Cheer
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Although Greg had never felt anything like it before, he certainly didn't
mind when wave after wave of pleasure began coursing across his body.
His only regret was the timing, which was right in the middle of third
period calculus. Discretion was the name of the game, even as waves of
tingling warmth settled across his musculature. It was very subtle at
first, and maybe it had been going on for hours without him even
noticing. At this point, though, it was getting increasingly hard to
ignore. Just a moment ago he was focused on x plus z equals y. Now, his
concentration was broken repeatedly by the feelings rushing across his
body like the evening tide, small warm deposits settling across his
muscles, his skin. It was soothing, like a massage, and with the
exception of a slight itch on his chest, his whole body felt wonderful.
It was only natural that he should get aroused. What seemed far less
natural was the way he focused on Ms. Sanders, on how young she was, how
tightly her skirt clung to her thighs and ass. He suppressed an urge to
walk up behind her and wrap his arms around her waist, to begin nibbling
on her earlobe until she moaned softly. It was the craziest thing.
Three months he'd been in this class, and he hadn't been turned on once
by her. Now she was as irresistible as a Suicide Girl. Without even
thinking, he placed a hand on his crotch and applied firm pressure. The
feeling was better than sex. Entirely inappropriate for a classroom,
sure, but it was hard to care.
With his other hand, he reached up to scratch his chest and was shocked
by what he felt there. Beneath his nipple, which was puckered tight, was
a hard little ball. He tentatively scratched the other and found a
similar lump beneath it. It rolled freely under his touch, as though a
marble had somehow been implanted beneath his skin. Needless to say,
this killed vibe. Was he getting cancer? He'd taken a shower this
morning, and his nipples felt normal as he swept the soap across his
chest. He was tempted to go to the nurse, but was understandably
embarrassed. First, he decided, he'd go the restroom and examine
himself.
He took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts, and then raised his hand.
"May I go to the restroom?" Ms. Sanders nodded and immediately resumed
teaching. Nobody noticed how strange he felt, which was good. He walked
briskly down the empty hallways, his footsteps echoing on the tiles. His
whole body felt strange, tingly. The waves persisted, and although they
felt as good as ever, they took on an eerie tone. Was this the swine flu
moving through his veins? Or maybe AIDS? He'd finally had sex with
Brigand, and although he was utterly taken by her beauty and poise, she
WAS a stripper. Who knows what kind of diseases she might have without
even realizing it.
Once he was safely in the bathroom, he locked himself into a stall.
Nobody else was around, thankfully. He didn't even hear a mouse
breathing, or if he could have, it was muted by the much louder drip,
drip of the faucet. Anyway, in the stall he was safe. Confident of his
privacy, he looked down at himself, only to notice that things were
different. It was hard to put his finger on exactly what had changed,
but there WAS something. Definitely. His jeans seemed too tight,
squeezing his thighs and wrapping snugly around his crotch, like he was
David Bowie wearing leather pants. And his Sigor Ros t-shirt was
tighter, too, clinging to his skin. He could almost imagine he saw the
slight lumps on his chest. He touched them again, shocked to find that
they were even larger now . . . and softer. Although they were still
firm, they dimpled when he applied pressure, like tapioca. When another
wave passed over him, it was almost certain he could feel the warmth
settle in his chest. He realized he had to get a better look, and yanked
his shirt up.
He didn't like what he saw. Although his nipples were erect, they were
still larger than they had ever been before. And pinker. Girlier. And
beneath them were the lumps he had felt, chubby little deposits of fat.
He thought for a moment that he might be growing breasts, but that was
ridiculous. That never happened to guys, and certainly not this quickly.
Rather, he must be having an allergic reaction. Maybe bees stung each of
his nipples simultaneously, and now they were swelling, swelling.
Frustrated, he yanked his shirt back down, and was once again reminded of
how snugly it clung to him. The material seemed thinner than it used to
be, too. And if anything, his pants were even tighter than they had been
a moment before. Was he just imagining this? Was he feverish and
delusional? Because clothes didn't change by themselves. It took
sweatshops and immigrant labor to do that. The thin air couldn't
transform these threads.
