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It was almost five o'clock, and as I was gathering my things to get ready to go home from work, Lewis came into my office, smiling big. "Hey, Mac, let's go downtown and hit the bars after work, what do you say?"My friend and coworker, Lewis, was always up for going out on the town, and I usually declined. Today, however, I was in just the mood for it. I had had a very bad day at the office, with my boss harassing me, clients being assholes, paperwork being messed up - I needed to blow off some steam. "You know what Lewis, yeah, I'm down. I could use a good night out." "Sweet man, I'll meet you at the usual spot at ten or so, yeah?" "Sounds good, I'll see you then." With that, he left, and I was soon on my way home as well. On the way, I thought about quitting my job. I didn't need it; I was what some might refer to as a "trust fund baby." I had around a hundred thousand dollars in my account at any given time, and I was beginning to think it was time for an extended vacation. If only I'd known what kind of vacation I had coming... I lazed about my house for a few hours, made a quick dinner, got cleaned up, and headed to Larry's at about ten. Larry's was a semi-dive bar, with enough ambiance to be interesting, but it had a nice crowd, and usually had good music playing. I sat at the bar and ordered myself a beer, and was about halfway through it when Larry showed up. He was in a much better mood than I was. "Yo Mac, how's it goin'?" "Well," I started, "work sucked today, I just don't know how much longer I'm going to stay there-" "Aw fuck it man, let's have some fun! Bartend, lemme get a scotch rocks, if you please!" You could always count on Larry to brush off your problems and just have a good time. We talked for a while, just two guys hanging out, waiting for the night to get going. We shot some pool, put some dollars into the jukebox, and drank. I had a few more drinks than I had intended, and by midnight, I was pretty well drunk. That was when more people really started to show up and crowd the bar. "Hey, let's move on to someplace less crowded, huh?" Larry suggested. "Nah, I'm good here, let's just chill for a bit," I replied. I was still feeling kind of crappy, and didn't really want to move from my current spot at the bar. "Alright, whatever man. I'm gonna go take a piss." And he disappeared to the back of the bar. Just then, a woman came up to the bar to order a drink, dressed in a tight miniskirt, a tiny tank top, and stiletto heels. Just as I was about to take a sip of my gin and tonic, she bumped right into me and spilled it onto my shirt and pants. "Dammit, fucking whore," I muttered, a little louder than I had intended. "What did you say to me?" She looked at me with real anger in her eyes. "What the fuck did you just call me?" For just a moment - a moment that was perhaps the most important of my life - I hesitated, thinking that I should apologize. But she had spilled my drink and hadn't apologized! So the alcohol won out. "I said you're a fucking whore, what you gonna do about it?" It felt good to take out my frustrations on someone else, especially because she had done something that I felt made her deserve it. "You better take that back, you little prick." She was stone-cold serious. I should have taken it back. "Whatever slut, just get your tramp-stamped ass out of my way and let me finish what little drink I have left." I was really getting going now. The anger in her eyes melted away, and she smiled, leaned in towards me, and whispered in my ear: "You think I'M a slut? You have no idea. You messed with the wrong witch, son. See you around." At that point, the bartender handed her her drink, and she walked away. I didn't know what the hell she'd meant by that, but it kind of freaked me out. I took the last sip of my spilled drink, and when I turned around to see where the bitch had gone, I couldn't see her anywhere. I was looking around for her when I saw Larry coming back from the bathroom. "Hey, Larry, I'm really drunk, don't feel too good. Think it's time for me to go home." He looked less disappointed than I'd expected, which was a good thing. "Yeah man, all those beers just hit me. I think I need to go too. You OK to drive?" I thought about it for a second, and realized I probably wasn't. "Ummm...mind me crashing on your couch?" Larry lived a few blocks away, while I was on the other side of town. It was easily walking distance. "Yeah no problem Mac, just don't puke on it or the carpet and we'll be OK." So we walked back, and the whole time, I was thinking about what the woman at the bar had said to me. "You messed with the wrong witch?" What the hell was that supposed to mean? I knew it was probably just some bitch trying