gave out without warning. In that moment everything around flashed with a bright white burst, and I, as if only then realizing how strange all this was, squeezed my eyes shut.

For a split second the world disappeared—no floor under my feet, no air in my lungs. There was only ringing in my ears and the feeling like I’d been spun sharply around my own axis, like a page in a book.

Then, almost immediately, everything came back: the solid ground under my feet, and even that library silence, which once again became tangible. Only… something was wrong.

— Are you okay? — I heard her voice, which this time sounded completely different, with a note of genuine concern, and much closer.

Her face was too close. So close that I could see the tiniest details—the small mole near her temple, the reflection of the lamps in her glasses, the tense crease between her brows. I instinctively jerked back… and immediately realized I did it not the way I used to.

My center of gravity was different, something heavy swayed on my chest, and the heels—fuck them—slid on the floor, and I barely kept my balance, flailing my arms.

Wait. What? Heels?

— WHAT THE FUCK!? — I screamed, dropping my gaze down and seeing a massive neckline with a deep cut of a burgundy blouse. Breasts—or rather, huge soft watermelons, heavy as fuck, soft, jiggling like jelly and noticeably bigger than any girl’s I’d ever seen in real life—rose and fell in time with my ragged breathing.

I reflexively tried to cover myself with my hands, but immediately realized I only made it worse: the blouse stretched even tighter, the fabric springily resisting, emphasizing what was already impossible to hide.

— Quiet! — the girl because of whom I was even here, and whom I’d completely forgotten in that moment, whispered in my ear and immediately pressed a finger to my lips when I looked at her. — Are you always like this?

Some kind of playful smile appeared on her face.

My heart was pounding, my breathing was uneven, and I sharply felt every movement of my own body—how my ass swayed with every breath, how long hair brushed my neck, and how my ankles tensed from the strain of the heels.

— I… — I started, but stopped short when I heard my own voice, which sounded soft and gentle. — I’m not…

— Shh, — she pressed a finger to my lips again, this time dropping her gaze lower, to my cleavage. — Hotties as you need to be more careful…

I swallowed.

— I’m not… — I tried again, and stumbled again. The voice came out smooth, soft, not mine. — I actually—

— Tss, — she leaned closer, but now she was looking straight into my eyes. — So, what did you say your name was?

— Sabrina, I told you, — I started, — I mean no. I’m Sabrina. Bri. Ugh! I mean, fuck, why can’t I say my own name?

She tilted her head slightly, watching closely as I got tangled in my own words.

— My name is Lina, — she began softly, pausing for exactly long enough to make me hold my breath without meaning to, — You’re very funny, Bri.

— Hey! Keep it down over there! This is a library, for god’s sake! — a loud old man’s voice rang out behind my back, making me flinch—and instantly regret it, because this body reacted way too much. My Breasts swung forward, heels clicked sharply against the floor, and some strangled sound slipped out of my throat, completely not mine. A few heads immediately lifted above the tables. Someone’s glasses flashed in our direction.

— Oh… — I breathed out, instinctively trying to sound quiet, but still way too high-pitched.

— Sorry, Mr. Barson, — Lina stepped in before I could force out anything coherent. Her voice was calm, polite, almost exemplary. — We won’t disturb anyone anymore.

— I hope so, — the old man grumbled without lifting his eyes from the newspaper. — Young ladies shouldn’t behave like that… — he vaguely waved his hand in our direction, — especially in a library.

I felt my ears burn. And my cheeks. And basically my whole face, all the way to the roots of my hair.

Ladies.

He said ladies.

— Come on, — Lina whispered, taking me by the arm and leading me somewhere behind the shelves, — my office is there, we can talk there.

— Your… what? — I said, stumbling and clicking my heels like a drunk party girl after a club, following her.

— Office, — Lina repeated calmly without even turning around, then added, pressing closer to me and smiling wide. — I’m in charge here. Didn’t I mention that?

Her shoulder brushed against my Breasts, and I felt that cursed weight again, that swaying that made me want to both hide and disappear. I immediately stumbled, but Lina held me up.

— Careful, — Lina said quietly, not slowing her pace. — Is this your first time in heels? — she stopped suddenly and looked straight into my eyes, — Did you dress up just for me?

— I… no… — the words got tangled again. I hated it. — It’s not… I didn’t dress up.

Lina was still holding me by the waist. Confidently. Like she had every right to. Her gaze slid down, then back up, and I literally felt like a piece of meat on a counter. That only made it worse.

— Mmm, — she drew out with a wide smile that clearly showed disbelief, — okay, okay.

— I. Lina. I. There was a book. I need to put everything back, I need to… — at that moment her hand slid lower, onto my ass, and she squeezed it sharply, so a short, startled breath burst from my throat—but my fucking nipples pulled tight against the lace bra and pushed out as two hard bumps under the blouse. I instinctively arched, trying to pull away, but that movement only made my Breasts sway again, heavy, full, and Lina gave a quiet chuckle, clearly noticing the bumps on my tits.

— Wow, — she almost sang, not removing her hand. — I think I’m already in love.

— In lo… in love?

My breath caught. God. This is what I wanted, right? Right? Or not? Or yes… fuck… what am I supposed to do?

Strange app - page 18 (Updated)

Hurry up, Virgin Fred!

