Chapter 4: The Wish That Made Her Whole
The carpet was coarse against his cheek. Ben lay there, his breath slow and ragged, his breasts pooled beneath him in a warm, heavy spread of flesh. Milk had dried in pale, crusting streaks across his chest and the fibers beneath him. His pussy throbbed with a deep, satisfied ache, the lips still swollen, the clit a thick, tender weight between his thighs.
Above him, Priya was unbuckling the harness. The leather made soft sounds as she worked it down her legs, and the strap-on clattered against the floorboards when she dropped it. The dildo was still slick, glistening in the gray morning light that leaked through the blinds.
She didn't say anything for a while. She just sat on the floor beside him, her back against the couch, her legs stretched out, her bare feet crossed at the ankles. She was still dressed—jeans, a dark green sweater, thick wool socks—but the harness had left red marks on her hips.
Ben rolled onto his side. His breasts shifted, settling heavily against the carpet. His ass felt enormous, a soft, wide weight that he couldn't quite get used to. The curve of it pressed against the floor, and when he moved, the skin pulled and slid in a way that was still new, still strange.
"Priya."
"Hm."
"I don't think I can stand up."
She laughed. It was a low, quiet sound, more breath than voice. "Give it a minute. Your body's still figuring itself out."
"My body's had forty-nine years to figure itself out."
"Your body's had forty-nine years to pretend it was something else." She turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were bright, her lips still curved. "Now it's not pretending anymore. That takes time."
Ben closed his eyes. The carpet smelled like dust and old fibers. Underneath that, there was another smell—sweet, faintly sour, like milk left out too long. His milk. His breasts had leaked enough to soak a patch of carpet the size of a dinner plate.
"I need to clean this up."
"Later." Priya shifted, turning her body toward him. Her hand found his shoulder and rested there. "First, I want to ask you something."
"Another question?"
"Another question." Her thumb traced a slow circle on his skin. "You've been lying to yourself for a long time, Ben. About what you want. About who you are. The curse is pulling that out of you, one piece at a time. But it's not going to stop until you tell it what you actually want. All of it. Not just the pieces you're comfortable admitting."
Ben opened his eyes. The ceiling was white, cracked, stained in one corner from a leak the landlord had never fixed. He'd stared at that stain for years. It hadn't changed. Everything else had.
"I don't know what I want."
"Yes, you do." Priya's voice was soft but steady. "You've known since you were a teenager. You just never let yourself say it. Not out loud. Not even in your own head." She paused. "But you can say it now. You can tell me. And then we can stop guessing."
The clock on the wall ticked. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. The world was still turning, indifferent to the impossible thing happening in Ben's living room. He swallowed. His throat felt tight.
"When I was fifteen," he said, "I found a magazine in my dad's study. It was a men's magazine. Women with big breasts, spread out on cars, on beds, on beaches. I looked at it and I felt—I didn't feel attracted to them. I felt envious. I wanted to be them. I wanted to have what they had."
He stopped. The silence stretched.
"Go on," Priya said.
"I never told anyone. I never even wrote it down. I just... buried it. I dated women who looked like that, I married a woman who looked like that, and then I divorced a woman who looked like that, and I never once said out loud that I wanted to be the one with the breasts. The one being looked at."
"And now?"
"Now I have them." He looked down at his chest. His breasts were huge, the areolas wide and dark, the nipples still damp with milk. "And I don't want to go back."
"Good." Priya sat up. Her hand left his shoulder and found his chin, tilting his face toward hers. "So what do you want to look like? Not just the body. The whole thing. The face, the voice, the way you move. If you could be anything, what would you be?"
Ben's heart was pounding. It was a strange sensation—his heart in his chest, his breasts heavy against his ribcage, his pussy still wet and aching between his legs. He was a man with a woman's body, and the woman's body was still changing, still growing, still becoming something.
He closed his eyes.
"I want to be smaller," he whispered. "Not just my body. My whole frame. I want to be short. I want to have to look up at people. I want... I want weak arms. Soft hands. I want people to look at me and think they could pick me up. I want to be..."
"What?"
"Fragile." He opened his eyes. "I want to be fragile. I've spent my whole life being a man. Being solid. Being dependable. I'm tired of it. I want to be soft. I want to be small. I want to be something people want to protect."
Priya's eyes widened. "That's—"
"Crazy? I know."
"No." She shook her head. "It's not crazy. It's honest. Keep going."
"I want long hair." He reached up and touched his own head, where his hair was still thinning, still gray at the temples. "Black hair. So long it reaches the middle of my back. I want to feel it against my skin."
"And your face?"
"I don't know. Softer. Rounder. I don't want to look like a man in a dress. I want to look like a woman. A real woman. Someone who's never had to be anything else."
"And your body?"
"Thick thighs." The words came faster now, spilling out of him like water from a cracked vase. "A small waist. Wide hips. Smooth skin. No hair anywhere except my head. And—" He stopped.
"And what?"
"And my pussy." The word felt strange in his mouth, still new, still forbidden. "I want it to stay. I want it to be the center of me. The most important part."