to fuck with me, but I couldn't help the feeling in the pit of my stomach that told me it was more than that. Of course, I couldn't say any of this to Larry. He'd just laugh, tell me I'd had too much to drink, and ignore me. I fell asleep on his couch fairly quickly after we got to his place; as uneasy as I was, I was drunk enough to overpower the anxiety and fell into a deep sleep. The next morning, I woke up, feeling fine except for a mild hangover. I felt a bit silly for getting so worked up about the "witch." I wandered into Larry's kitchen, found some cereal, and poured myself a bowl. Larry was still asleep, so I ate alone, in silence. As I spooned the cereal into my mouth, there seemed to be something wrong with my hands, though I couldn't place my finger on it. They looked like they always did, but I couldn't shake the nagging though that they weren't as they should be. I assumed it was just jitters after the weird night I had, and ignored the feeling. As I was finishing up my bowl, Larry came out of his room, bleary-eyed and clearly hungover as well, and entered the kitchen. "Mornin' Mac. Sleep well?" "Oh, well enough. How you feeling?" "Like shit," he said, with a smirk that meant "but it was worth it." I wanted to get home and take a shower, so I put my bowl and spoon in the dishwasher, still with the underlying feeling that my hands were wrong, and said, "thanks for the hospitality and everything, but I should get going. I wanna go get my car and go take a shower." "Yeah, sure," Larry replied. "You didn't puke or anything, did you?" "Nah man. I'm good. I'll see you around. Maybe we'll go out later tonight?" "Yeah, we'll see." I was walking out the door. "Later, man." "Later." I was out the front door and heading back to the bar, where my car was parked. It was only about a ten minute walk, and I made it there fine, trying not to look at my hands. It was really weird that I could not shake the feeling. As I was driving home, I couldn't help but stare at them on my steering wheel. The feeling was getting stronger: they were not as they should be! But they were definitely the same as they'd always been... Halfway home, I passed a nail salon in a strip mall, and was suddenly struck with what the problem was: not only were my fingernails way too short, but they didn't even have any nail polish on them! "Wait a minute, that's not right!" I thought, but the feeling was too strong to ignore any longer. I knew that what I was about to do was strange and unusual and wrong, but I couldn't fight the need to make my nails look pretty; they were just so BAD! I made a quick turn into the parking lot just as I was about to drive by, parked, and sat there for a moment. Was I really going to do this? Do my nails like a woman? I had never wanted to do anything like that before. "Holy shit," I muttered to myself, "it's the witch." I knew it was because of her, but that didn't help my current situation. My plain, boring fingernails were like an itch that needed so badly to be scratched, and the longer I refrained, the more intense the itch got. "Well, what could it really hurt?" I thought. "I can always undo it when I get home." And with that, I got out of the car and went into the nail salon. The ladies didn't ask any uncomfortable questions. I'm sure they've gotten weirdos and pervs before, and I was just one in the crowd. I had them give me a manicure so that my nails were perfectly shaped, in a rather feminine manner, and then topped with bright pink nail polish. Wait, why pink? I asked myself. That didn't seem like it had been part of the plan when I was in the car. But once it was done, I felt at ease. I felt like myself again. And though I suppressed the fear, that was really a very scary feeling. Then, on the spur of the moment when I was paying, I bought three bottles of nail polish: pink, deep red, and white. Somehow, I knew the white would be for when I wanted French tips. After I had gotten back in the car, I looked at my hands on the steering wheel. It looked so unusual, my big man hands with feminine, painted nails, but it felt so good. It was like having that itch scratched, or like finally sneezing after one had been building up for a long time. I couldn't explain it, but I LIKED it. I drove home extremely concerned, but somehow at ease. When I got home, it was only about eleven in the morning, but since it was a Saturday and I had nowhere to go, I took a nap. I had planned on taking a shower, but that could wait. I guessed that I hadn't slept very well that night due to the alcohol, and conked out in my bed. I was probably only asleep for an hour or so, but awoke feeling refreshed and ready for the day. I took off my clothes and started the shower. As I pulled my hand back from the hot