Back to Twenty, Stuck at Forty-Two

—…By evening a sharp cold snap and heavy rain are expected, so the umbrella will become the best friend of the city’s residents today, — the anchorwoman droned monotonously from the screen, as always making elegant steps in her tight pencil skirt while her full, heavy breasts swayed gently under the impeccably tailored blazer, drawing the eye far more strongly than any storm fronts on the weather map.

Mike didn’t blink right away, holding the smoldering cigarette in his hand. His gaze was glued to those two enormous hemispheres that, damn it, always — always — made his brain switch to completely different pictures, having nothing to do with the weather, imagining how those very hemispheres would look without the blazer, without the bra, just bare, heavy, and squeezing his cock between them, sliding smoothly back and forth. Back… forth…

“How the hell does she even walk with those things? How does she sleep? It’s just fucking horrifying, not a life at all,” flashed through his head once again, and then, with a slight delay, the second thought arrived: “She’s probably just a dumb bitch and thinks it’s beautiful.”

The air in the apartment reeked of tobacco and warm beer, but would you even notice that when the whole smell is your own handiwork — especially when you suddenly remembered a few minutes ago why you used to watch the weather forecast, but completely forgot about it in the process.

The sound of the front door opening echoed and reached Mike, making him flinch — the ash that had barely been clinging to the cigarette broke off and fell straight onto his thigh.

— Shit! — burst out of Mike.

He jerked, trying to brush the ash off the tender smooth skin of his leg, but immediately cursed everything in the world. From the sharp movement his breasts heaved heavily, stretching the bra so hard that the underwire dug into the skin, and the unruly hemispheres started wobbling like fucking jelly, pulling the skin in different directions.

— Goddamn it… — he breathed out quietly, suddenly feeling that already familiar and at the same time still strange mixture of shame and… fear? No, more like anger that he didn’t want to show right now, didn’t want to look weak, trying to make everything be like before.

From the hallway came the rustle again — someone was taking off a jacket, tossing keys onto the console table. Mike turned his head toward the doorway, furrowed his brow, and took another drag.

— Kate! — a hoarse voice called from the hallway. A voice that just three months ago had belonged to him, and now sounded in such a way that Mike wanted to just cover his ears and disappear.

“Kate. And why the fuck did she decide to call me Kate right now? Is she not alone? Then what the hell, why didn’t she warn me? And anyway, I never gave her permission to bring guests here, so…”

In the doorway appeared a tall, slightly stooped figure in his old jacket, with short dark hair carelessly slicked back and with that very facial expression Mike knew far too well from when he used to look in the mirror after work. Fatigue, irritation, and an attempt to look confident even when everything inside is boiling.

— What the fuck have you been smoking in here?! — Kate asked, raising her voice so sharply that Mike flinched again and shrank a little, almost knocking over the bottle with a sudden movement of his hand. — And drinking too! Have you completely fucking lost it?!

Mike slowly lowered the cigarette, pressed his lips together and looked up at her from below — the same way he used to look up at the foreman when the guy started giving pointless lectures.

— First of all, don’t fucking yell, — he hissed through clenched teeth, trying to keep his face straight. — And second, I’m home. I have the right.

Kate snorted and stepped closer, stopping right in front of the couch.

— Home? — she gave a short, mocking laugh. — You’re sitting there almost naked, with beer and a cigarette, and you’re telling me about “having the right”?

— Yes. Don’t forget who slaved their whole life away so you could—

Mike cut himself off right on the word “study” and his old familiar “live without denying yourself anything” and sharply turned away toward the window.

Long hair immediately tickled his neck and collarbones, making him irritably jerk his shoulder.

— Get dressed, for God’s sake! You’re a girl, — Kate finished, crossing her arms over her chest exactly the way Mike always used to do when he wanted to put an end to an argument.

Kate knew exactly how to hurt him. She knew far too well. But she hadn’t said it on purpose this time, even though to Mike it felt deliberate — it came more from the accumulated rage toward her boss and coworkers who pissed her off more and more every day, and whom she had to be “Mike” around.

He slowly turned his head back, narrowed his eyes and looked at her from under his brows, feeling everything inside burning with shame and irritation that immediately betrayed itself on his flushed cheeks.

— A girl… — he smirked, trying to say it roughly, but it came out somehow more cartoonish than threatening. — So you’re the big strong daddy now?

Kate flinched as if she’d been slapped. For a second she even looked lost, then her jaw clenched and her shoulders squared even more — like she’d automatically slipped back into that exact role she was exhausted from all day.

— Don’t twist it, — she cut him off sharply. — That’s not what I meant. I mean that you… — she raked him with her eyes from head to toe, not bothering to hide it. — You look like a whore after a shift, dad!

Mike didn’t immediately understand what had just happened. Something heavy sank and settled in his chest like a lead weight, and without thinking he pressed his knees tightly together and dropped his gaze, exactly the way Kate used to do in those moments when he himself had scolded her over little things like short skirts and cleavage.

—…and the Chicago Bulls lost again in the closing minutes today, — the announcer filled the sudden silence indifferently from the screen, as if nothing more important than a lost game had happened in this room.

That phrase, arriving completely out of place and out of time, snapped Mike back to reality and he suddenly became painfully aware that he was sitting on the couch, back straight, head lowered, hands resting on his pressed-together knees, feeling as though his whole body had frozen.