Greg leaned against the stall door, trying to collect himself. What
should he do? The smart thing would probably be to go to the hospital,
but at the same time, he was so ashamed of what was happening to his body
that he didn't want anyone else to see, much less some impersonal medical
blowhard. The person he really wanted to see was Brigand. She'd be home
right now, and somehow, she'd be able to help him out. She was always on
top of things.
Taking one last deep breath, he opened the stall door and headed out of
the bathroom. Before he could leave, though, he was caught by his
reflection in the mirror. He was still recognizably himself, but he was
changing. There was no denying it. Looking at his profile, the first
thing he noticed was his ass, which was oddly pert. Maybe it was just
his tightening pants, which pushed his butt cheeks up and shaped them.
Yet even accounting for that, it still seemed too big, too shapely. If
he thought about it, his ass even felt heavier. And with each wave, he
could almost imagine he saw the difference.
But that was hardly the worst of it. Something was happening to his
face. It was softer now, and paler, too. Streaks of honey-blond ran
through his black hair. And although he'd always worn a shaggy cut, he
didn't remember it being this long. Leaning in close to the mirror, he
saw a difference in his eyes, too, which were rounding out, growing wide.
The lashes were longer, paler. Even his brown irises now had specks of
green. He hated what he saw, and before he could look any more, the door
burst open and some douche football player walked in. With a frustrated
growl, Greg turned around and stormed out of the bathroom. The football
player hadn't paid him any special attention, but they weren't friends,
either. The idiot wouldn't have noticed. But Greg didn't want anybody
he knew to see him, and slinking from hall to hall, he made his way to
the exit.
Brigand didn't live far from here, and she would most likely still be at
home. Although she was only sixteen, she'd dropped out of school and now
supported herself by working in a strip club. Greg thought it was kind
of sleazy of her, but she'd already saved over ten thousand dollars,
which she planned to use for an English degree. There was no denying
that she had a plan, and a plan that would work. Every other expense of
hers was cut to the minimum, so she drove an old Honda and lived in an
efficiency flat. It was enough for her needs, and in a few years, she
would probably be enrolling in some small liberal arts college.
Greg was relieved to find that there weren't many people on the street,
and he did his best to ignore those that were. Waves of warmth and
pleasure continued to settle across his body, particularly throbbing in
his chest, ass, and thighs. Several times he had to stop, gasping, but
quickly got on his way again, slightly dizzied. These waves were a
constant reminder of his swelling, changing body. He hated them, but a
part of him anticipated and even savored each one. It was undeniable
that they felt good, almost orgasmic, and that in spite of himself he was
highly aroused. His penis hadn't wilted once in the past half hour, and
his nipples were painfully tight. He could see them poking out beneath
the thin fabric of his shirt, bobbing over the two small lumps on his
chest. This whole experience wouldn't be nearly as trying if his clothes
hadn't become so tight, accentuating his blossoming curves so that pretty
much anyone could see. There was something in particular about the way
his shirt clung to his tapered waist that struck him as feminine, and as
he walked, there was a growing sway in his hips. He did his best to
correct this, trudging forward like a soldier, but this manner of walking
felt even less natural.
Nothing about the neighborhood Brigand lived in was 'nice' or 'wealthy.'
The buildings were unimaginatively rectangular, almost imposing, and the
handful of people on the street were clearly homeless. He tried not to
look anyone in the eye, though he could feel them leering at him. His
clothes were too damn revealing! They just put his paltry curves on
display, like he wanted people to stare at him or something. His shirt
in particular was getting bad. The sleeves, which had been down to his
elbows this morning, were now clinging just beneath his shoulders. The
neck line was also beginning to dip and widen into a large oval, exposing
more flesh then he would like. Worse yet, the bottom of his shirt was
slowly rising. It had hung past his belt when he first put it on. Now,
it exposed the barest sliver of midriff. At first he kept yanking it
down to compensate, but this only flattened the shirt around his chest,
making the growths there even more evident.
