The smell of toasted garlic and burnt onion envelops the hallway just as I walk past the glass door of the breakroom. The sickness hits as a chemical revulsion that short-circuits my whole body. Saliva floods my mouth in a hot rush.

I turn around and walk directly to the third-floor family restroom. I push the door shut, slide the deadbolt, and drop to my knees in front of the toilet.

The glass doors of the fitness center slide apart, letting a rush of over-conditioned air hit the August heat still clinging to my neck. I step inside. The lobby smells of rubber flooring, ozone, and citrus cleaner.

I haven't been here in weeks. I haven't swiped my membership card since the afternoon I tried to run on a treadmill and felt my chest tearing itself apart. The plastic card is slippery in my damp hand. I scan it at the turnstile. The desk attendant, a college kid wearing a tight black polo, doesn't even look at his monitor.

Mark Lansing never wanted to stand out. He was perfectly happy disappearing into a football huddle with the rest of the team until one play made him the talk of the town. Thrust into a spotlight he never wanted, every choice can reshape his future, and every decision could transform him in ways he never believed possible. Mark’s destiny will be determined on the field … assuming he can figure out how to dress the part.

The razor sits on the edge of the bathroom sink. A thin layer of white dust coats the plastic handle. The blades are dulling from the humidity of the shower. I haven't picked it up in two weeks. The dark stubble that used to shadow my jaw every morning stopped growing.

I brace both hands against the porcelain rim and look at the mirror.

The bleeding started Tuesday.

I woke up with a deep, grinding ache in the lower pelvis and a dampness that wasn't like anything I'd experienced before. Dark red against the gray cotton of my old boxer briefs. I sat on the toilet for twenty minutes running the clinical timeline: twenty-eight days since the mesh initiated ovarian function, the endometrium shedding on schedule.

I bought what I needed at a pharmacy. Between that and the compression tanks, which have been doing their job for two weeks and irritating the skin, the friction is a daily fact now.

Lain wasn’t crazy about the idea of taking a shower in the gym’s locker room, but he didn’t have much of a choice. His job was stressful, the hours long, and the only time he had to work out was during his hour-long lunch break (he could eat at his desk while he poured over spreadsheets and returned emails). The alternative was not to work out at all, and that, he knew, based on the physical appearances of some of the higher-ups at his firm, was a one-way express ticket to fat ass town.

Leah's transformation in pictures and text

Evolution of Love
by Andie B

This is a complete compilation of All-Star Sissy, the first series in the Sissy Camp universe. The universe also contains a spinoff series, a sequel series and two spinoff caption series.

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The nylon strap of the car seatbelt drags across my chest every time I brake. A week ago it was background friction, nothing. By Thursday the fabric bites into flesh that's gone tender and strange just below my collarbone, and I drive the whole way from the firm holding the strap an inch off my shirt with my left hand, steering with my right. My shoulder aches from the angle.

Three weeks on and the gym is the thing I have.

This is the first chapter of a 175 page, 8 chapter, completed book with 68 images, and 48 bonus images after the story. It is currently available in my shop.

www.patreon.com/SissyGirlSammi

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Charli and The “Chocolate” Factory

Chapter 62:

Wes is good at managing women, until his body starts becoming one. He's sleeping with two women and lying to both of them, and they respond to his shifting body in ways that confuse and excite him even as they terrify him. Jenny, the ex he wronged, is a gynecologist who knows more than what she lets on. A story about desire, consequence, and what it feels like to learn something from the inside.

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The hallway's dark and I don't bother with the light.

Mail on the floor I haven't dealt with. The kitchen through the doorway. I stand on the rug in my coat for a moment — just standing, just the quiet — and then I kick my shoes off. I stand there in my socks on the rug and just breathe.