— There we go, good, — Kate said in a pleased voice, not hiding her surprise at the change. — Now get dressed properly and make me dinner, for fuck’s sake — you’re still living here and not moving into a dorm.

Mike’s eyes slowly, but very widely, opened.

— Dinner? — he repeated quietly, almost in a whisper, not hiding his anger even a little anymore — You’re seriously talking about dinner right now?

Kate sighed, ran a hand through her short hair and sank down onto the arm of the couch, trying not to look straight at him for too long.

— Listen… this job… — she began, trying to sound peaceful and without sarcasm, — I’m on my feet all day, dealing with all these people who drive me insane. Again digging through paperwork I don’t want to understand and never wanted to. And that goddamn Jack fucking McCormick, may the devil take him… — she waved her hand dismissively, — Seriously. You’re home all day anyway, it’s not that hard.

He lowered his gaze to his knees, to his clasped fingers. In his head floated the memory of how he himself used to say almost the exact same words — short, without explanations, absolutely certain that this was how it should be.

— I’m not home all day, — he said finally, — I was at college.

Kate rolled her eyes and leaned back, bracing her palms on the armrest.

— I know what goes on at college, — she said tiredly, but with that clear edge of superiority that used to piss her off when it came from him. — There was just one lecture. Sociology or something like that. I’m sure you didn’t even stay for the seminar afterward, just bailed the second you got the chance.

Mike felt his cheeks flare up again. He really had left early — he couldn’t stand how his classmates stared at him, how the girls kept whispering and giggling about “Kate’s weirdness,” how that fucking nerd Kevin would shyly look away the moment Mike accidentally turned his gaze in his direction.

Mike stayed silent — it seemed almost too long — but that silence spoke louder than any speech from the most eloquent prosecutor.

— There you go, — Kate huffed, then stood up and opened the window. — That’s it, Kate. This is your last warning. Pull this shit one more time and we’ll talk differently.

She leaned her palms on the windowsill, staring out into the courtyard as if gathering her thoughts. Mike stayed sitting perfectly straight, but now he could feel the tension slowly sliding downward — into his stomach, his knees, his feet. He finally exhaled.

— Differently — how exactly? — he asked without lifting his head.

Kate spun around sharply.

— Stop playing the dumb little bitch already, — she said clearly. — Three months. And what? Nothing. And I’m sure we’re not going to find anything. We’re stuck like this so…

She dropped her head, feeling a tear welling up in her eye, and strained with all her might not to let it fall. It was almost funny — in Mike’s body, crying felt like something unacceptable, something weak, as if the body itself had installed a hard emergency brake. She sucked in air deeply, sharply — the way he used to do after rough shifts.

— We’re stuck, — she repeated more quietly. — And I’m tired of pretending this is temporary.

Mike slowly raised his head.

— Kate… — he began. — Everything will be fi—

— Not Kate. Dad, — she said sternly, and for some reason pulled a stupid smile onto her face as she stepped away from the windowsill and walked toward the wardrobe.

Mike opened his mouth to say something, but while he was gathering his thoughts, something pink flew onto his lap, followed almost instantly by something blue.

A spaghetti-strap top and leggings.

— Put them on, — Kate said, already turning toward the door. — These are my favorites… I mean, yours… ah, fuck it, whatever, — she stepped sharply over the threshold and disappeared.

Mike stayed sitting. The pink top and blue leggings lay awkwardly bunched on his knees, as if they hadn’t been thrown as clothes but as a verdict. Cool air drifted in from the open window — the curtain swayed gently, carrying away the tobacco smell and the lingering bitterness of beer. The alcohol was working softly, dulling the edges of his thoughts, making everything just a little slower than usual.

He stared at the clothes for a full minute, but when another irritated rustle came from the next room, he quickly pulled everything on anyway. He stood up, feeling how the leggings fabric clung tightly to his thighs and stretched with every movement. He adjusted the slipped bra strap, trying not to look down at his own cleavage any more than necessary.

Another dissatisfied rustle came from the next room — drawers opening, footsteps, a short sharp exhale. Mike winced, tugged the hem of the top straight and headed for the door.

— I… — he started as he stepped into the hallway, and faltered.

Kate was standing by the wardrobe, back to him, already changing out of her work clothes. She didn’t turn immediately, and when she finally did, her gaze slid over him — too quickly and… somehow normal?

— Good girl, — she said after a short pause. — At least now you don’t look like a challenge to the whole fucking stairwell.

Mike pressed his lips together, nodded and looked away.

— I’ll go to the kitchen, — he muttered. — Make something.

Kate didn’t answer. She just turned back to the wardrobe. And he walked away, feeling with every step that he was moving farther and farther from who he used to be.

The Peasant Prince - Episode 3

WARNING: EXPLICIT ADULT MATERIAL

This content is intended for adults only and may include sexually explicit descriptions, language and/or adult themes.

You must be at least 18 years old (21 in some jurisdictions) to access this content.

If you are under 18 (or under the age of majority in your location), or if viewing adult material is prohibited in your country/community — leave this page immediately.

All depicted scenes involve only individuals who are 18 years of age or older and all activities are portrayed as fully consensual.

...