Priya didn't laugh. She didn't even smile. She just looked at him, her eyes steady, and nodded.
"Okay," she said. "Okay."
The curse answered.
It started in his bones. A deep, grinding ache that spread through his skeleton like rust eating into metal. Ben gasped, his body curling inward, his hands clutching at his stomach. The pain was everywhere—his arms, his legs, his spine, his skull. It felt like being crushed and stretched at the same time, like his bones were being melted and recast in a new mold.
"Priya—"
"I'm here." She grabbed his hand and held it tight. "I'm here. Just breathe."
He couldn't breathe. His ribs were shrinking, contracting, pressing against his lungs. His shoulders cracked and popped, the joints shifting inward with a wet, sickening sound. His arms lengthened, then shortened, the bones of his hands shrinking, the knuckles growing rounder and softer. His fingers became delicate, the nails smoothing into perfect ovals.
The pain moved to his face.
His jaw ached. His cheekbones shifted. His nose flattened and narrowed, the bridge softening into a gentle curve. His brow bone smoothed out, the ridge above his eyes melting away. He felt his lips plump, his eyes widen, his chin grow rounder and softer. The stubble on his jaw fell away in a fine, gray ash, and the skin beneath it was smooth and hairless.
"Your face," Priya whispered. "Oh my God, Ben. Your face."
He couldn't see it. His eyes were still closed, squeezed shut against the pain. But he could feel it—the way his skull had reshaped itself, the way his features had rearranged. When he opened his eyes, the world looked different. Larger. Closer. The ceiling was farther away, the walls were wider, the furniture was bigger.
"I'm shrinking," he said.
"You're shrinking."
His body followed. His spine compressed, his torso shortening, his hips narrowing and then flaring again, the bones grinding and reforming. His skin tingled and then burned, every follicle contracting and releasing, every hair on his arms, his legs, his chest, falling away like ash. When it was over, his skin was smooth and hairless, the texture finer and softer than it had ever been.
His thighs thickened. His calves slimmed. His feet shrank. His waist pulled in, the fat redistributing itself, and his hips widened in response, the curve of them soft and generous. His ass, already heavy, grew heavier still, the cheeks swelling into a round, plush weight that pressed against the floor.
And his hair.
It started at the scalp, a tingling itch that spread over his skull like static. The gray strands darkened, thickening and lengthening, pouring down the sides of his face and over his shoulders. The weight of it was strange and wonderful—a heavy, silken curtain that slid across his back, tickled his neck, brushed against his breasts.
"Oh," he said. It was the only word he could manage.
The change stopped.
Ben lay on the carpet, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his body trembling. Everything was different. Everything was smaller. His breasts were still huge—huge and heavy and full, the nipples dark and tight. His pussy was still wet, still aching, still the center of him. But the rest of him had changed.
Priya was staring at him.
"Holy shit," she said.
"What?" He tried to sit up. The movement was strange—his center of gravity had shifted, his body lighter and heavier at the same time. His hair fell around his shoulders, long and black, reaching almost to his waist. "What is it?"
"Ben." Priya sat up. She reached out and touched his face, her fingers tracing the curve of his cheek. "You're beautiful."
"I'm—"
"You're beautiful." She pushed his hair back, tucking it behind his ear. "You look like a woman. A real woman. If I didn't know you, I'd never guess you'd ever been anything else."
Ben looked down at himself. His arms were thin and soft, the muscles slack and weak. His hands were small, the fingers delicate. His thighs were thick and pale, the skin smooth and hairless. His breasts were enormous—they hadn't shrunk with the rest of him, and they looked even bigger now, resting on a much smaller frame.
His own hair was dark and long. His own hands were soft and small. His own body was the shape of a woman's.
And underneath, between his legs, his pussy was still there. Wet. Aching. Waiting.
"Priya," he said.
"Yes."
"I need you to touch me."
She didn't say anything. She just stood up, pulled her sweater over her head, and dropped it on the floor. Her breasts were small and brown, the nipples dark and pebbled. Her jeans came next, then her underwear. She stood there naked, her body lean and contained, her thighs solid, her cunt a dark triangle of hair.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," Ben said.
"You're a liar." She smiled. "But I'll take it."
She lay down on the carpet beside him. Her hand found his hip and pulled him closer, their bodies pressing together. Her thigh slid between his legs, and Ben gasped as the firm pressure of it pressed against his clit.
"Tell me what you want," Priya whispered.
"You. Inside me."
"My fingers?"
"Your fingers. Your tongue. Your thigh. Anything."
She kissed him. His lips were softer now, fuller, and the kiss felt different—gentler, more delicate. Her tongue slid into his mouth, tasting him, and her hand slid down his stomach to his cunt.
"You're so wet," she murmured against his mouth. "Soaking. Your pussy's dripping all over my fingers."
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please touch me."
She pushed two fingers into him. They slid in easily, the walls of his cunt clenching around them. Ben moaned, his hips bucking, his breasts pressing against Priya's chest. Her thumb found his clit and began to circle it, slow and steady.