I'm always doing Matt favors he doesn't deserve.  When he put off studying for his math final senior year of high school, I cancelled a date so I could help him cram.  When he spilled ketchup on his parents' new sofa, I took the fall so they wouldn't ground him before his big date.  Freshman year of college, when he called me after getting blasted at a party at 3am on a Tuesday, I got my tired ass out of bed and drove him home.

And it didn't really matter that he failed the test, or that his date dumped him the next day, or that he threw up in my car.  We're buds, have been ever since he got Luke Miller to stop stealing my lunch money in third grade.  When Matt asks for a favor, only the laws of reality itself can stop me from pulling through.

Sometimes, it turns out, not even that.

Matt came home one Friday of our junior year grinning like a lunatic, still wearing his track clothes and reeking of sweat.  "It's all taken care of," he announced, tossing his bag by the door.  "I know how I'm going to make tryouts for the meet next week."

I looked up from my biology homework.  "By running really fast?"

"Nah, bro.  With <i>this</i>."  He thrust a fist in front of my nose and opened it to reveal what looked like a piece of polished bone, etched with strange shapes up and down its length.

I stared a bit.  "With scrimshaw?"

He cocked his head.  "What's scrimshaw?"

"That is."

"Nah, this is carved whalebone.  I got it from that shop in the mall on the other side of campus."

I was about to argue, but then I remembered I had a test on Monday and didn't push it.  "Never been.  How's scr--uh, whalebone going to help you at tryouts?"

Matt kicked off his shoes and took a seat next to me on the couch.  "Because, it's <i>magic</i> whalebone.  Seriously, how have you never been to that shop?  It's the only voodoo place in the mall, and the guy who runs it is super creepy."

"I meant I've never been to the mall.  Listen, I know athletes are superstitious and everything, but don't you think this is taking it a little too far?  How much did you pay for that thing?"

"Eighteen dollars and sixty-seven cents.  But I'm telling you, it's a deal.  The creep told me I can use it to transfer manhood."

I looked up from my book again.  "Uh, Matt?  Are you sure this guy wasn't hitting on you?"

Matt gave me a punch in the arm, then reached over and clapped my textbook shut.  "Mark, listen to me.  I need you to do me a favor."

"What kind of favor?"

"I want you to hold one end of this whalebone while I say the activation words."

I looked him dead in the eyes, fully expecting him to give away the prank with a shit-eating grin.  Instead, he just stared back, completely serious.

"Okay," I surrendered.  "If it means I can back to studying, sure."

Mark held out the scrimshaw by its thicker end, and I held the point of it in my fist.

"Okay, here goes," he said, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket.  "Transfer ray so pit!"

"You suck at Latin," I said, eyeing the slip.  "The 'C' is hard.  It's pronounced <i>transferre coepit</i>--"

A flash of light interrupted me, emanating from the bone in our grasps.  I let go reflexively, and I felt a spark as I broke contact.

"Holy shit," said Matt, his eyes wide.  "I gotta go see if it worked!"

In a heartbeat, he leapt from the couch and over to mirror by the door.  He rubbed his chin and turned his head this way and that, then lifted his arms and flexed his biceps in the mirror.  "Whoa," he said, his voice deeper than I remembered, "look at these guns!"

My first instinct was to dismiss this as fantasy, but then I noticed something:  he was right.  The sleeves of his shirt were just a little tighter on his arms, his chest just a little broader.  Now that I thought about it, he looked just a bit taller, too.  He hadn't morphed into a bodybuilder, but he'd definitely gotten some subtle upgrades.

Then I remembered something important.  "Wait, didn't you say this was supposed to 'transfer' manhood?"

Matt stopped admiring his reflection and looked over at me.  A slight grin crept onto his face.  "Oh, yeah.  That's what it did."

I raced over to the mirror, but the instant I stood up, I knew something was wrong.  I was just a little too close to the ground, and my arms and legs didn't have the weight I was used to.  My recently cut hair dangled over my eyes, and my jeans felt loose on my waist.  Matt stepped out of the way for me to get a look.

It was almost like looking at a younger version of myself, except without the acne.  If anything, my skin was smoother than it'd ever been, discolored only at the tiny freckles by my somewhat smaller nose.  No stubble protruded from my chin, and even my eyebrows had become a bit thinner.  They were the same slightly lighter-than-normal shade as the bangs that hung over them, the most noticeable change in my now shoulder-length hair.  While I had always been a lanky guy, my narrowed shoulders and faded bodyhair made me look downright effeminate, and it didn't help that I now had a slight but undeniable pair of hips.

I had to look up to meet Matt's gaze.  "What the fuck did you just do to me?"  Even my voice sounded higher than normal.

"I told you," said Matt.  "The whalebone transfers manhood.  I just need to borrow a little for the tryouts tomorrow.  Don't worry, it's totally reversible."

"And while you're enjoying the muscles and the height, what am I supposed to
do, looking like . . . this?"

"It's just for one day," he said.  "You weren't going anywhere tomorrow.  You can just study at home and order pizza like you always do."

I hated him for assuming just as much as I hated him for being right.  "Turn me back right now.  I need to know I'm not stuck like this."

"Sure," he said.  He held out the scrimshaw, and I grabbed the other end as before.  It felt larger in my reduced hand.

He read from the reverse side of his paper, "Finem translationis."

The same light flashed again, and, in a blink, we were our regular selves again.

"See?" said Matt.  "Nothing to it."  His tone dripped with unwarranted confidence.