PDF, Word version and Caps in PDF — in attachment

Everything is also duplicated on Discord in the corresponding channel

Anti-Tolerant Boyfriend

— And… now a little to the left, yeah, just like that, — drawled Dustin, scratching his short beard and clicking the shutter of his camera. His way of talking, with that slow, lazy smoothness, was already getting on Marcus’s nerves.

Marcus stood to the right, shoulders squared, pulling in his stomach, glaring at the photographer from under his sunglasses. His massive chains nearly clinked against his chest as he adjusted his t-shirt.

— Hey, take it easy with your 'left-right' bullshit, — he muttered through clenched teeth, watching Dustin carefully study the pose of the girl beside him.

That girl — Alexis. Just three years ago, her name was Alexander Reed. A successful mogul, co-owner of an investment fund, father of two kids, and a walking nightmare for competitors. And now… she carefully adjusted the strap of her denim overall, and her tits, heavy and damn tight, lifted slightly.

Alexis tilted her head just a little, giving the camera a playful half-smile. She had learned that long ago — presenting herself like everything around was a game, even though inside, strange excitement and anger bubbled together.

— Come on, sweetie, smile too, — Dustin kept going, cracking his knuckles and snapping a few more shots like his camera was firing a machine gun.

Marcus frowned. Somehow, that little suggestion from the photographer hit him in exactly the wrong way, touching some raw nerve inside.

— Who the fuck did you just call sweetie, you little rooster?! — Marcus squinted, his massive tattoo-covered fingers instinctively curling into a fist.

Dustin, tall, slim, with perfectly styled blond hair and that mocking sparkle in his blue eyes, tilted his head slightly, pretending not to notice the rapper's tense stance.

— Relax, Marcus, — he drawled, like chewing gum stretched from his mouth. — It's just words to loosen up. Alexis gets me, right, babe? — He playfully winked at the girl.

Alexis smiled a little wider, automatically adjusting the belt of her overall. The tight cups squeezed her tits, and every breath reminded her what she had become… and who she used to be. Her nipples could feel the fabric even through the thick denim.

Three years ago, she was Alexander Reed.

A wall of steel and money, a millionaire who crushed people at the negotiation table with just one look. But that deal… that fucking Professor Martinez… He promised youth, a second life, but in the end, gifted her with tits the size of melons, a doll-like waist, and constant desire. Desire that washed over her like a wave, especially when someone like Marcus was around.

Yeah, Marcus… now her boyfriend, a rapper from Atlanta, stage name L-RAW, pumped-up, cocky, with that raw macho energy so strong he had no clue who he was wrapping his arm around at night. And of course, he couldn’t stand 'all that shit,' just like Alexander Reed couldn’t back then… feminine mannerisms, gays, identity games.

— Let me explain to you real quick who the fuck you called sweetie, — Marcus took a step toward the photographer, the chains on his chest swinging. — I don’t like the shit you're saying.

— Hey, hey… guys, chill, — Alexis leaned forward, and the tight overall immediately stretched, emphasizing her tits. She felt it again, that heat, that trembling under her skin when the fabric slid over her new curves… How strange, she noted to herself, that it turned her on again… How this guy was protecting her, even though everything inside screamed against it, but it was hard to argue with her body.

She placed her hand on Marcus's forearm — so strong, heavy, like iron — as if trying to remember what it felt like to be a man… and how far that was now.

— Listen… — she started, her breath catching, her legs slightly giving out. She wanted to keep talking, but the words got stuck somewhere inside.

— Baby, don’t stress yourself, — Marcus’s voice suddenly got softer, but that only made it sound more dominant. His hand landed on her lower back, and Alexis shivered at the touch, almost instinctively pressing closer to him, feeling that craving again — the craving to have his cock between her legs. She pressed her lips together, desperately trying to keep her face straight, but inside everything boiled up again — contradiction, anger, that strange, sticky arousal. Ever since that night — the first night she woke up in this body — female, unfamiliar, sweet like fire — her body lived like it had a mind of its own.

— That’s it, girl… relax.

Alexis inhaled sharply through her nose, her face holding that light, practiced half-smile — for the camera, for the people around them. But inside… inside everything was tearing apart. She was turned on by this humiliation. That word "girl," especially coming from him in that condescending, dominant tone. It echoed in her head, a harsh contrast to the memory of who she used to be — Alexander Reed, the man who could fire, ruin, destroy someone with one phone call. And now…

Marcus gripped her tighter, his fingers digging into her waist.

Dustin raised the camera again.

— That’s it… gorgeous… Now kiss each other, — Dustin said, bringing the camera back to his face.

— Heh… now that’s more like it, — drawled Marcus, yanking Alexis by the waist, pulling her closer so her tits pressed against his solid chest, the chains rattled, and the smell of cologne and sweat wrapped around her.

Alexis instinctively leaned forward. Her body reacted on its own again, lips parting slightly, eyes half-closed, heart racing. She hated this. Hated that three years ago, she could humiliate guys like this rapper with one word. Alexander Reed — billionaire, business shark, feared on Wall Street. Sixty years of experience, influence, money. And now… now…

Now she was Alexis. Twenty-six years old. Brunette with tits that didn’t fit into any standard top. No capital. No connections. Everything burned to ashes in the first two years when she tried to build some kind of new life. Most of the money went to sex. She told herself it was to "distract herself," but her body… her body wanted something else. It wanted to be fucked, wanted to be held, squeezed, called "girl." And she still fucking loved it.