At one point, he had to walk right by a man waiting at a bus stop, and
although he refused to look at the stranger, Greg could tell that the man
was staring at him. He felt so strange in this body. His jeans were so
tight now, and the way they clung to his ass made him feel like he was
flaunting his sexuality, like a peacock spreading its feathers. He hated
the way his hips were rocking, each step more exaggerated then the last.
And worse yet, it was all so damnably pleasurable. He hated it!
Absolutely hated it!
He tugged at his shirt again, which had risen all the way to his belly
button. On their way down, though, his hands grazed unfamiliar fabric.
He looked to see the ruffled hem of a skirt emerging from beneath his
belt. It was still only a couple of inches long, but it was undeniable.
He was on his way to wearing a dress. How the hell was this happening?
No allergic reaction, no disease, could cause a person's clothes to
change. He prodded one of the growths on his chest again, which were now
the size of apricots, and he hated them. He had breasts. And an ass.
And his clothes were becoming women's clothes.
It was a great relief to finally arrive at Brigand's apartment. He
pounded urgently on the door, but to no response. Behind him he heard a
man approaching, some other guy who lived in the complex. The stranger's
gaze settled on his ass, and obeying some unfamiliar instinct, he tilted
it up to give the man a better look. When he realized what he had done,
he immediately tucked his butt back in, sliding his hands over his cheeks
in last minute attempt at modesty. He could already feel the difference,
the way his butt stuck out so firmly. It was the kind of ass that begged
to be grabbed. It was his ass. What the hell was happening to him! He
pounded on the door again, and finally, a sleepy Brigand open up.
"Yes?" she asked, rubbing some sleep out of her right eye and staring
firmly at him with the other, as though he were a stranger.
"Brigand, don't you recognize me?"
And suddenly she paused, her eyes growing wider. "Greg?" Her voice was
incredulous, and in the next moment, her eyes were roving his body.
"Greg? What the hell happened to you?" Behind him, the man whistled, so
Greg wedged his way past her and into the living room, becoming suddenly
aware of how tall she was. Just the other night he had towered over her.
Now, they were on the same level.
She glowered at the man outside then slammed the door shut. When she
turned back around, she was once again startled by the way Greg looked.
"What the hell happened?"
Although Greg was embarrassed, he tugged his shirt up. "I'm growing
breasts," he growled. Yes. He was growing breasts. And with that, Greg
crumpled, bawling with hot tears. She rushed over, taking him into her
embrace. He felt so weak, so warm. She hugged him and stroked his hair,
and he tried to collect himself-but couldn't. Now that the dams were
broken, there was no stopping the flood. He lost all track of time, and
only very slowly did the two of them pull apart, their eyes still moist.
"What's happening, Greg?"
He remained silent, trying to form his words, and she reached over and
swept a strand of blond hair out of his face. "I don't know," he finally
said. "I'm think I'm turning into a girl, and I don't know how to stop
it."
"Why don't we go to a hospital, then? They're bound to have a cure."
Greg just shook his head, his eyes once again brimming with tears. He
barely managed to keep them in this time. "No. This isn't natural.
Look, my clothes are changing, too." And he gestured at his shirt, his
pants, the skirt which now hung past his crotch. "I don't know what's
happening. It's like magic."
Brigand was silent for a long moment, thinking things through. Finally,
she looked him in the eye, smiling as warmly as a mother tending to her
son's scrapped knee. "Well, let's see if we can find an answer." And
with that, she went over to her laptop and turned it on. He followed
her, the two of them sitting on the edge of her bed staring at the
screen. It couldn't hold his interest for long, though, and soon he
noticed that while he had wept, his body had matured even more. He could
feel the heavy sway of his breasts as he breathed. They were the size of
clinched fists, and his nipples stood erect and enormous beneath the thin
fabric.
"Look at this," Brigand said pointing to the screen. She'd typed 'male
to female transformation' into Google, and it had pulled up over a
hundred thousands hits. They began culling through the pages, but as had
happened in class, Greg found it hard to concentrate as wave after wave
moved across his body. He eventually laid across her bed, belly down and
propped up by his elbows. His breasts hung heavily beneath him, aching
as they grew.