I returned my focus to the mirror, inspecting myself for every blemish and facial hair I could remember.  As best I could tell, none were missing.

Matt held out the bone again.  "Okay, let's do it again."

"What?  Why?  I don't want to be a funhouse mirror version of myself until tomorrow morning.  Let's just do it then."  I couldn't believe I was actually agreeing to doing this again the next morning, much less right then.

"I want to test my new muscles out.  I can't be competitive if I don't know my limits.  I'll just head back to campus, do a lap or two, try a few jumps, you know."

Matt wasn't the greatest athlete, and he certainly wasn't the best student, but I swore he had a talent for making the ridiculous sound reasonable.

"All right, fine.  But leave the magic scrim--whalebone--and that paper with me.  I don't want you losing them on your way across campus."

We clamped down on the bone and uttered the command words again.  The same light shone yet again, and I waited for it to blink out as before.  Then I remembered that the first time, I'd had to let go first.  As I released, the light faded.

The extra half-second must have made a difference, because Matt was even beefier than before.  His shirt looked like it was bought a size too small, and even his calves were bulging with muscle, now.  I, meanwhile, felt another inch of height vanish, and I was practically swimming in my shirt.  I felt a strange warmth on my chest, and I realized not all of my body had shrunk.

Mercifully, Matt hurried out the door without noticing the extent of my changes.  I was alone with a chapter of biology to study, a magic scrimshaw, and a body that felt completely alien to me.

I studied them in reverse order.

I ran to the bathroom, locked the door (even though I was pretty sure Matt wasn't coming back in anytime soon), and pulled off my shirt.  I hadn't been a hirsuite guy before, but now my chest was absolutely hairless.  The only things interrupting the smooth contours of across my now reduced ribcage were two small mounds under each nipple.  They were slight enough that they almost could have been pecs, but, as I discovered, they didn't <i>feel</i> like pecs.  I massaged them a bit, and they felt like what they were:  small but pert breasts.  Even my nipples were different, each sticking out a bit longer and prouder than I remembered.

I touched one gently and recoiled from the sensation.  Those things were sensitive.

My stomach was smooth and flat, and, as I stepped out of my boxers and jeans, I discovered it led smoothly to my expanded hips.  My ass seemed slightly swollen, and my leg and pubic hair was wispy and thin.

The biggest surprise was the one between my legs.  My cock had shrunken down to an embarassing size, only an inch or two at best.  My balls had pulled in so small and so close that they were scarcely there at all.  I touched my shrunken member, and, just as with my nipples, felt an unexpected surge of sensation.  I was hard immediately, though not much bigger for it.

Having surveyed the damage, I put my clothes back on and retrieved the scrimshaw.  The etching was intricate, full of designs that could have been characters of some forgotten alphabet or just some bored sailor's arbitrary pattern.  I tucked it away in my desk drawer and went back to the sofa to study.

Unfortunately, my new body made concentration difficult.  My pen felt enormous between my fingers, and my hair kept dangling into view.  But far more distracting was just how sensitive everything felt.  My shirt felt course against my smooth skin, and my nipples practically sparked every time my shirt brushed against them.  My dick, however small, stood invisibly at attention beneath my jeans.

After forcing myself through my chapter notes, I gave up and went to my room, locking the door behind me and stripping naked.  I might not have been proud of my body just then, but at least baring it all would spare me the constant stimulation of my clothes.  I climbed onto the mercifully soft sheets of my bed and re-read my textbook until I fell asleep.



I awoke to a sharp rapping at my door.

"Hey, Mark!  C'mon, I gotta go soon!"

I rolled out of bed and stumbled with the first step.  The bed seemed higher when my legs were this short.  I pulled on some clothes and cracked open the door.

"Hey, man, you okay?  You were asleep by the time I got back last night," said Mark, still a hulked out version of his normal self.

"I'm fine," I said.  "What's up?"

"We gotta use the whalebone again.  You got it in there?"

"Yeah," I said, glancing over to it.  "But why?  You already look like you got on 'roids.  Did you decide you wanted to do the honest thing and compete as yourself?"

"No way!  I wouldn't even have a chance in my old body.  You should see the other pole-vaulters on the team!  They make me look like a limp noodle--even like this!  That's why I need us to do it again, just a little bit more.  I feel stronger this way, but not strong enough."

I opened the door all the way and looked him up and down.  I could have cracked walnuts on his quads, if I hadn't so slender myself.  "I dunno, man, this is already pretty weird . . ."  I still wasn't used to my now high-tenor voice.

"C'mon, please!  It's only for the rest of today.  I'll pay for your pizza if you order out.  And I'll . . . do the dishes or something.  Please?"

I sighed in defeat, then held out my palm.  "Pay up."

"Yesss," he celebrated, pulling a twenty out of his pocket and slapping it into my hand.  "I owe you bigtime."

I got the scrimshaw from my desk and held it out.  Even though I probably should have said no, I knew Matt had been stressing over tryouts for a long time.  He grabbed the other end of it, and we read the activation words together.

Even though this was my third time, I still wasn't used to it.  I felt my guts turn over inside of me as the glyphs on the scrimshaw glowed, then faded as I let go.

Matt, for his part, grinned as his muscles tightened across his chest and his arms and legs broadened further.  I noticed his five o'clock shadow grow in early before my eyes.  When the transformation stopped, he looked back at me.  His eyes widened for a moment, and he said uncomfortably, "Uh, thanks again.  I'm gonna get going."  And a moment later, he did just that.

