Chris’s new sister-in-law has always wanted a sister who’s more outgoing and unafraid of her sexuality. With the help of some magic, she’s going to turn Chris into the sister she’s always wanted, and the woman he’s always desired, whether he wants it or not.
They paused on the high street as Tara pulled off her jacket and handed it over. Behind them a group of guys piled out of the pub on the corner, loud and clumsy. Chris felt a little quiver of apprehension, suddenly achingly aware of his lack of height, his softness, his vulnerability.
Chris could feel the eyes of one the guys on him as he clumsily shrugged on the jacket and tried to pull it around his body like a shield.
The guy gave an exaggerated sigh and called over, “Aww, don’t cover it up, sweetheart.”
“Ignore him.” Tara took his arm and resumed their walk. “Roll with it, Chris.”
It was an order rather than a suggestion, and Chris already knew he was going to obey. Because the other incontrovertible fact about what was happening: he couldn’t fight it.
Helpless to do otherwise, he let Tara lead him the rest of the way home, up the front steps and into the living room. Amala’s parents were watching TV. Chris watched them, petrified in anticipation of their reaction to his new feminine form, but they simply looked up and smiled as he came in.
Amala’s mom asked, “Nice walk?”
Tara tossed her bag down on the couch. “Yeah, gave Chris a taste of Finsbury Park.”
Desperate for a familiar face, Chris asked, “Where’s Amala.”
Her mom gave an indulgent chuckle. “Your fiancé’s a lightweight, Chris.” Her eyes returned to the TV, as she explained, “Jet lag caught up with her; she crashed almost as soon as you two left.”
He was left, standing awkwardly, in an unfamiliar room and an unfamiliar body.
The question reverberated through his body. He ought to be panicking. Ought to be finding a way to fight and scream and fix whatever it was that Tara had done. His eyes fell on Tara’s bag. The ‘honey’ was in there. He should lunge for it and run. Find out what it was and fix it.
But, instead, he was awash with an odd sort of false inertia. A smothering inability to act: despite the aching need to protest and panic, he couldn’t speak out, couldn’t fight, couldn’t question. Instead, he found himself yawning and turning meekly for the hallway. “I think I’ll turn in too. Jet lag…”
A chorus of smiles and ‘good nights’ followed him up the stairs. On the top step, he turned back around and met Tara’s gaze.
She blew a kiss. “Sleep tight, girl.”
Chris turned away as his face flushed. He made his way through the dimly lit hallway. Cracking open the door to the guest room he saw Amala lying on the bed, fast asleep. He hesitated. Clearly, whatever magic had turned him into a woman was affecting everyone, as Amala’s parents hadn’t batted an eye when Tara came home with a strange woman dressed in men’s clothes.
Chris closed the bedroom door and proceeded across the hall to the bathroom. He gently shut the door and flipped on the light. He turned to face the mirror and his breath caught in his throat. The girl in the mirror was gorgeous, with a face out of a Scheherazade story: an Arabic beauty with a delicate nose, wide eyes with thick, dark lashes and plump lips. Curious, Chris lifted his shirt and dropped it to the floor. Tossing his long, dark hair out of his eyes he gazed down at his chest in wonder. His breasts were exquisite, shapely and full without being enormous. Two dark brown nipples grew to attention as he stared at himself and ran his fingers across his skin. He jiggled his new tits experimentally, watching them bounce. They weren’t huge—he could wrap his tiny hands around each one—but they felt heavy.
He looked up at the girl in the mirror feeling herself up. There was a flash of excitement as he realized that the girl was him. That he had this body and could do anything he liked.
Chris unzipped his pants and dropped them to his floor. Then he slid his boxer shorts off his waist and stepped out of them, standing naked in front of the mirror. He looked own his body, a slender feminine form framed by his taut breasts. His eyes traveled down his tummy, found the dark thatch of curly hair framing his new opening. He slid a trembling finger over his slit, not pressing in—not yet—simply feeling his unfamiliar form. He let his fingers caress his soft thighs, tickling lightly but his touch growing ever heavier as his body demanded more. Then his fingers were poised over his pussy once more and he held his breath as he pressed lightly inside himself for the first time. He exhaled in a soft coo as his finger slipped inside himself, enveloped by his pussy lips. And then he was in his own warmth, fingers circling a tiny nub that was calling to him urgently.