water knob after turning it on, I gasped and pulled back. My hands were different! They were smaller, the fingers were slimmer, the nails were longer. The scar I had on the back of my right hand where my dog had bit me as a kid was gone. I stood there in shock for several seconds, or minutes, I'm really not sure. "What the fuck..." Was all I could say after staring at them for however long I was standing there, dumbstruck. The situation was doubly weird. For one thing, my hands had drastically changed since I went down for my nap. That was strange enough. But the really unsettling part was that, the same as it had been after I got my nails done, it felt right. I didn't want my old, big, gross hands back. Those hands weren't pretty like these ones. I knew I shouldn't have felt that way, but that didn't change anything. There was nothing I could do about the fact that, deep in my body and soul, I felt that these hands were as they should be. With the unnatural calm I felt in the face of such an absurd situation, I finally stepped into the shower. The hot water felt so good, I decided I was going to take a nice long one, and wash my worries away. But before I had even started cleaning myself, a new nagging feeling crept into my mind. This time, it had to do with my legs. It was the same as it had been with the bowl of cereal; they just felt wrong when I looked at them. I knew again that the witch was responsible for this feeling, but again, there was nothing I could do about it. I washed my hair, and as I did, the mental itch grew stronger. I rinsed the shampoo out, then started soaping up. My unease grew with every passing second. By the time I was rinsing the soap off, I knew what was wrong with my legs, and it was like there was a blaring alarm going off in my head: "SHAVE YOUR LEGS THEY ARE TOO HAIRY. SHAVE YOUR LEGS THEY ARE TOO HAIRY. SHAVE YOUR LEGS THEY ARE TOO HAIRY." I couldn't think of anything else. The itch was turning to agony. I knew I shouldn't, but I couldn't help myself. I reached for my razor, which I kept in the shower, and slowly began shaving my legs of all their hair. With each stroke of the razor, the itch subsided. The more hair I saw go down the drain, the more peace I felt in my mind from that undeniable urge. The whole time I was shaving, I was admiring my pretty hands with their long, pink nails, thinking about how great it would feel to jerk off now that it would be with a woman's hands. I wasn't quite on autopilot, but my thoughts were definitely running away without my control. I should have been scared, and I knew it, but when I searched for the fear, it was hard to find. I just felt too good. After I had finished up in the shower and toweled off, I admired my legs in the mirror. I rubbed them up and down, feeling their smoothness, and it felt so much better than I ever thought my legs could feel. All the weirdness that I should have felt from shaving my legs with my new feminine hands was lost in the overpowering feeling of contentment as I rubbed them up and down. Just then, out of nowhere, I felt tired again. As I went to take another nap, a moment of clarity hit me, and I said to my empty bedroom, "Oh shit, first the hands, now the legs...I need to stay awake!" But I was just too tired. I plopped down on the bed and fell asleep immediately. When I awoke, I again felt great. I felt like nothing could stop me. I felt like a million bucks. Then I felt my legs move against each other as I stirred, and I stopped cold. They were totally smooth, but it was more than that. They felt different. I tore off the sheets and looked at them in horror. What used to be manly but skinny chicken legs were now full, shapely woman legs. My thighs were much wider than they used to be, with much more fat and less muscle, but they tapered down past the knees to slender calves and petite ankles. My feet, however, were unchanged, and it bothered me immediately. My horror forgotten, I just wanted to know why I had to have nice, beautiful legs, but big, ugly feet? Just then, I knew something that would help. I grabbed the little bag I had from the nail salon and grabbed the pink nail polish, and before I could even argue with myself, I had painted my toes to match my fingers. There hadn't been a thought in my head as it went on; I was just so focused on making my toenails match my pretty fingernails. When I was finished, my feet still looked strange attached to my little feminine ankles, but I felt a little bit better. All day, I had been following these compulsions, with only the slightest bits of hesitation, and now my body was drastically changed because of it. Underneath the undeniable desire to satiate these new desires, I was always scared, confused, and angry. I knew that the woman