Chapter 8: Permanent Transformation Panic
The bathroom door slammed shut, cutting off the thudding bass from the bar. The sudden silence was broken only by the harsh buzz of the fluorescent light overhead and the ragged sound of Ally’s breathing.
Nate stood with his back against the door, a bulwark blocking their exit. His eyes, bloodshot from last night’s beer and this morning’s shock, swept over them. He’d pulled on jeans, but they were unbuttoned, hanging low on his hips. The thick ridge of his morning erection strained blatantly against the frayed cotton of his boxers.
“Stuck,” he repeated, the word flat.
Ally stood frozen by the cracked sink, her hands gripping the cold porcelain. The reflection in the mirror was a nightmare of blonde hair and wide, frightened eyes in a sultry face. She’d woken up on the floor tangled in a blanket, her body still soft, still curved, still utterly and catastrophically female. The panic had been immediate, a cold fist in her gut. She’d shaken Marcus awake, and seeing the same feminine horror mirrored in his—her—face had sent them scrambling for the bathroom, a futile instinct for privacy.
“The pill was supposed to last twelve hours,” Marcus said. Her voice, that low, smoky sound, was tight with a fear she couldn’t mask. She leaned against the stall door, arms crossed over her chest, a defensive gesture that only pushed her new breasts higher. The tiny silk shirt she’d worn as part of the disguise was stretched taut. “It’s been fourteen. Fifteen. I don’t fucking know.”
Nate pushed off the door. The small space made him seem enormous. He took two steps and was in front of Ally, crowding her against the sink. The smell of him—sleep, sweat, and the lingering scent of her from last night—filled her nostrils. He didn’t touch her. He just looked down, his gaze dropping to the deep cleavage revealed by her panicked posture.
“And you?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. “You feel any different? Any… shrinking?”
Ally swallowed, shaking her head. Every movement made the heavy weight on her chest sway. “No. It’s all… still there. Everything. It feels…” She couldn’t finish. It felt permanent.
A low groan rumbled in Nate’s chest. It wasn’t frustration. It was pure, unadulterated hunger. His hand came up, calloused fingers tracing the line of her jaw, then drifting down the column of her throat. “Christ,” he breathed. His thumb brushed over the rapid pulse at the base of her neck, then swept lower, hooking into the neckline of her top. With a single, rough tug, he pulled it down, exposing one full, pale breast to the sickly light.
Ally gasped, but didn’t stop him. The panic was being steadily drowned out by a traitorous, buzzing heat. His touch was an anchor in the chaos.
Nate’s thumb circled her nipple, watching it pucker and harden. “Even your fuckin’ nipples are perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Pink. Like you’re posing for a goddamn centerfold.” He pinched it, sharply, and a jolt of sensation rocketed straight to her core, making her thighs clench.
“Nate—” she whimpered.
“Shut up, Ally,” he said, the command soft but absolute. He looked over his shoulder at Marcus. “You. Come here.”
Marcus unfolded herself from the stall door. There was a reluctance in her steps, but her eyes were fixed on Nate’s hand on Ally’s breast, dark with a mixture of dread and want.
Nate didn’t wait for her to arrive. He turned, grabbing a fistful of the thin silk at Marcus’s stomach and yanking her forward. The material tore with a sickening rip. He shoved the ruins of the shirt off her shoulders, baring her torso. His other hand left Ally’s breast to grip Marcus’s jaw, forcing her to look at him.
“You’re both still fucking here,” Nate growled, his face inches from Marcus’s. “I can see it in your eyes. It’s you. It’s both of you, trapped in this… this fucking wet dream.” He released her jaw, his hand sliding down her neck, over the defined muscle of her shoulder that now looked so incongruously delicate, and palmed her breast. He squeezed, hard. “So until you change back, this is what you are. My two gorgeous, fucking confused best friends who can’t keep their new cunts empty.”
He kissed Marcus then, a bruising, punishing kiss. Marcus melted into it with a defeated moan, her hands coming up to claw at his back.
Nate broke the kiss, leaving Marcus panting. He turned his attention back to Ally, his fingers making quick work of the button on her tight shorts. He shoved them, and the flimsy underwear beneath, down her hips in one brutal motion. They pooled around her ankles.
“Bend over the sink,” he ordered, his voice gravel.
Trembling, Ally obeyed. She leaned forward, the cold porcelain biting into her forearms. Her reflection in the mirror was a debauched portrait: flushed cheeks, wide eyes, blonde hair fanning over the chipped sink, and the enormous, round curves of her ass presented bare and vulnerable.
Nate ran a hand over that expanse, a possessive grunt escaping him. He didn’t prepare her. He spat into his palm, gave his cock two rough strokes, slicking the already-leaking head, and notched it at her entrance. He was thicker than last night, harder from the adrenaline and the twisted thrill of the situation.
He drove into her with a single, deep thrust.
Ally screamed, the sound echoing off the tile walls. It was too much, too fast, a blistering stretch that chased away the last ghosts of panic with raw, overwhelming sensation. He buried himself to the root and held there, letting her feel the complete, impossible fullness.
“Look,” he commanded, his voice harsh in her ear. He grabbed a handful of her hair, not gently, and pulled her head up, forcing her to look in the mirror. “Look at what you are. Look at me fucking you.”
Her own stunned gaze stared back. Behind her, Nate’s powerful frame loomed, his face a mask of concentrated lust. His hips began to piston, setting a brutal, steady rhythm that shook her whole body against the sink. Each thrust slammed a shocked gasp from her lungs.
“Marcus,” Nate barked, never breaking his pace. “Get over here. On your knees.”
Marcus, her own shorts now shoved down her hips, moved like she was in a trance. She dropped to the grimy bathroom floor between Nate’s splayed legs, facing Ally. The proximity was obscene. Ally could feel Marcus’s breath on her inner thighs.