"Bye," I said to the door, as it closed behind him.  My voice was absolutely feminine now.  I felt long hairs tickle the back of my neck and realized I'd better check it out.

I immediately understood Matt's awkwardness upon seeing my reflection.  The person in the mirror was undeniably female.  She was no knockout, especially dressed in what looked like her boyfriend's clothes, but she was cute, a very girl-nextdoor looking kind of gal.

Her--<i>my</i>--hair was now bright red and hung past to my nose in front and my shoulderblades in back.  I had a button-nose and big, green eyes, with a soft chin and slightly rosy cheeks; I was blushing.  Below my slender neck, my dainty frame included two baseball sized breasts, their nipples proudly announcing themselves through my shirt.  My jeans had fallen past my narrow waist and sagged on my hips, and I was practically tripping over the cuffs.

I pulled off my shirt once again and revealed my two breasts.  They were perky yet completely natural looking.  I cupped them in my hands.  They felt good--surprisingly good--from both sides.  In any other circumstance, I'd have been lucky to get my hands on a pair like these.  But I could <i>feel</i> these, from the inside, and it felt terrifyingly good.  My nipples had never been an erogenous zone for me before, but now just brushing them with my fingers gave me a warm, tingling sensation that flowed all the way through me.

I unbuttoned my pants and let them fall to the bathroom floor.  My ass was round, heart-shaped, and a perfect complement to the curve of my hips.  But far more interesting was the new development between my legs.

I had a pussy.  Even though I hadn't been a ladies-man as, er, a man, I'd seen enough pussy to know one, even from this angle.  I had a near-hairless pubic mound, and as I discovered with one probing finger, a helluva sensitive clit.

Holy shit, that felt good.  I let out an involuntary moan, an unexpectedly sexy sound to come out of my own mouth.  I felt a growing warmth between my legs, and the folds of my labia grew wet with anticipation.  Whatever reservations my brain had about masturbating as a woman, the rest of me was undeterred.

The image in the mirror was a big help, too.  Even if she was me, the girl in the mirror was giving me a free show, and she seemed to be enjoying herself.  I got caught up in the feedback loop of watching her touch herself and feeling me touch myself, and before long I felt my legs quiver below me from the intense tingles running up and down my body.  I leaned back against the wall and grabbed one of my boobs with my free hand, pinching and rubbing my nipples.  The stimulation was overwhelming, and I gave a long, girly moan as I reached my first female orgasm.

I slumped to the floor, still shivering from the aftershocks.  "I don't think I'm going to get any studying done," I said to no one in particular.

I didn't.  After eating breakfast, I spent the rest of the morning lying naked on my bed, rubbing, then fingering my new vagina to orgasm after orgasm.  After each session, I felt a twinge of guilt, but not long after, I'd be at it again, lured in by the pleasure.  Even as a teenage boy I hadn't masturbated this much, but this body felt like it could just cum forever.  Unlike my penis, which demanded a break now and again, my slit only relented when the rest of me was too exhausted to continue.  By the time I finished, I was ramming three of my dainty fingers inside myself at a time, and my room had begun to reek of sex.

I took advantage of the opportunity to shower as an attractive woman, but not before posing for myself in the bathroom mirror.  I suddenly regretted having nothing to dress myself in but unflatteringly oversized men's clothes.

The shower itself felt great.  The gentle massage of water against my skin--and in particular my chest--overwhelmed me at first, and I spent more time than was strictly necessary soaping up and rubbing down my chest and ass.  My hair took more time to wash and dry than I'd ever spent before, but to my relief it didn't catch fire or anything when I washed it with men's shampoo.  I might need to get some conditioner, or at least a hairbrush though.

I giggled--yes, giggled--at the absurdity of the thought.  I was only in this body for the day.  It was a little early to think about beauty products.

I still didn't have any clothes that fit, but my towel looked pretty cute on my little frame.  I eventually found myself some athletic shorts with a waistand I could cinch up and a soft tee that didn't wreak havoc on my skin.  My nipples still made hella obvious pokies, but I didn't mind; it made my reflection that much sexier.

Having relieved my sexual tension for a good while, I decided to document a little about my situation.  I found a measuring tape and first checked my height.  I was just a hair over 5'6", a full half foot shorter than my old height.  I didn't think Matt had grown that much; if he had, I'm sure someone on the track team would have noticed.  I tried following some online directions to measure my cup size, but to be honest I wasn't totally sure I was doing it right, and it's hard to measure your own chest accurately.  I guessed I was around a B cup, but that was mostly based on memories of past girlfriends.

I took a few pictures of myself on my phone, careful to disable any cloud uploads beforehand.  I made sure to include some poses that would make for good "inspiration" once I had my penis back.

I ordered pizza, just a little wary about answering the door in this body.  But I convinced myself that there was no way the delivery guy would recognize me.  To all outward appearances, I was just a girl in ill-fitting clothes.

In case you were wondering, pizza doesn't taste any different as a woman.  Easier to spill cheese on your chest, though.

Late that night, Matt threw open the door and triumphantly announced his performance at tryouts.

"You shoulda seen it!  I set a team record for pole-vaulting, and the coach told me he'd be an idiot not to put me in the meet next month!"  He pumped a fist in the air as he slammed the door behind him.

I'd nodded off on the couch, so his dramatic entrance surprised me only slightly more than discovering I was still not in my own body.  "Congrats, man.  Uh, can we do the thing, now?  I wanna head to bed."

Matt's broad smile shrank, and he turned away for a moment.  "Uh, sure, man.  But, uh, about that . . ."

"What?"