Girl's Dorm

Even though Stephanie had been living in this room for three months already, she still felt like a stranger here. Not because of the room itself — it was your standard dorm setup: faded walls, dim lighting, and the usual stink from the sink. She stood by the mirror in tiny lace panties, toothbrush in her mouth, hair in a messy bun, trying not to think about how her boobs jiggled with every movement of her hand. The toothbrush moved in her mouth on autopilot, but her gaze — clouded, angry — was fixed on her reflection. Neck too thin. Shoulders too narrow. No longer Josh Mason — a promising junior in the cybersecurity department. Now — a freshman, 18 years old, “transferred” from another campus, living in a girls' dorm under the name Stephanie Cole.

— Ugh... — she muttered under her breath and spat out the toothpaste. Her breasts, as always, pulled heavily at her chest. Even the slightest movement made them sway, a constant reminder of how different everything was now.

She gripped the toothbrush tighter. Foam dripped from her lips onto her boobs, instantly triggering a weird, disgustingly sensitive shiver in her nipples.

— Hey, Barbie — Lauren's voice from the hallway hit like a slap — you gonna keep fucking the mirror all day? I need to do my makeup.

Stephanie clenched her teeth. Ashley. A senior, her roommate. Tall, mean, with a cold smirk and tits straight out of a Victoria’s Secret ad. The second roommate — Brooke — wasn't any better. Also older, almost a graduate, always glued to her phone, TikTok playing in the background, and daily snide comments about the "new girl." And really, who wouldn't gossip when a tiny little cutie suddenly shows up as a freshman, clearly able to steal the guys’ attention without even trying.

— One minute! — Stephanie snapped, shooting one last angry glance at herself, furious at the sound of her own voice. A freshly washed face, slightly flushed cheeks, hair messily braided. Bare upper body... She sighed and grabbed a towel.

'What the hell was I thinking agreeing to this? — flashed through her mind. — "You’ll get to choose your body," they said. "You’ll be like Jason Momoa, sure, great choice." I can’t even look in the mirror without shame now...'

She remembered that day. Accidentally witnessing a gang shootout. Blood. Running. Then the deal with the cops. Her agreement — dumb, confident, boyish. “Yeah, sure, a new identity. I can pick any body?! That’s awesome!” And really, what did she have to lose? Josh’s life wasn’t terrible, but as an orphan and not the best-looking guy, things were always harder for him. And now, this chance!

Then either a database glitch, a tech guy’s prank, or just plain indifference. And here she was, waking up in this body. This pathetic, weak, female body. No way to undo it. With a new name — Stephanie Brooks. Everything else was just as promised — a new university for the same major, freshman year instead of junior (so it’d be easier to study, pick up girls, and party, or so Josh had thought), and of course, government support.

As soon as Stephanie grabbed the towel, she heard the click of the lock. The bathroom door swung open sharply, and Ashley barged in without knocking, wearing just a bra and shorts.

— Seriously?! — gasped Stephanie, instinctively covering herself. — Are you fucking insane?

Ashley walked in slowly, lazily giving Stephanie a once-over.

— Oh, don’t act like some innocent little girl. We’re all chicks here, chill out. Although... — she smirked. — Who knows what you used to be. You’re weird. You don’t even know how to wear a bra. Or do you just skip it on purpose?

Stephanie froze, clutching the towel tightly to her breasts, her cheeks burning with hot, angry shame. Yeah, that hit right where it hurt, but... that was before. Now, there was nothing left of Josh. Boobs, soft skin, narrow shoulders — and of course, periods. Those disgusting, vivid episodes every month, where her stomach twisted up for the whole day and nothing helped. And as if that wasn’t enough, she’d noticed even her orientation had changed. She kept catching herself looking at guys differently, and girls... girls stopped being attractive. They were just aesthetics now. Especially after three months of sharing a room with these bitches. She couldn’t even understand what used to be so appealing about them.

— Fuck you, — Stephanie whispered without looking, stepping sideways out of the cramped space.

Ashley didn’t move an inch. She lazily reached for the shelf above the mirror and started pulling out makeup, casually eyeing Stephanie from head to toe in the reflection.

— What, you on your period? — she snorted. — You’re way too bitchy this morning.

— None of your business, — she snapped back, walking out of the bathroom and nearly bumping into Brooke, who was standing by the door.

Brooke just smirked.

— Whoa-whoa-whoa! Easy there, Cyber-Barbie! Why so cranky this morning?!

— She's on her period, — Ashley threw in like it explained everything. Like a stamp. Like a fucking seal that meant you were fair game now — just a girl.

Brooke burst out laughing and stepped aside.

— God, I wonder if she’s gonna Google how to put in a tampon again this time? — Brooke laughed, her voice echoing down the hallway.

Stephanie froze. Her throat tightened like someone had slipped a collar around her neck. She didn’t even know what hurt more — the comment itself or the fact that it was… true. Because that’s exactly what had happened that first week. Pain, panic, blood — and all she got in return were flowery pads and useless instructions that made her sick. And of course, shame. Overwhelming, filthy, burning shame when she sat on the toilet with her phone typing: “how to use a tampon first time,” trying not to cry. And later, when she accidentally left her phone there, Ashley saw it.