His eyes eventually settled on Brigand's teddy bear, which she still kept
on one of her pillows. He was surprised by how adorable it was and even
more surprised by the sudden urge to pick it up and cradle it to his
bosom. Somehow, he knew that would soothe him, would help him feel like
everything was alright. He even reached for it, but then snatched his
hand back at the last moment.
Twisting around to look at Brigand's progress, he was instead shocked by
the slender curves of his waist and the sumptuous rise of his backside,
particularly the way it tapered into his butt. His ass cheeks were
enormous, ripe. He didn't want his body to look like that, but at the
same time, they made him feel so weird. He was aroused by himself, proud
of the blooming heaviness of his flesh.
"I feel dirty," Brigand suddenly muttered, slamming her laptop shut.
When she glanced back at Greg, though, her tone immediately softened.
"Maybe we can find something at the library. I once read these stories
by a Roman poet, and they dealt with transformations like this. Maybe we
can find some answers there."
Greg lowered his head and stared despondently at his bosom. He felt
defeated. He was becoming a chick, a girl, a woman. "I don't know,
Brigand. This is so far along, I can't have much-" And suddenly Greg
stopped, gasping. His whole body froze up, like a rabbit spotting a fox
in the underbrush. It took a moment for him to pinpoint what was
happening. A cleft was growing in his groin, and it was wrapping its
gummy jaws around one of his testicles. He tried to control it, but soon
the cleft was gobbling his testicle down. He reached for it, trying to
pull it back out, but it was slippery and soon he was accidentally
pushing it further in. The feeling, needless to say, was electric. He
gasped with pleasure, and before he could stop himself, he applied more
pressure, until with a satisfying pop, it had been completely consumed.
"What the hell just happened?" Brigand shouted. Already, Greg could feel
his testicle worming its way through his guts, beginning its own
transformation into an ovary. Already, the lips of the cleft began
swallowing his second testicle.
"I-I'm losing my balls." His voice was husky, sexual, feminine. He felt
like he was about to orgasm, orgasm in a way he never had before. His
eyes rolled up to the top of his head and he started breathing heavily.
With his hands, he reached over to begin pushing in his last testicle,
but Brigand batted him away. She deftly grasped his ball between her
fingers, pulling backwards. Amazingly, it was actually coming out, but
the feeling was disappointing. He NEEDED to fill the cleft. He WANTED
his testicle in there. And he began bucking his hips force it back in.
She slammed her free hand against his belly to hold him down. The
feeling of having his testicle removed was horrible. He wanted MORE.
And so in one last effort, he thrust his whole body up, ramming his groin
against her hand. With a satisfying pop, it too snaked into his guts,
and he realized with sudden terror that he'd lost both his testicles in a
moment of passion.
"Why the hell did you do that?" Greg couldn't answer her. Instead, he
rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. Inside his
hips, he could feel his testicles changing, his sexual identity changing.
He was becoming fertile. The pride he had in his hips suddenly made
sense. Those hips made him a woman. That ass made him a woman. Those
thighs made him a woman. He wanted to hate these things, but his anger
kept dissolving beneath a flood of warmth and pride. "What's happening
to me?" he moaned, his voice getting so unfamiliar.
Collecting his thoughts, he turned to stare at himself in the mirror.
Once again, he was overcome with conflicting emotions. His blond hair,
his wide blue eyes. His face was rounded, angelic. He looked nothing
like himself. He bit his lips, and once again, he felt like crying. His
shirt had become a simple halter top, stopping just beneath his growing
bosom. Although it didn't reveal any cleavage, it did something far
worse. It sported a large, golden K between his two breasts. It was a
cheerleader's top. Meanwhile, his skirt hung just beneath his ass, the
velvety blue of team spirit, and his pants were thinning, turning ragged
with holes, as though they'd been trapped in a drawer with moths for
years.
He considered looking beneath them at his crotch, but decided not to.
When he passed his hand over it, he felt how small his penis had become,
no bigger than a thumb. He didn't want to see his manhood pass like
that. He'd rather remember it in its full glory.
He was about to leave, when he gave himself one last look in the mirror.