"Uh, hang on.  Let's do the transfer first."

One flash of light later, we both fit our clothes again.  Matt was visibly disappointed to be back to normal.  I was relieved to feel myself again, but I couldn't say I hadn't enjoyed the experience.

"Okay,", said Matt, "Hear me out on this . . ."

"Uh-huh."  This was Matt's universal preamble to anything he knew I wouldn't like.

"Well, there are going to be a lot of practices before the meet.  And I can't just show up as my old self.  The coach'll notice for sure, especially when I can't match my jumps from today.  They'll think I was doping during tryouts or something."

"You kinda were, Matt."

"No!" he shouted, searching for a justification.  "I was just trying to give myself a confidence boost.  I might have overdone it a bit.  But I can't stop now; the team's counting on me for the meet!"

"You're asking me to do it again, what, every day?"

"Only during practice!  Afternoons, after classes, when you'd just be doing homework, anyway.  I'll stop by, do the change, and come right back afterward."

"I dunno, man.  A day is one thing, but this isn't just one favor.  You're asking me to spend hours a day like that."  I couldn't quite bring myself to say "as a woman."

"I'll make it up to you.  What if--what if I pay more of the rent?  We can split it 60/40 instead of 50/50.  That's a lot of pizza."

I did like pizza.  And, I thought, I really had enjoyed my day as a woman.  But better not to let Matt know.

"Okay," I said, playing up my frustration.  "But you better place at the meet.  I'm not doing this to myself so you can lose."

Matt clapped me on the back--mercifully without his extra muscles.  "You're the best.  Next practice is Monday.  Hey, can I have the last slice of pizza?"



And that was that.  Every weekday after class, I'd hurry home, meet up with Matt, and grow a pair of tits.  We never really got over the awkwardness of my temporary femaleness, but we didn't really have to since we never spent any time together while the transfer was active.  We developed a sort of unspoken agreement not to speak about my appearance or what I did while he was away.  I think even Matt knew better than to risk making an already uncomfortable favor more uncomfortable.

But the truth of it was, I was getting plenty comfortable with my female form.  As soon as he left, I stripped nude and went to town.  I masturbated on my bed, in the shower, in front of the mirror, even in the common room once or twice when my fingers got a little too idle while I was studying.

I even tried jilling off to porn.  I started off watching solo stuff, as much for the spectacle as the instruction.  A lot of female masturbation in porn was obviously more theatrical than practical, but I did pick up some ideas, like fingering myself while lying on my stomach (boobs made this position less comfortable than I wanted), grinding against a pillow (great fun, though I had to wash my pillowcase afterward), and using the showerhead (I nearly passed out from that one).  There were also lots of videos involving dildos, but I didn't exactly have one lying around.

Lesbian porn was extra tantalizing now that I could theoretically participate.  The day after watching a pair of ladies sixty-nining, I found my thoughts wandering during stat class to the girls in lecture with me.  Like most guys, I'd fantasized about sex with attractive women I saw every day, but for the first time my fantasies included being a woman myself.  That fantasy of course led me back to more lesbian porn that day, and, well, the cycle continued.

Eventually I even got around the male/female porn.  I told myself at the start I was just watching for the women, but I had to admit, sometimes I wondered what a penis felt like from a woman's perspective.  I had no plans to try it anytime soon, but curiousity is powerful, y'know?

Meanwhile, Matt was having the time of his life.  He came home every day stoked about some PR he'd made or how he was nailing some technique now that he had the muscle to support it.  The way he told it, his teammates had really started rooting for him.  I was glad to see him getting some respect, even if I wasn't thrilled with how he was getting it.

He also made good on his part of the deal, for the most part.  He took a hefty bite out of my share of the rent, but once or twice he got home hours later than promised, on account of "the guys" wanting him to come to dinner.  I didn't mind the extra private time, but I did start to envy his social life.  I'd become something of a homebody since our new routine.

Finally, the date arrived.  The track team was to piling into a couple of minivans and driving a few counties over for a weekend-long trip.  Matt knocked on my door Friday evening, dressed in temporarily oversized clothes.  I held out the scrimshaw and got ready to say the magic words, long-since memorized.

"Uh, one more thing.  Can we go a little longer this time?"

I raised an eyebrow.  We had a pattern by now; I'd do a fast count of three before releasing the scrimshaw.  The results were consistent, Matt always looking just plausibly like his normal self, and I, well, not so much.

"How much longer?"

"Enough to give me an edge for the meet.  You know, insurance for the team."

"<i>How much longer?</i>"

"Six."

"Four."

"Five, and I'll throw in forty bucks.  Get yourself something nicer than pizza for the weekend."

I rolled my eyes.  "Fine.  But I'm still getting pizza."

"Suit yourself."  He handed me a pair of twenties, and I greedily pocketed them.  We gripped the scrimshaw together, and I activated it.

"One-one-thousand--"

My pulse quickened, and the ceiling rose away from me.

"--Two-one-thousand--"

My voice pitched up, and my waist pulled inward.

"--Three-one-thousand--"

Red locks flowed down past my shoulders, and my hips flared outward.

"--Four-one-thousand--"

My crotch and nipples tingled as my vagina reformed and my chest ballooned outward, surpassing my familiar B cups and straining my shirt.

"--Five one thousand."

Matt released the scrimshaw and turned toward the door.  His eyes avoided me like the boss's daughter at a work party.

"Thanks.  You're the man, uh . . ."  He didn't bother correcting himself.  He just dashed out the door and left me in peace.