from the bar the night before had done this to me. I knew that I should resist before I lost more of my body. I knew these things, but that didn't change the fact that when I felt that I had to do something to my body, I was going to do it. It really was like a sneeze; you can delay it a little bit through intense force of will, but it's going to happen whether you like it or not. As I was staring at my legs, hoping against hope that this would be the end of it, that hope was shattered by a new feeling of unease: that my nipples were wrong. I was terrified of what that would mean, when I figured it out what I would have to do to alter them, but I had a feeling it would probably result in me growing breasts. Just then, my phone rang. I picked it up and it was Larry. "Hey, how you feeling Mac? Still wanna meet up tonight?" I had no idea what to say; I knew I couldn't tell him what was going on, but I also knew I couldn't just show up and pretend nothing was wrong. So I lied. "You know, I think drinking so much really messed me up. I'm pretty sure I'm getting sick." "Ha, well, you always were a pussy. If you're feeling up to it later, I'm gonna be heading to the Lagoon, try to pick up some chicks. I was thinking we'd do better as a pair, but oh well! Later!" And with that, he hung up, before I could even say anything else. Larry was always kind of an asshole, I thought as I pinched my nipple. Wait a minute, had I been doing that the whole phone call? I realized that I had. I put the phone down and started pinching both nipples; it felt so good. It felt like I was starting to scratch the itch that had to do with them. But I knew it wasn't enough. I realized as I pinched them harder and harder what it was I needed to do to make them feel alright: I had to get them pierced. This was one impulse I was prepared to fight. The hands and legs were one thing, and I supposed that I could live with the changes in those body parts. But I knew that if I pierced my nipples, I would grow breasts, and that would be the point of no return. So I went into my bed, wrapped myself in the sheets, and tried my very hardest to ignore the tugging in my brain that was dragging at me, pulling at me, BEGGING me to pierce my nipples. I pinched them as hard as I could, nonstop, until I inadvertently fell asleep. When I awoke, my brain was on fire. The need to poke holes through my nipples and then put decorative metal through those holes was overwhelming. I felt as though I would go insane if I held out any longer. Some sort of logic told me that it was better to be sane with breasts than to be insane. I grabbed my wallet and keys, slipped on my shoes, and ran out the door. At which point, I tripped and fell out of my shoes, landing neatly on my front lawn. I sat there for a moment, slightly dazed, as I wondered how I had tripped so randomly. Then I saw the feet that had flown out of my shoes: they were tiny, dainty things. There was no way any of my shoes would fit any more. I went back inside, grabbed a few paper towels, and shoved them into the front of my shoes. I stuck my feet back in, laced them up as tight as they would go, and walked much more carefully out to my car. My entire lower half was now female, and despite my growing panic, I calmly got behind the wheel of my car and drove to the nearest tattoo and piercing shop. My body was not entirely my own at that point; the feeling of being on the edge of a sneeze was stronger than ever - I could not control what was going to happen, only exactly when. I drove with one hand the whole way, using the other to switch between my nipples, pinching them as hard as I could to alleviate the desire emanating from them. When I got to the shop, it was almost six o'clock. There was no one there, ("Thank God!" my body shouted) so I sat right down and told the guy what I wanted. "Yep, both nipples." I answered his incredulous questions. "And I want little barbells to go in them." "Alright," the guy said, slightly amused. "Anything else?" Until he asked the next question, I hadn't thought of anything but the need to get my nipples pierced. But when he asked, I realized there was a whole lot else that I wanted. "Yeah, actually. I want my tongue, left nostril, both ears, and belly button pierced as well. I'll pick out the jewelry for it later." "I don't know, man. We usually don't do that much all at once. It can get infected, it's a lot to-" I interrupted him by pulling out my wallet and producing a wad of hundred-dollar bills. What can I say? I'm a trust-fund baby. Money talks. "Yeah well, on second thought, lets just do it, yeah?" It wasn't a question. I was there for quite some time, in absolute ecstasy from feeling all of my needs being fulfilled. When he was finished, I proceeded to