He was beautiful. Not himself, it was true . . . but beautiful. He put
his hands on his hips, impressed by how firm and heavy they were. Then
caught by a sudden whim, he shot an arm out and pointed at himself,
swaying his body with saucy ease. Yeah, he was hot. The other
cheerleaders were bound to envy him.
He spent the next five minutes posing in front of the mirror. When he
stepped out again, he was startled to find Brigand still sitting on the
bed, staring at him with sympathy. "Sorry about what I said, Greg. How
are you feeling?"
Greg simply smiled and shrugged. "I guess I'm coming to terms with it.
I mean, at least I'm kind of hot." And he playfully swung his hips for
her. The waves were only getting more intense, and he could feel himself
growing, spreading, becoming a true goddess of fertility. Brigand simply
looked at him, concerned, but then tried to cover it up.
"Well, good," she said. Greg sashayed over to her bed, sitting himself
down near her pillows.
"So you think I'm cute?"
Brigand shrugged. "You always have been, Greg."
He simply nodded, smiling smugly. "I can probably have any guy I want."
"What?"
"Oh, nothing. Just kidding around."
There was an awkward pause, then Brigand finally spoke up. "So, are you
becoming a cheerleader or something?"
Greg laughed again. Neither he nor Brigand had ever had much respect for
cheerleaders. "I don't know," he responded, once again shocked by how
light, even airy his voice had become. He got up again, restlessly
stretching. It felt so good to move his body.
"What are you doing?"
"Stretching. It feels really good." As he did so, he saw his jeans
finally fall away, disintegrating into a thousands shards of fabric. His
exposed legs were gorgeous, just stunning, like a butterfly emerging from
its cocoon. He began jumping excitedly, his arms and legs moving of
their own accord. When he started cheering, as well, Brigand pushed him
angrily to the bed, pinning him by his shoulders. His ass hung heavily
over the edge.
"What the hell was that?" Her eyes were frightening, and staring into
them, Greg suddenly felt himself stirring, as if from a daze.
"I . . . I just got carried away."
"This is starting to affect your head, Greg. Fight it."
He knew she was right, but after a few moments, the waves started
settling across his body again. He felt his mind whirring with activity,
excitement. Smiling, he looked up at her and giggled.
"Greg," she barked. "Concentrate."
And then he was back again. He glanced down at his body, at his breasts.
His ass felt so heavy hanging over the edge of the bed. What had
happened to him? What was he becoming? "My ass is so big," he moaned.
"It doesn't matter. You're Greg, no matter what."
"But it's different." It wasn't just that his ass looked different. It
had a different purpose. It was there to feed an unborn child, to help
him make babies. That was his whole purpose now. It was all he really
wanted. "Brigand, I want to have babies."
"It doesn't matter, Greg. You're you, no matter what."
His shoulders were so small, his skin so soft and weak. The only thing
big about him now were his breasts, and his hips, his ass. They were
disgusting, yet they were his and he was proud of them. They made him a
woman, a beautiful, fertile woman. He could wrap this body around anyone
on the football team-
"Look at me. Your name is Greg. Don't forget that, okay? Your name is
Greg and you and I had sex just the other night, and you loved it."
What the hell was happening? He felt so giddy, confused.
"And you like it when I dance, Greg. You pretend you don't, but I can
tell. You think it's hot when a woman dances for you, just for you."
Yes, he remembered it all. How she had surprised him, dimming the lights
and playing music that embarrassed him with its heavy beat. She had
slowly taken everything off, and he just sat there on the bed, his pants
tented. He tried to pretend that he didn't care, like he was better than
this, but then she began grinding her ass in his lap. Oh, how he had
loved her ass. How he still loved her ass!
He grabbed her suddenly, pulling her body closer to his. Their breasts
flattened against each other, and their lips were both so big, so tender.
He wrapped his legs around her, and they twisted and wrestled in bed, one
body tight against another. The waves had stopped, and his thoughts were
clear. He felt like himself, somewhat, but he now knew he belonged in
this body. And the two of them found whole new ways to please each
other.
Elouise
- 25.11.2021
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