I put the scrimshaw back on my desk and looked down at myself.  I couldn't see past the melon-sized boobs on my chest.  I cupped them through my shirt to confirm what my eyes were telling me.  A rush of tingles confirmed that they were real, and they were sensitive.  I hurried to the bathroom mirror.

Holy fuck, I was hot.  Everything sexy about my usual female body had been put into overdrive.  My lips were fuller and poutier; my red, wavy hair flowed halfway down my back.  My boobs had ballooned out to the size of cantaloupes but the shape of tear-drops, sagging just enough to look natural while also being perky and round.  My hips and ass had flared out even further, giving me a perfect hourglass figure.  Judging by how high the bathroom sink seemed, I wagered I'd lost another few inches of height, too.

And I felt even better than I looked.  Almost every inch of my boobs (and there were plenty of inches) was wired directly to my now wet pussy, and just running my hands over my silky-smooth skin gave me shivers every time.  I lifted my breasts, feeling their weight as I squeezed them together, then released them and relished the feeling of them jiggling back and forth.  If they hadn't been attached to my chest, I would have buried my face between them in a heartbeat.  I spent the next hour in bed, fingering myself with new desperation.  My clit had grown in sensitivity at least as much as my boobs, and my hands traded place between them with each of my many orgasms. 

After releasing a powder-keg of sexual energy, I rolled out of bed and sauntered over to the kitchen for a glass of water.  Even the mundane task of fetching a glass was novel with my new body.  I had to stand on my tip-toes to reach the cupboard where we kept them, and, as I leaned forward, my tits pressed against the microwave below it.  I didn't mind the inconvience at all; I loved being reminded of the new toys at my disposal.

Afterward, I headed to the bathroom to pee (I'd gotten accustomed to sitting in the last month), when I noticed:  the toilet paper roll was empty.  I bent over to open the cabinet under the bathroom sink, sending my titties swinging forward.  I held them back with one arm as I searched for a fresh roll.

"Fuck," I said aloud.  We were out.  Peeing might not be that bad if I showered after, but I didn't want to go a whole weekend without toilet paper.  I'd have to buy some.  Which is to say, I'd have to go out.

I did my business, took a shower, and considered my options.  Maybe I could order some online, have it delivered overnight?  But that'd be the most expensive roll of toilet paper I ever bought.  And it wasn't like anyone would recognize me if I went out in public.  All anyone would see was a woman.  Well, a really hot woman.  In oversized clothes.

After I toweled off, I searched my closet for outfits.  All of my jeans were too wide and too long for me to walk in, and most of my shirts were similarly hopeless.  I at least found some briefs that stayed on, despite the unnecessary room in front.  I ended up settling on a college-branded hoodie and a pair of running shorts I could cinch up at the waist.  My dainty feet were too small for any of my shoes, so I just slid them into my shower flip-flops.

I checked myself out in the mirror.  I was still a hot girl, but I was clearly on the worst walk of shame of all time.  I took a deep breath and stepped out the door.

It was still mid-afternoon, so I didn't have to navigate any rush hour crowds (not that our college town was ever crowded).  A few cars passed me by on my way, but the sidewalks were thankfully empty, probably because of the thunderstorm in the forecast.  I kept my hood up as I walked three blocks to a corner store, hyper-aware of my ass and tits jiggling with every step.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when the cashier greeted me.  I silently nodded and darted into the otherwise empty store, grabbed the first roll of toilet paper I saw, and checked out.  The cashier was a fifty-something guy, and I was relieved when his attention stayed mostly on the television in the corner.  He looked me in the eye briefly as he gave me change for a twenty, but he never said a word.

I walked back outside, bag of toilet paper in tow.  Feeling empowered by my success, I pulled down my hood.  It'd been ridiculous to hide my face, anyway; I was wearing the perfect disguise.  And, it was nice to look around for a change; I'd spent too much time cooped up to really enjoy spring.

That's when I noticed the women's clothing shop just a few doors down.  I'd seen it before on past trips here, but I'd never paid it any attention, since it'd had nothing to offer me.  But now that I had some feminine curves, curiosity got the best of me.  Maybe I could get just one outfit, so the next time I ran out of toilet paper I didn't have to wear a circus tent to the store.

A door chime announced my entry, and a girl my age greeted me from the counter.  Her clothes matched the fashions of the mannequins in the front window:  skinny jeans, hoop bracelets on either wrist, a white tanktop revealing some generous cleavage and just the edge of of a lacey red bra.  I might have been checking her out.

"Can I help you with anything today, honey?"  She looked me up and down and raised an eyebrow.

"Uh, yeah," I muttered.  "I was thinking about getting some clothes."

No shit, Sherlock, I chided myself.

"Uh-huh," she said, in a tone that said she'd already made that decision for me.  "We've got those.  What interests you today?  Formalwear, casual, intimate apparel . . . ?"

My eyes swept over the prodigious number of clothing racks crammed into such a small storefront while I searched for words.  "I could use some new underwear."

Was that how a woman would say that?  Shit, better add something before it gets weird.  "And a new shirt.  And a pair of pants.  And maybe some shoes?"

The salesgirl paused for a moment, then half-smiled.  "I've gotcha covered.  Let's start with underwear.  You looking for tops or bottoms?"

"Both, please."

"Great.  You know your measurements?"

"Uh, no."

"Okay, well how about I start off by measuring you."

Alarm bells went off in my head as she grabbed a measuring tape from behind the counter and motioned toward the fitting room.  I told myself not to get too excited.  Girls saw each other topless all the time, right?  I accepted her invitation and walked in.