Nate’s hand fisted in Marcus’s dark curls. “Taste her,” he snarled. “Taste where I’m fucking her. Taste your best friend.”
He yanked Marcus forward.
Marcus’s tongue, hot and slick, laved over Ally’s stretched opening, tasting the mix of Nate and her. She moaned, the vibration shooting through Ally’s core. Nate fucked into Ally with deep, measured strokes, and with each retreat, Marcus’s tongue dove deeper, chasing his taste, lapping at the slickness he was producing.
“Fuck, yeah,” Nate grunted, his rhythm becoming erratic. “That’s it. Both of you. Together.” He was losing his control, the sight and the sensation too much. His thrusts turned jagged, pounding. “Gonna fill this tight cunt, Ally. Gonna pump you so full you feel it for days.”
His hand tightened in Ally’s hair. His other hand gripped her hip hard enough to bruise. His body stiffened, and with a raw, guttural shout that seemed torn from his very core, he slammed home and held. Ally felt the hot, urgent pulsing deep inside her, a flood of possession marking her in this impossible form.
He stayed there for a long moment, breath roaring in her ear, before pulling out slowly. A trickle of warmth immediately escaped down her inner thigh.
Panting, Nate stepped back. He looked down at Marcus, who still knelt on the floor, her chin glistening. He tucked his softening cock back into his boxers.
The fluorescent light buzzed. The bass from the bar thumped dully through the walls.
Still bent over the sink, Ally stared at her ruined, beautiful reflection. The panic was gone. In its place was a hollow, terrifying understanding. This wasn’t ending. The body she was in, the sensations it could feel, the things it could make others do… this was now.
Nate leaned over, his lips brushing her ear. His voice was hoarse, almost gentle. “Get dressed. Both of you. We gotta figure this shit out. And we can’t do it here.”
He turned, unlatched the bathroom door, and stepped back into the noise of the bar, leaving them in the brittle silence.
The door swung shut, leaving them in the buzz of the sickly light. Ally slowly pushed herself upright, her arms trembling from the weight they’d borne. Her eyes met Marcus’s in the mirror. Marcus still knelt on the grimy tile, a streak of moisture glistening on her chin. She wiped it with the back of her hand, her expression unreadable.
“Get up,” Ally said, her voice not her own. It was Ally’s voice, smooth and feminine, laced with a fatigue that went bone-deep.
Marcus stood, her movements stiff. They didn’t speak as they gathered their clothes. The tiny, torn shirt was useless. Marcus found her own discarded hoodie and pulled it on, the gray fabric swallowing her frame, though it couldn’t hide the new swell of her hips in the tight shorts. Ally stepped out of the puddled shorts and underwear, feeling exposed and grotesquely sensitive. A slow trickle traced a path down her thigh.
“My place,” Marcus finally said, her tone flat. “We have clothes there. From before.”
They left the bathroom separately, a few minutes apart, avoiding the scattered, knowing looks from the bar’s few early patrons. The morning light outside was brutally clear. Every catcall from a passing car, every lingering stare from a guy on the sidewalk, was a fresh violation. They were spectacles. They were prey.
Marcus’s apartment was a shrine to their old life. A framed jersey, cleats by the door, the smell of old gym bags and protein powder. It felt like a museum. They rummaged through drawers filled with sweatpants and t-shirts, but nothing fit. The shoulders were too broad, the waists comically large. The women’s clothes Marcus had acquired for the prank—leftover from an ex-girlfriend—were their only option.
Ally pulled on a pair of black leggings. The material hugged every new curve, snaking over her rounded hips and the full swell of her ass. She found a slate-gray tank top, the spandex blend stretching taut over her breasts, the neckline plunging to reveal a deep shadow of cleavage. Marcus dressed in similar leggings and a burgundy top that clung to her torso.
They stood before the full-length mirror on the closet door, two strangers staring back. “We need to sell it,” Marcus muttered, her voice thick. “Until we figure this out.” She grabbed a comb and aggressively back-combed her dark hair, adding volume, teasing it into a wild, purposeful mane. She took a tube of red lipstick from a drawer and swiped it across her mouth, a defiant slash of color.
Ally followed suit, her hands shaking as she teased her blonde waves, the artificial curls bouncing with a life of their own. She didn’t have lipstick. She just stared. The woman in the mirror was a perfect bombshell, a walking fantasy, and inside, Jake screamed.
Nate was pacing the living room when they walked out. He stopped dead. His eyes traveled from their teased hair, down over the revealing tops that displayed their chests, over the leggings that outlined every dip and curve. A muscle flexed in his jaw. He opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head slowly. “Fuck me,” he breathed, not in desire this time, but in stunned recognition of the crisis.
“We’re stuck, Nate,” Ally said, and it was Jake’s desperation pushing through Ally’s sultry tone. “The pill didn’t wear off. This is… this is us.”
Marcus crossed her arms under her breasts, a defensive gesture that only highlighted them. “We can’t just hide in here. Practice. Class. The game on Saturday.”
Nate ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “What the fuck do we do? You can’t walk onto the field like that.” He gestured vaguely at their bodies, a helpless frustration in his movement.
Ally looked at their reflection in the dark TV screen—two curvaceous, impossible figures beside Nate’s solid, familiar form. The prank was over. The consequences were here, wearing their skin. A cold, practical dread settled over her. “We have to tell someone who can actually do something. Someone who can control the narrative, keep it from the media, maybe find a… solution.”
Marcus’s head snapped toward her. “Who? A fucking scientist?”
“No,” Ally said, the idea crystallizing with horrifying clarity. She met Nate’s gaze, then Marcus’s. The words tasted like acid. “Shit, dude. We have to tell Coach.”