Now, she just pressed her lips together and walked past them without saying a word. She knew if she tried to speak, her voice might crack. And if it cracked, they’d smell it. And these bitches just needed an excuse.

— Hey — Ashley’s voice followed — don’t forget to wear a bra, "cybersecurity genius." Your tits are bouncing like they’re trying to catch a Wi-Fi signal!

Laughter trailed after her. Stephanie slammed the door so hard behind her it made her ears ring.

She dropped onto the bed. Her whole body trembling.

'You’re strong. You took hand-to-hand combat courses. You could drink whiskey by the bottle. You... you’re a man, goddamn it!' — she would’ve screamed it, if it weren’t for her own reflection staring back at her from the mirror across the room.

It looked back at her with frightened eyes, with damp, pinkish skin and slightly parted lips. A cute face, very pretty even without makeup, and no anger — just confusion and pain. Like a hurt little girl.

— Bitches... — she whispered, reaching for her sports bra. She knew damn well it wasn’t necessary, but she was sick of the extra attention — from boys, professors, even other girls and older women. And honestly, it was just more comfortable, though she’d never admit that. Nearby lay those soft bras her roommates had gifted her, with frills and all kinds of girly crap, but she just grimaced and quickly looked away.

She put it on fast, not looking in the mirror, like that would somehow let her avoid admitting anything. But even the simple touch of fabric against her skin triggered that annoyingly feminine response — her nipples reacted immediately, like her body was reminding her who it belonged to now.

Her phone rang. The old one they gave her along with her “new life.” On the screen — a reminder to buy nail polish. She winced again. That was another story altogether. Because right now, her mind wasn’t on the reminder, but on the tiny hope that maybe this was a response to her request for a different body. Though deep down, she knew the chances were close to zero.

She stood up. Walked to the mirror. Laid her hands on her flat, small belly with smooth skin. So familiar now, even hers in a way — and jumped at the sound of Brooke’s voice ringing out behind the door:

— By the way, Stephanie, the girls and I are hitting that party at Cole’s tonight. You’ve got that cute top, right? Mind if I borrow it?

— Over my dead body — Stephanie replied flatly.

— Well, that’s negotiable! — Brooke giggled.

Stephanie looked at herself in the mirror. A girl’s face. A girl’s body. This was her. Now, her.

Stripper Curse

— Baby, please! This was all a mistake! — John squealed, staring at his wife Rita, shrinking his shoulders and trembling from the cold and pure terror. — I swear I’ll change! I’ve realized everything! I mean it!

His eyes darted between his wife and his tits, glancing from her to his chest and back again. The lace corset squeezed his ribs painfully tight, but even worse were those huge tits, jiggling and bouncing like they had a mind of their own no matter how hard he tried to control them. It was hopeless.

— Yeah, sure, I know… of course you’ll change, — Rita smirked, placing her hands on her hips, staring at the terrified, overly sexy girl in front of her, barely managing to stay upright in high heels, desperately trying to cover her breasts with her arms — though it was useless. — I’m sure you won’t last long as just a stripper.

— I… I’m not gonna work as a stripper! You’re insane if you think turning me into this means I’ll play by your rules! — John shouted, but his voice cracked into a high-pitched squeal by the end of the sentence.

He froze, covering his mouth with his hand, only to accidentally bump his enormous tits with his elbow. They jiggled tightly in the corset, shaking with every heavy breath.

— Oh, baby… — Rita stepped closer, running her finger down his… her cheek. — If only you could hear yourself right now. “I’m not gonna!” — she mocked in a squeaky little voice. — I’m sure in a month you’ll be just another moaning little slut, crawling on your knees begging for a chance to lick someone’s cock.

— Rita… — Johna whispered — the name already sounded way too natural in her head — backing away unsteadily on her heels. — This… this is insane…

— No, baby, — Rita’s voice turned cold, almost businesslike. — This is justice. For all your cheating. For all your lies. For years of pretending. And now — you’ve got a choice. Either you get out there and start working — like the filthy whore you are now — or your IQ’s gonna drop, and your libido’s gonna spike with every second you waste.

— Y-you’re bluffing… — Johna whispered, feeling her knees weaken. The cold from the tiled floor crept through her thin stockings, forcing her to wiggle her toes in her heels just to keep from collapsing. But something else… something strange stirred inside her head. Like a word she’d always known just vanished, erased like it never existed.

— Already starting, huh? — Rita leaned in closer, staring into her eyes. — You’ve got no idea how fast your brains melt away when your head gets filled with just one thought: how to get off as fast as possible. But hey, you’ve still got a shot to save what’s left of that brain of yours. The faster you book a shift at the club, the faster this all stops.

— I… — she bit her lip, immediately feeling something rise inside her — a weird, tingling sensation between her legs that definitely hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. — Fuck!

Johna spun toward the door, grabbed her little red purse, and stumbled toward the exit as fast as she could on those unsteady heels. Her damn tits bounced with every step. They were heavy and way too sensitive. Her heels clicked loudly across the floor, completely out of rhythm, making her look like some drunk bimbo as she finally stumbled into the hallway and, without thinking, flung the front door open.