She took my bag and placed in the corner of the closet-sized space.  She turned me to face the floor-to-ceiling mirror and said, "I'll need you to take off your hoodie, please."

Eschewing my last chance to abort, I pulled the hoodie over my head, revealing my giant rack in all its glory.

Her eyes widened at my sudden nudity.  "Wow, you've been going braless with those girls?  Good thing you came in.  Arms up, please."

I lifted my arms, and she pulled the measuring tape around my ribcage, pulling it tight just under my tits.  She fidgeted over it for a bit, pulling it down on one side and up on another.  She had me put my arms down, made a few more adjustments, and finally scribbled something down on a pad of paper.

I have to confess, I was getting pretty turned on.  My tits were still sensitive as hell, and I could already feel the moisture between my legs as she pulled the measuring tape over my boobs.  It didn't help that she was pretty cute, too.  As a guy, I'd have been lucky to have her feel me up in a fitting room.

After some thorough inspection of my chest, she took two last measurements around my navel and around my hips--over my clothes, that time.  Finally, she announced, "Looks like you're around a 28GG.  Just hang here for a sec; I'm gonna fetch you something cute."  She sounded excited, like a kid with a new doll to dress up.

She returned with more kinds of underwear than I'd known existed.  Underwire, padded, strapless, demi-cup, push-up, each in a different color and fit.  Some came with matching panties, which were their own variety of styles:  briefs, hipsters, boyshorts, bikinis, even thongs.  She helped me into each one--I hoped, because she was a helpful person, and not because I looked as clueless as I felt.

I was surprised at how comfortable they were.  Unlike my usual shirts and underwear, these bras were made of smooth fabric that hugged my sensitive skin.  I would have bought any of them, but she insisted I try them all.  As it turns out, I was glad she did, because the last one I tried on, a lacy blue push-up, caught me by surprise.  While she clasped it in back, I stared transfixed by my own reflection, a perfect ten wearing fuck-me lingerie.  The effect was only slightly diminished by the scrunched-up shorts I was still wearing.

"Ooh, I think she likes it," said the salesgirl, noting my stare.  "I'll go ahead and put this one aside.  And it'd be criminal if you split up the set, so I'll set aside these, too."  She held up a pair of thong panties.  I may or may not have squeaked in surprise.

She asked me if I wanted to wear them out of the store, and I agreed.  She left the dressing room to let me put on the thong.  It was as lacy and blue as the bra, but tiny in comparison.  I stepped into it, and here, too, I was surprised by how comfortably soft it was.  It felt strange to have my asscheeks exposed while also feeling like I had a permanent wedgie.  Strange, but not bad.  Plus, she was right:  it looked amazing.

A minute later, the salesgirl returned with a selection of skirts, blouses, and shoes I just <i>had</i> to try.  I expected her to just leave me to try them, but she just stayed in the booth with me, even helping me button a few of them.  Did all women get this kind of service?

Eventually, I emerged from the fitting room at last in a white tank top, some denim short-shorts, and ballet flats.  I started out only wanting something to wear home, but the salesgirl talked me into getting a couple outfits extra.  It turns out cute girls were just as convincing when I was a woman as when I was a man.  

I paid in cash, but the salesgirl insisted on giving me a receipt, anyway.  "Oh, can I get your name and email?  I promise we won't spam you; it's just so we can keep your sizing information in our database."

"Umm, okay," I said, thinking fast.  "I'm . . . Lindsay."  I gave her an old email address I hadn't used in years.

"Okay, great!  My name's Ellie, and it was a pleasure fitting you today--"

Wait, did she just wink at me?

"--and I hope to see you again real soon!"  She put the receipt in my bag and handed it to me.  Our hands brushed momentarily as I took it from her.  I smiled sheepishly and headed out the door.

The streets were a lot busier on the way back, probably because rush hour had come during my marathon shopping trip.  I felt a lot more exposed in my shorts and tank top, and more than once I noticed a passing driver spare a glance at me.  I couldn't blame them; I'd stare at me, too.

It wasn't until I was stowing my new clothes in the deepest recesses of my closet that I noticed the flowery writing on the bottom of the receipt.  I did a double take when I read them:

<i>*Seriously,* it was a pleasure fitting you.  I'll return the favor if you like.</i> Her number followed, along with her name with a heart over the "i".

I experienced a lot of disbelief for someone who had recently discovered gender-changing magic.  I hadn't thought I was flirting with her, but then I'd never flirted as a girl.  And I had just shown her my massive tits.  Was it dishonest of me to agree, knowing that my female-ness was only part-time?

I could try to blame it on female hormones or magic, but the truth is, I was a horny man in a woman's body, and I my pussy was already dripping wet.  I'd gone into that store to get sluttly clothes I could pose in while salivating at my own reflection.  Why not let a sexy girl salivate with me?  I texted her, "Best fitting ever.  When can I meet you?"

I got a reply in seconds.  "For a hottie like u, tonight.  Off in 30.  Wear the skirt, k?"  The address she sent me next was for an apartment building just around the corner from me.  Thanks, small college town.

The skirt in question was so short it was almost criminal.  Its red plaid fabric ended only a little below my asscheeks, so every time I bent over I was giving a helluva show.  My tiny blue thong did little to conceal my bulbous rear, either.

I'd never had such an exhibitionist streak before, but knowing that I was at once unrecognizeable and desirable somehow liberated my inner slut.  Why not show off the goods?  I only used this body for its sexuality, anyway.

