Every bump on the drive home lands in the same location. I park in the driveway and sit there for a moment with my hands on the wheel, the cramping still there.

The kitchen light is on when I come through the door. Emily is at the counter, laptop open, case files spread out, reading glasses on. She doesn't look up. I put my bag down quietly and go upstairs.

The bathroom. Stand under the fluorescent light for a moment.

I wake before the alarm.

This happens sometimes, the body surfacing on its own. But not groggy — more like arriving somewhere, the transition between sleep and waking unusually clean, as though I've come online all at once rather than in stages.

I lie still.

Caden wakes with his arms folded across his chest, fingers digging into his own ribs. A dull ache pulses beneath the skin — persistent, like the ghost of a bruise. He rolls onto his back and hisses as the sheets drag across his nipples, rough against skin that had turned traitor overnight. The pain isn't localized; it radiates outward in concentric circles, tightening with each breath. He presses the heel of his hand against his sternum, testing. The pressure sends a jolt down to his navel.

The locker room routine is practiced now. End stall, bag on the hook, change in under two minutes. Mark is already on the floor, because Mark is always already on the floor - changed in thirty seconds in the open bay, the way he always does, because Mark has never had a reason to think about changing in a locker room.

I find him at the dumbbell rack, mid-warm-up.

"You're late."

"Two minutes."

"Two minutes is late." He racks the weight. "Biceps first."

---

I am Vera.

The name is simply there — not chosen, not arrived at. Present the way the body is present, like the room is present. All three arrive at once and I can't tell you the order.

I wake before the alarm. The room is grey. I lie there taking stock - the burn is still there, but noticeably less. The itch is mostly gone. But there's something in the boxer briefs again, the same thick dampness against the labia as when I woke in the night.

I get up carefully, not waking Emily.

I pull open the waistband and check the boxer briefs in the bathroom. A white discharge in the crotch - different from last night, no sour smell, something milder. I drop the underwear to the floor and turn on the shower.

"Four weeks," Caden mutters as the gravel crunches under his tires, the cabin's wooden sign swinging slightly in the wind. He parks, kills the engine, sits for a moment staring at the pine trees crowding the driveway. The tour contract is signed, the advance spent. A short drive from Denver, no distractions. Just the work.

The gym's fluorescent lights are unforgiving. I take a stall to change, shucking my jeans. My usual workout shorts go on and I understand the problem immediately: the fabric pulls tight across a rear that's rounder and fuller than two days ago, the seat straining in a way that has nothing to do with fit. I have less muscle in my thighs and the mass sits differently - softer at the inner thigh, fuller at the seat, less dense at the outer quad. The shorts follow a silhouette I don't recognize. I dig out my sweatpants and put those on instead.

I wake to the same unfamiliar dampness, the boxers riding up. Emily's side of the bed is empty.

I ball the boxers in my fist and drop them in the hamper. Stand there a moment. Then go to the bathroom.

I flip the toilet seat up by reflex. Stand there looking at it. The medicine cabinet mirror gives me back my own face - same as always from the chin up - and below the waist the whole absurdity of what I'm about to attempt. I spread my feet, plant them shoulder-width apart, and try.

Outside the window the light is flat and grey, the kind of March morning that hasn't decided what it wants to do yet. I kick the sheets off. The air in the bedroom is cool but my thighs feel damp, sticky almost, the boxers bunching up between my legs like they're caught on something. I press my palms into the mattress and push myself up, legs swinging over the edge - except my balance is wrong. Not dizzy. Just off, like my center of gravity shifted an inch or two south while I was sleeping.

The late afternoon sun hung low, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement as Eric Whitmore walked home from school. His slight frame and delicate features—long lashes framing gray eyes—drew stares, as they always did. At thirteen, he was used to the whispers, the assumptions, but they still stung like salt in an open wound.

Myranda Whitmore: a woman in her mid-thirties, forged of unyielding authority and raw strength. She's the ultimate manipulator—the type no one dares refuse. No one, except her son, Eric Whitmore. At 13, he mirrors her commanding gaze and unblinking resolve, yet tempers it with a sympathy and kindness forever beyond her grasp.

Oh, hello! Please come in, handsome, and don’t mind the cats. But make sure you don’t step on any of them, hard as that may be considering the number currently in my “collection: you don’t want to end up like the last unfortunate fellow to darken my crooked doorway!

This standalone story is my submission for the literotica Halloween contest, if you enjoy it, feel free to go over there and vote!
https://www.literotica.com/s/frat-house-feminization
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Queen's Gambit - Chapter 4

© Copyright 2025 Maeryn Lamonte

We’d taken over a fair chunk of one of the carriages and the girls were back to chatting animatedly. Most of them had rediscovered their appetites and we’re tucking into energy bars and sucking on juice boxes. I still wasn’t hungry, but dug out my juice box to suck on just so I could join in, and so I had an excuse for not saying much.

“Natalia… Natalia”, I barely registered the voice. “Oi, Natalia!” Calvin almost shouted, it took a moment before I realised he was talking to me, while I'd often thought of myself as Natalia, I clearly was not yet fully used to others referring to me with the name.

“You only have like 4 hours before mum and dad get home, Laura will be over later, you should probably get up.”

After dinner, they passed a very agreeable hour in a slow, mutual exploration of each other's bodies. To Tano's relief, Eldreth wasn't at all put out that Tano came twice to her once, saying that it was both a tremendous compliment and extremely sexy.

The post-coital cuddling was wonderful enough to be its own revelation, but Tano declined Eldreth's invitation to stay the night, preferring to spend the night in his own space.

The next morning, he made a point of stopping at The Drunken Lord.

You’ve seen her caps, heard her singles and waited far too long! It’s time for the first chapter of Sissy Sassi’s mainline story! It’s currently the first of two, not counting all the singles and music videos! If you want to read and watch all the rest, subscribe to my patreon:
https://www.patreon.com/c/SissyGirlSammi
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My mouth and eyes were dry, sunlight through my parents window caused me to stir. I rubbed my eyes a little, after opening them I realised what a mistake that was. I had been wearing mascara, eyeliner and eyeshadow last night and hadn't removed it prior to sleep. The black smudged transfer on my hands led me to expect the same on my face.

He found it difficult to settle back into work upon his return.

Even once his member returned to normal, there was a bewildering array of processes that he couldn't stop being aware of. The expansion and contraction of his chest, once an imitated habit meant to put humans at ease and now a biological necessity. Blinking, as apparently one's eyes were another body part that needed to remain moist. To say nothing of his first experience of defecation, which had been unpleasant.