Chapter 2: The Agony of the Aftermath
The cold of the bathroom floor tiles seeped through John’s jeans, a dull, grounding ache. The final moments of the transformation had felt like melting wax—a slurring collapse of structure, his senses swimming as his own lanky frame reassembled itself bone by agonizing bone. He’d made it here, to the relative safety of a locked bathroom stall, just as the last vestiges of the corset vanished from his skin like mist.
Relief, thick and sweet, had flooded him for exactly three seconds.
Then the pain hit.
It wasn’t a normal ache. It was a deep, visceral throb that started in his groin and radiated outward, a sickening pulse of concentrated discomfort that made his eyes water. It felt like his insides had been wrung out and then stuffed back in, knotted and angry. A low, pathetic groan escaped his lips, far more pained than any sound SexiWoman had made.
From the choker around his neck, now inert and merely ugly again, Amy’s laughter echoed in his skull. It wasn't a pleasant sound. It was the dry rustle of dead leaves.
"First lesson," her voice chirped, mockingly bright. "Magic isn't free. The energy for your little makeover has to come from somewhere. In this case, it's borrowing from your own… let's call it your foundational life force. Congrats. You've got magical blueballs."
"This isn't funny," John gritted out, curling onto his side. The linoleum smelled of bleach and mildew. Each throb was a nauseating reminder of the hour he’d just spent trapped in a form that wasn't his, a hour of stifled panic and impossible proportions.
"It's a little funny," Amy said. "From my perspective. I haven't had a corporeal complaint in centuries. The feedback is fascinating. Now stop whining and breathe through it. It'll fade in a few minutes. Unless you get excited again. Then the whole cycle resets."
John focused on the ceiling. A crack in the plaster snaked toward a water stain that looked like a frowning face. He concentrated on his breath