I got to her door on the fourth floor of her high rise and knocked.  I heard the click of heels just before the door swung open.  Ellie greeted me, wearing the same clothes I'd seen her in the store, but with none of the professional restraint she'd had when she greeted me there.  Her eyes did a long, slow sweep of up and down my body, and she grew a devilish grin.

"Good girl.  Come on in."  She grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me in after her.  She didn't even wait for the door to close to make her move, wrapping her arm around my waist and pulling me close.  I hadn't realized just how much lighter I was in this body until I felt how easily she drew me in.

Our breasts pushed against each other as she held me tighter, and her chapstick rubbed off on my lips as she gave me a commanding kiss, punctuated with a playful bite of my lip.  I felt her hands flip up the back of my skirt and grab my ass.

"Mmmm," she growled, "dig the skirt on you."  She ushered me to her bedroom, unceremoniously pushed me onto her bed, and crawled on top of me.

"Hey," I said, "don't I get to give you a bra fitting, now?"

She ran a finger down my cheek, along my neck, and all the way down my breast.  "I already know I'm a 34dd, but you're welcome to double check, if you like."  She straddled my waist and pulled off her top, then guided my hands to her breasts.  They were nowhere near as large as my oversized pillows, but they were still generous handfuls.  I eagerly cupped them, squeezed them, and rubbed my thumbs in circles around her nipples.  All that practice I'd done on my own pair came in handy, because she arched her back and moaned appreciatively.  Her breathing got hotter and heavier, until at last she couldn't stand it anymore and started pulling off my clothes.

She took a turn kneading my massive mammaries, which had become sensitive she almost made me cum right then and there.  But soon she had me lie on my back and spread my legs so she could bury her face in my hot, wet cunt.  Waves of pleasure rippled through me as she alternated between flicking her tongue across my clit and sucking on it.  She slid her fingers inside my dripping wet pussy and started thrusting them in and out.  I'd never been vocal in bed before, but at this I let out a cry of pleasure so loud that her neighbors upstairs must have heard it.

"Yes!" I whimpered. "Don't stop!"

She didn't.  Her tonguing only intensified until at last I felt my first orgasm of the night crash over me, causing me to tense up and spasm in ecstasy.  When at last I went limp, she said, "Hold on.  I'm just getting started with you."

She reached into her nightstand and produced a bright purple dildo, at least eight intimidating inches long.  My apprehension must have shown on my face, because she leaned in close to my ear and whispered, "Don't worry.  I'll be gentle."

With that, she lay with her head by legs me and rolled me onto her, my tits hanging down and nipples brushing against her stomach.  She spread her legs, and I eagerly took the invitation to lap at her slit.  Meanwhile, she completed our sixty-nine by rubbing my clit with her fingers.  Finally I felt the head of the dildo pushing at my folds.  I was so slippery by now that it entered me easily.

After a month of nothing larger than my fingers, the dildo was a revelation.  Whatever reservations I might have had were erased as the toy filled me more than I had ever felt, its ridged head stimulating parts of me I didn't even know were there.  I fingered her more fervently in assent, and she responded by using a free hand to pinch my dangling nipples.  We continued like this, each provoking the other, until at last we both came.

We spent another hour like that, trading orgasm after orgasm, the dildo in me, then her, then me again.  I basked in the bliss of her sucking on my nipples while she touched herself, then did the same for her.  At last, we collapsed from exhaustion and ordered delivery while we cuddled naked on her sheets.



The next morning, I awoke to breasts squishing against mine as she kissed my neck hungrily.  This led to another bout of sex, one that climaxed in the shower, where we soaped up each other and got plenty dirty as we got clean.

Ellie had work that day, but she told me I had a standing booty call before she sent me home.  I spent my walk home daydreaming about her breasts, her tongue, and that dildo of hers.  I wondered how discretely I could get one for myself . . . and how large.

I walked in the front door of the house and froze in surprise.  Sitting on the couch was Matt, still in a body that looked like it was cut from marble.  His jaw dropped as I walked in the door, still dressed in a slutty skirt and undersized tank top.

"W-what are you doing home?" I stammered.  I could feel the blood rushing to my face as he stared back at my mostly exposed form.

"It started thundering, so they canceled the meet.  I tried to call you, but you didn't answer.  Have you been . . . out?  Like that?"

I felt very naked, probably because I mostly was.  I tried to pull down the hem of my skirt, but that just exposed the sides of my thong.  "Uh, yeah.  We ran out of toilet paper, and then . . ."  And then what?  I had amazing lesbian sex?

"Oh.  You look, uh . . ."

He didn't finish, but he didn't need to.  I could tell how he thought I looked from the growing bulge in his pants.  A strange thought crept into my head:

Damn.  He was even bigger than Ellie's dildo.

I felt a familiar dampness between my legs.  I'd never been attracted to men before, but then I'd never been a woman before.  And I stood there, silently mapping the contours of his bulging muscles--one in particular--and working my eyes up his chest, I realized we were both thinking the same thing.

"Hey Mark--"

"Call me Lindsay."

"Uh, Lindsay, then.  Have you noticed that the transfer makes you feel, uh . . ."

"Really fucking horny?"  The words had jumped out of my mouth.  But once they were out, they were out.  I walked closer to him, leaned down over his lap, so he could see the cavernous depths of my cleavage.  "I'm just as curious as you are."

"I'm not gay or anything," he started.