The cold night air hit her bare skin like ice. The wind instantly wrapped around her exposed shoulders, slid across her thighs, and teased her belly. Only then did Johna, panting, realize: she was still wearing nothing but the corset, tiny panties, stockings, and sky-high stilettos.

— Wh-what the… — she turned around, clutching her arms over her breasts, trying to cover up as much as she could. — Rita?! Rita, for fuck’s sake!

Rita was already leaning casually against the doorframe, not in a hurry, smirking with that nasty little grin, staring at her “husband.”

— What? — Rita asked, pretending to be surprised.

— Give me… — Johna started to speak, but Rita was already reaching back, and with a lazy flick of her wrist, slammed the door shut right in Johna’s face, just as she whispered softly — … some clothes…

Know Your Place

— …and like I seriously have no idea what the hell this is, Kevin, no joke, I was literally just walking from the parking lot, and then — BAM! — and everything went fshhh-whoosh-clang and now I’ve got tits, a skirt, flip-flops, holy shit! It's me, Dylan, goddammit! — she was rambling, but the words started to blur together like a radio catching two stations at once. — …and then I was like, “uhhh no-no-no, I don’t wanna be some Barbie-slut, I’m a dude!” but now I’ve got nails, bracelets, this stupid croco-print purse, and...

I could hear her going on, but my brain was only catching random, meaningless fragments: "tits-skirt-fuck-fuck-babe-insane" — like a cartoon on fast-forward. The only thing I could focus on was her breasts, so tight under her top you could almost make out the shape of the purple lace underneath.

— …Kevin? — her voice suddenly sharpened, turned harsh, almost masculine — for just a split second. — Are you seriously staring at my tits, you dumbass?!

I flinched. My eyes slowly peeled away from her cleavage and met her face.

— Look, Di… — I hesitated. Saying “Dylan” felt… off.

— Yeah, like, I’m listening! — she said, striking a pose Dylan would never strike. Hands on hips, waist twisted, ass sticking out in a full-on influencer stance. I involuntarily stepped back — the gesture was so... girly, so provocative, that something in my brain short-circuited again.

— Uhm… — I began, my throat suddenly dry. — Are you… are you really Dylan?

— Oh my god, of course, fu—... — she paused, rolling her eyes. — Fu… frickin’ yeah! Why can’t I… say that word properly?! — Her voice suddenly turned into a sultry, almost purring coo. — Ugh, this is sooo damn frustra-cute… mmm, frustra-cute? What the hell am I even saying?! — She frowned, then immediately puffed out her lips, pressed a finger to them, and with a cutesy squeak blurted: — Why is everything so unfai-i-i-ir?

I opened my mouth to say something, but the moment I saw her face, I shut it right back. She was looking up at me with wide, round eyes, her lips pouting in that dumb duckface way, eyebrows pinched, chin trembling like she was about to cry. It was… too cute. Way too cute to be Dylan. My college classmate. The football team captain I hated with every cell of my body. The guy who shoved my head in the toilet for three days straight because I forgot to wear our school jersey on team spirit day. The guy who called me “Kev the creep” and stuffed my sneakers in the freezer for a whole week, who...

— Keeeevin, come ooon… — she sang, like she was about to yell at me, but there was this weird, almost purring undertone in her voice. — Are you, like, totally brain-dead? Need me to remind you who the fuck I am?! — She stepped forward, clenching her cute little fist as hard as she could, and for a second my heart clenched. I took a step back, eyes shut, suddenly overcome with that same fear I used to feel when Dylan would grab me by the collar outside the campus café. But instead, a few seconds later, I felt… warmth.

Her hand, so soft, manicured, with long glossy nails, touched my cheek and gently slid across it — like a caress, almost… intimate. My eyes flew open and met hers.

The look on her face was furious, tense, like someone about to punch you in the face. Eyebrows furrowed, lips tight. But her pose was unmistakably feminine, her hand still stroking my cheek, nails lightly tickling my skin. She probably thought she was punching me — or more likely, grabbing me by the collar?

— Listen here, smartass, — her voice was shaking, like she was trying to swallow her anger, but what came out sounded... cutesy. — You’re supposed to be the biggest nerd around, right? So be a dear, Kevvy, and help me out before I… I’ll… — she clearly meant to say something threatening, but instead her tone turned sultry — …spank your little butt, hehe…

I froze. So did she. Like some internal alarm had just gone off.

— Dang… what did I just say? — she whispered, staring at me in horror. But her hand didn’t move away — quite the opposite. She slid it down my cheek, now using her whole palm, fingertips tracing along my cheekbone. And the other hand… it landed on my chest, right above my heart, through the T-shirt. Warm. Way too intimate.

— Di… — I hesitated again. I could almost feel her fingers tighten slightly, like they responded to my confusion. — Are you okay?

— I’ll be totally fine the moment you stop acting like a dummy and tell me what the heck is going on, got it, bunny boy?! — she pressed her nails slightly into my chest, but then… her eyes started to sparkle. Her lips parted, a tiny smile curled at the corners — innocent, almost flirty. — You’re… my knight, right?.. mmm?

I stepped back like she’d just zapped me with a taser.

— Wait… — I threw my hands up. — Knight? What are you even talking about? I...