pick out all of the jewelry I would be putting in my body. For the nipples, I picked out a few pairs of barbells. For my nose, an imitation diamond that shimmered beautifully in the light. For my tongue I got a barbell with pink balls on the ends, and for my ears I got bright gold hoops. The guy was giving me weird looks the whole time, and I could tell he was barely containing every snarky gay joke he could think of, but I was paying lot of money, and it was in his best interest to just shut up. When I'd gotten all of the jewelry, care instructions, and supplies, I headed out to my car and went to go home floating on cloud nine. So many compulsions satisfied in such a short time! I was high on life the whole drive home, and barely noticed when I turned into the parking lot of the mall that was on my way home. By this time it was about eight at night, but the mall was open till ten, so there was still plenty of time. I needed lingerie. I needed skirts. I needed dresses. I needed tank tops and tube tops and button- up blouses and tight-fitting tees. I needed shoes. Oh GOD, did I need shoes. The paper-towel-stuffed tennis shoes I was wearing were killing me, especially walking on my tiptoes. "Wait," I wondered. "Why am I walking on my tiptoes?" I tried walking flat again, but it just felt wrong. It felt wrong just like not swaying my ass back and forth as I walked felt wrong. Just like not staring at hot guys as they walked by felt wrong. The curse, or whatever it was, was working deeper and deeper into my psyche with every passing minute. I walked into the department store at the front of the mall and went on an immediate and unstoppable shopping spree. Before I could even think about what choices I was making, I had picked out a week's worth of a woman's wardrobe. I paid for it while avoiding eye contact and saying only as much as I had to. I ran back out to my car with my four bags full of treasures, and almost passed out in the parking lot as soon as I got in the driver's seat. I was exhausted again. But I knew that every time I fell asleep, my body changed more and more. I was fighting my hardest to stay awake, but sleep was coming upon me like a tidal wave. I flipped down my car's visor and looked in the mirror, seeing my own face for what I suspected would be the last time. I was correct, although I didn't know it for sure in that moment. Before I fell asleep, fighting to stay awake and maintain what masculinity I had left, I looked in my shopping bags at what I had purchased. I noticed two things before sleep overtook me: I had bought five pairs of high heels and no other types of shoes, and the bras I had purchased looked absolutely enormous. I checked the tag on one of them, bleary-eyed, barely able to read it: 36HH. When I awoke, I knew my changes were almost complete. Over the course of one single day, I had been compelled to voluntarily, yet uncontrollably, alter things about myself that were then causing me to turn into a woman. I was technically still in charge of my body, but the compulsions were so strong that I only had nominal choice in the matter. I looked around me and took stock of my situation. It must have been after ten; the lights were all off in the mall and there were very few cars in the lot. I was lucky that a security guard hadn't knocked on my window after seeing me asleep in the car. The first thing I noticed, aside from what time it was, was that I had two enormous globes on my chest. I rubbed and squeezed them almost subconsciously, feeling their weight in my hands, loving the sensations I was getting from them. Their hefty weight was so satisfying, even though I could already feel the strong, slightly uncomfortable pull on my shoulders and back. I again looked in the mirror of the visor, which I had left down the last time I looked, and saw a completely different face than what I was used to seeing in the mirror. It was the face of a beautiful young woman, with luscious lips, resting apart in a cupid's-bow, big doe eyes, high cheekbones, and a tiny upturned nose. After a moment of terror at what I was seeing, I did the only reasonable thing I could think of: I flipped the visor up so I couldn't see the impossible reflection staring back at me, started the car, and drove home, pretending that it wasn't happening. I must have been in shock. I pulled into the driveway in a daze, absently clicking my tongue jewelry against my teeth. In the back of my mind, a thought was arising that I was doing a good job of ignoring, at least so far: the thought that I wanted the taste of semen on that tongue. As I approached my front door, I was struck by the feeling that there was something I should do before going inside. I reached into my new purse I had purchased at the mall and