"I'm all woman, believe me."  I could smell him from here, a musky, masculine scent that lured me in like an addict.  I started unbuckling his belt, just slowly enough that he could have stopped me.  Instead, he reached out and groped my breasts.  I moaned in pleasure.  There was something powerfully sexy about knowing that for all his power and girth, my petite frame and swollen udders could still render him speechless.

I freed his cock from his jeans and marveled at his massive member.  Nearly a foot long and almost as wide as a Coke can, it was already dripping with precum.  Matt pulled his shirt off to reveal his washboard abs, and I freed my breasts from my shirt and bra.  He started to stand up, but I pushed him back down (more of a suggestion than force, given our relative sizes) and climbed on to the couch.  I pulled my soaking thong to the side and slowly lowered myself onto his erect member, groaning in agonizing pleasure as it entered me.  I squated lower and lower, filling myself with his warm, hard cock.  Matt grunted and massaged my tits as I started riding him in slow, up-and-down strokes.  As my pussy got wetter and wetter, I sped up, and Matt started adding his own thrusting.  Finally, he grabbed me by the hips and started pulling me up and down his cock himself, using me like a huge-titted fucktoy.  I took over rubbing my tits and let out moan after moan.

I came within minutes, but Matt wasn't done.  He kept pumping his cock in and out of me, building me to a second orgasm before at last he grunted in climax.  I felt him throbbing inside me as he spurted load after load into me, a feeling I immediately learned to crave.  His seed spilled out of me as I overflowed, and still he spurted several more times before finishing.  I collapsed onto him, my sweaty boobs pressed against his chest.  He lifted me off of him, his half-erect cock emerging with a satisfying pop.

Already, I felt myself heating up again:  I had to have more.  To my disappointment, Matt was already going limp, something I'd forgotten to anticipate after my marathon dildo session with Ellie.  But I had an idea.

I led Matt to my bedroom and pulled the scrimshaw from my desk.  He was hesitant as I placed it in our hands, but I gave him a reassuring wink and recited, "Transferre coepit."  The scrimshaw flashed purple, and instead of returning us to our normal bodies, it repeated the transfer, sending yet more of my manhood to him.  I shivered with anticipation as I felt my already mammoth tits expand outward, growing to the size of watermelons, even as I shrank to no more than five feet tall.  Meanwhile, I watched Matt's muscles expand into true bodybuilder territory, his balls grew to the size of grapefruit, and his cock lengthened to an impressive full foot--even though he was still disappointingly flaccid.

But that was a problem I could solve.  I sat him down on the bed and took his still slick member in my hands.  I worked both hands up and down his shaft, and slowly but surely it began to expand and rise again, so large and thick I couldn't fit my delicate little hands around it.  But what I couldn't do with my hands, I could easily do with by now enormous breasts.  I engufled his hardening cock in my bountiful cleavage and rubbed my tits up and down him.  He lolled his head back and grunted in appreciation, and I redoubled my efforts as his cock grew and grew, poking out of the top of my cleavage and just past my chin.

His musky scent, combined with the intoxicating smell of my pussy juice and his cum emanated from his rod.  I leaned forward and licked the tip of his hot, salty cock.  At last he swelled to his full size, and I opened my mouth and sucked his cock in earnest.  Everything his cock touched--my tits, my lips, my tongue, my throat--brimmed with euphoric pleasure.  Other women might have given titty-fucks and blowjobs to please their men, but not me--I was a horny slut in heat.  In this body, <i>everything</i> felt good.

My ministrations must have worked even better than I'd expected, because soon Matt's balls retracted, his cock throbbed, and he shot load after load down my throat.  I swallowed it hungrily, but even my lust couldn't keep up with the torrent of spunk.  Semen overflowed from my mouth and poured over my tits and neck.  He pulled himself out of my mouth for his last few spurts, glazing my face as well.  I was covered in hot, messy cum, but still I craved more.

Luckily for me, Matt wasn't done either.  He scooped me up in his arms and tossed me onto my back.  I spread my legs in anticipation, but rather than enter me immediately, he grabbed the scrimshaw again, guided my hand to it, and uttered the command words again.

This time, I came from the transformation alone.  Every part of me was wired for pleasure, but my tits and slit were turned up to eleven.  My breasts expanded past the size of beach balls, leaving me with positively cartoonish proportions.  Matt's cock and balls grew, too, and this time he didn't need any help (other than maybe the sight of the fuckdoll in front of him) to get hard as rock.

He plunged himself into my eager cunt, deeper than I ever would have thought possible.  He grabbed me by my hips and jerked me up and down his cock while I screamed in ecstasy.  I grabbed my still sticky tits and rubbeds cum over my body, scooping the occasional handful into my mouth.  Orgasms washed over me again and again, so powerful and so frequent that I lost track.  Just as I was about to pass out, I felt him shoot a hot semen into my belly, then pull out and glaze every inch of me in rope after rope of sticky cum.



After that, we stopped waiting for track events to use the scrimshaw.  I still went to classes as my old self, but pretty much any time we've got the time, I turn back into Matt's personal slut and let him fuck my brains out.  Unless he's actually at track, in which case I invite Ellie over.  She was pretty surprised the first time she saw my new bust, but she was happy to give me a new fitting.  Eventually, I got tired of deflecting questions about my sudden growth spurt, so we had her over when Matt was around and showed her the scrimshaw in action.  She was pretty shocked at first, but she's come to enjoy sucking my tits while Matt fucks me, licking my clit while I suck him off, and even licking me clean when we're done.

Oh, yeah, and they rescheduled the meet.  Matt placed in all his events.  He got some nice medals, but I think he likes my rewards a lot better.