She frowned, looked away, like rewinding the tape of her life back a few seconds and watching the clips play. It only lasted five seconds or so, while I was still trying to process the fact that this girl was really that Dylan — the one I hated, the one I got stuck with for a college museum project, the one I apparently turned into this. Or rather, not me — that weird stone from the museum. The one I landed on after Dylan grabbed me by the collar for the hundredth time and shoved me around, and I fell and muttered that he should “know his damn place,” calling him a “dumb bitch.”

And now...

— No! No-no-no! I mean, I didn’t do anything, I... — Dylan — or whatever he'd become — was rambling nervously, jerking her head around, and looked like she was about to start sobbing.

And then her phone rang.

I jumped as the high-pitched glam ringtone blared — it sounded like some kind of "pop-kitty hit" full of squeals, squeaks, and club beats. She jumped too, staring at the little shiny purse hanging from her shoulder. As if seeing it for the first time. With a sharp motion, weirdly precise for such a tiny hand, she unzipped it and pulled out a pink iPhone in a shimmering case with a heart-shaped charm dangling from it.

— What the... — she muttered, frowning and blinking at the screen. — "Marianna from the salon"? Who the heck is Mari—

She tapped the screen. Everything went still for a moment.

— Hiii? — she purred suddenly, and her face twisted in horror at the sound of her own voice.

A woman’s voice chirped through the speaker, cheerful and confident:

— Oh honeyyy, I’m so glad you picked up! I thought you were hibernating or something! Listen, it’s an emergency — can you cover for me tonight? — both our eyes were getting wider and wider as the woman kept talking in the same sugary tone — The client is amazing, you know him, the one with the yacht. He adores you. Just wear something purple and then—

— Wha… whaaaat?! — she barked into the phone, trying to fake her old scratchy baritone. But what came out… sounded more like a kitten trying to hiss. Her voice cracked into a squeak, full of flirt instead of fury.

There was a short pause on the other end of the line. Then a giggle, and the next second — a slow, syrupy female voice:

— Oh, Lolly… you’re such a cutie when you’re mad. Don’t pout, sweetheart, everything’s already set. The client is pure honey, and you’re his absolute favorite.

— L-Lolly? — she rasped, as if the word had electrocuted her.

I saw her fingers tremble. She didn’t even notice the phone nearly slipping out of her hand.

— Just… be yourself, kitten. You know how it goes: the look, that little head tilt, a kiss in the air — and he’s yours. You are Lolly, our best girl, remember? — the voice purred through the phone, then added with a cloying sweetness: — And don’t forget — he loves it when you start by just… teasing his cock with your tongue, and then go deeper, like last time. You were such a good girl then…

— Wh-what? — she breathed, so quietly it wasn’t even a voice anymore, just a soft squeak. — I… I was gonna say daaa— — she tried to swear, but instead of “damn,” a pitiful “daaa…” came out, and her lips automatically twisted into a pouty, whiny “what a meeeesss…”

I froze, watching her face lose the last trace of masculinity. She was staring into nothing — into the reflection on her phone case, at that glossy, sparkly image — and I saw something inside her just… snap.

— I’m not… I’m not doing that, okay?! — her fingers were trembling, but they wouldn’t let go of the phone. — I’m a guy! I’m the freakin’ captain of the football team, for heck’s sake, I—

But she stopped. Blinked. Her tongue ran reflexively over her plump lips. I noticed her holding her breath for a split second… and shuddering. Her legs squeezed together, her thighs tensed like she was trying to… stop something.

— What the… — she muttered, glancing at me — and her cheeks flushed instantly. — I’ve got… like… a pulse between my legs or something?.. — She looked down, then suddenly exhaled sharply: — No-no-no! This is all fake, this isn’t me, this isn’t—

— Di… — I began cautiously, but she instantly shot me a look filled with terror and rage.

— I’m not “Lolly,” okay?! — she spat, but even that shout came out with a weird sugary melody to it. — I… don’t… want this!

The voice on the phone was still talking:

— Baby girl, don’t be such a brat. The client’s paying double, and you know how well he treats you. Want me to send you pics of the new shoes? Purple, just like you love. Twenty-centimeter heels… absolutely stunning.

— Oh my gosh… — she whispered, and for a moment, I saw an expression cross her face… desire? Embarrassed, guilty… but definitely real. She squeezed her thighs tighter, leaned forward slightly, like her stomach hurt… but I could tell — it wasn’t pain.

— Di? — I breathed, but she didn’t hear me anymore. Her breath had quickened, her eyes were hazy, and then she whispered to herself:

— N-nooo… I don’t want this… but it feels… mmm… weird… so… mmm…

I saw her gently bite her lower lip, her fingers clenching the edge of her top, her breasts rising and falling heavily. A wave of feelings — feelings she clearly didn’t understand — swept over her completely. She shut her eyes and… let out a soft little squeak.

— Daaamn… am I, like… dripping?

I stepped back, stunned, unable to believe what I was seeing. And she… she slowly lowered the phone, dropped it into her purse, and without opening her eyes, whimpered:

— Kevin… do something… I can’t take it anymore… I’m all… mmm… wet…

— Are you… are you really okay?

She opened her eyes. Big, sparkling. Smiled. And then, with unexpected tenderness, whispered:

— Save me, nerd… before I end up on that… damn yacht.