pulled out a pack of slim, girly cigarettes that I didn't even realize I'd bought until I was grabbing them, put one in my mouth, and lit it with the lighter I must have purchased at the same time. "Oh, god, what am I doing?" I asked under my breath, but I knew full well what I was doing. I was just taking another step on this truly fucked-up journey. The sound of my manly voice coming from this decidedly feminine body was somewhat jarring to me, and I (almost) hoped that the cigarette would take care of that inconsistency. As I took that first drag, I knew I was completely hooked. The heat in my throat, the rush of nicotine, the sexiness of having something in my mouth to suck on - it was one of the more pleasurable experiences of the day, and I'd certainly had my share of pleasure. After several drags, I was in near-ecstasy, and let out a soft moan as I exhaled. "Uhhhmmmm," came the sexy contralto voice I had been expecting to hear. In that little moan was enough sultry seduction to know that my earlier desire to taste cum would be easy enough to satisfy. By the end of the smoke, my yucky male voice now satisfactorily overwritten, I was feeling sleepy. I knew what that meant - more changes - but I was confused about what they could be. The smoking had made my voice change immediately, and I hadn't done anything else that I thought would have any effect. As I sauntered into the house, still walking on tiptoes and wiggling my ass like the world was watching, I realized that I needed to change my clothes. The male outfit I had left the house wearing now looked completely silly and wrong on me. I stripped naked in my bedroom, after dropping my shopping bags by the bed, and proceeded to look down in horror at my crotch. It was so wrong! My cock and balls still hung between my shapely thighs, totally out of place and disgusting. I knew what I had to do. My resistance was all but gone at that point; I was trying to cooperate with the curse to make it easier on my tortured mind. I reached into one of the shopping bags, pulled out a pair of lacy black sheer panties, and slipped them on. I only lamented the fact that my male genitals made the panties fit poorly for a couple of moments; before I had much time to dwell on it, I was fast asleep. I awoke at around midnight feeling like I had been born again. I knew immediately that I was a complete woman now. The panties had seen to that while I slept. I was so physically happy that I almost missed the screams of horror shrieking out in my brain from the part of me that still wanted to resist; still wanted to be a man; still wanted to figure out a way to reverse all of this; still wanted to choke that witch to death. As I reached down to finger my new pussy, those screams were drowned out by my moans of pleasure, a squeaky soprano now that sleep had finished what the cigarette started. I tore my panties off and started intensely working my virginal pussy. With one hand, I rubbed my clit with my thumb while fingering myself, and with the other hand, I squeezed and pinched my massive breasts, enjoying the pain whenever I tweaked my pierced nipples. Remembering that Larry was out at the Lagoon, I imagined him fucking me instead of having to use my hand, and the thought brought me to new heights of pleasure. When I realized that I would never use protection during sex, and would probably get pregnant, the mental picture of me swollen with child, milk being sucked from my engorged pierced nipples, caused me to scream in an agonizingly intense orgasmic explosion that wiped out all thoughts of ever trying to change back. I knew what was going to come after this, because I was now listening eagerly to what my body was telling me. I was going to enjoy having this sexy body - how could I not, when it felt so RIGHT? I was going to love every second of walking on my dainty feet, never wearing any shoes but high heel. I was going to love the feeling of wearing skirts so short I would be able to feel my thighs rubbing together. I was going to enjoy every bounce of my mammoth tits. I was going to lick my lips in excitement whenever I saw a cock. I was going to get more tattoos and piercings all over, to accentuate the fact that my body was an object. I couldn't wait for the rest of my new, sexy life. I was going to be a chain-smoking, makeup-wearing, skankily-dressed, sex-addicted, cum- addicted, pierced, tattooed slut. I was going to get pregnant and have men drink my milk. I was going to fuck every day, as much as I could, no matter what. And I couldn't wait to call up Larry to have him be my first. I'm open to writing more if the people demand it, but I really just wanted to focus on the process of the transformation for this one. Thanks for reading. Feedback appreciated!