The moment the door slid shut had the new room dimmed, illuminated by a pair of high windows. It was immediately brightened by warm ceiling lights, from orbs which sunk upward in inverted conicals. There above the sound of a subtle fan vibrated the air, a familiar noise in an unfamiliar environment. There was no guessing that I brought myself into a bathroom, rich with diverse materials, pulled straight from a modern architect’s sketches; for all of the hallmarks of one were present, and then more.
I shuffled around, hugging myself as cool air ate away from dewy, hot skin.
The body I found myself in felt entirely off, as though I was in tight leather, or as an unwelcome parasite to a new host. All the proportions were wrong, the legs and arms stretching higher and reaching further than what a five-foot-eleven-inches asshole would be used to. More pressing was the issue of having a large dick and boobs.
I looked to the still erect thing, pushing it down in a vain effort for it rebounded and bounced harmlessly against my stomach, the tip barely touching the lower sternum. Down, down boy, down!
When a third attempt proved just as ineffective, I took to examining my new surroundings, a distraction as a way of anchoring a straying sanity. Nothing but a monolith of a shower and a curvaceous bathtub had me for more than a minute. It looked as expensive as a richman’s Long Beach house, if quartz countertops, glowing mirrors, and metallic finishes are anything to go off of. The room smelled of redwood bark, the rocky surfaces polished but not smoothed, and it all seemed more artistic than practical.
To the front of one mirror, someone unrecognizable gazed back in that reflection. Her angular jaw and pronounced cheekbones were distinct but not pointed, with a nose defined and smooth. The head was accentuated with mildly sunken cheeks, skin layered as fresh snow over rolling hills, strong in fairness and unblemished. Eyes of cyan irises glowed for they were so brightly hued, promising the kiss of the coldest glaciers in the hottest of oases; and hair as white as marble, long and tousled, reaching past her shoulders, weaving like threads of cirrus clouds, dampened by sweat. Who the fuck?
She… I… Herself… Myself…
I absently grabbed one of the bangs to feel. Smooth…
Attention had drifted to the hands, less than filled but not without muscle, the palm and fingers longer than mine by a centimeter each. The fingernails were treated but not manicured, clean to a pinkish hue and bone white at their tips. Her palms were as calloused as a mountaineer’s with several, subtle scars.
Moving to a full-body mirror, she was fully revealed. Slender was the neck, toned and smooth, merging with a pronounced collar and wide, mildly muscled shoulders; fused with filled arms that reach to a firm, oval rear, over hips as wide as the shoulders; a waist narrowing sharp and long as a boomerang; her midsection mildly chubby with a narrow moat running from sternum through navel; and a back as curved as a long bow. Her chest was large, supporting breasts the size and shape of half-cut melons, a tender fondle revealing that they were equally as soft as they were firm, their jiggle unexpectedly subdued for their size. Well shaped thighs and oval calves rounded and curved in a way that brought the shape of a long heart when paired with her ass; with feet that, like her hands, appeared longer than my own. Altogether, she rose higher than the tallest girls I knew and was built as an example of the perfect female form, beyond what an ideal fuck buddy would be.
And then there was the rod. The tip did reach below the sternum, extending from where lady parts should be, its girth smaller than a balled fist, and just below were balls the size of plums. Where hair should have sprouted around the base, it was smooth as silk, not shaven but missing, where a layer of some slippery gel clung instead (from lube, or from Wine’s earlier spitballing?).
From her reflection, I felt and saw the rod grow harder. She must be God’s secret fetish, if He has a thing for dicks on chicks.
She… I… Herself… Myself… It was like staring through virtual reality goggles, as though I am some pervert’s avatar in his own private server, except everything felt too real.
This can’t be me…
For ‘curiosity's sake,’ I had her strike several poses like those of the models in a 90s Playboy magazine. Is this what they mean by ‘loving yourself?’ Enrapturing as this is, she is the embodiment of contradiction, one that set my mind whirling as to what-the-hell kind of gender she is. She couldn’t be he with a voice of bells and flutes, nor with the body of a bikini model, especially with dat ass. If not woman, then why woman shaped? Did the rod promise otherwise? If so, why the boobs and curves? And shouldn’t I… she be more emotional?
The rod was firmly grasped for another pose, her body leaning sensually on the counter with an exaggerated curve of the back, bending the sex off to the side. Was she some sort of hermaphrodite? A dickgirl? A futanari?
At the risk of impropriety, one of those guesses was tested, for she bent down so that a hand could reach under to feel, the reflection doing wonders with the bent rear and jutting breasts.
… Nope, not hermaphrodite. Standing to her full height, hands grabbed for and rubbed the shaft, the thing pulsating once in reaction, and a moan left her lips.
With that sultry voice, I had her speak, uttering a string of words with no greater purpose other than to test her range, speaking soft profanities low enough so that girls next door would not think of me… of her as crazy.
She… I… Herself… Myself… I am her…
Slowly yet suddenly, vertigo took me. I leaned against the counter for support with a hand to my head. What happened? What am I? Who am I!?
Damp eyes and a headache soon came to me, giving way to constrictions to my chest and stomach with the mind starting to race. Breath, my rational self called out.
Counting to three, over and over, my sensibilities creeped back. There are worse fates to awaken to, I reasoned. You could have awoken as a blob of pure pain with no mouth, a prisoner of Russia for smuggling weed, or that chick hiding from Jack Nicholson in a bathroom. Waking to fellatio is not one of those.
Slowly, that feeling of horniness proved to be a solid enough anchor within the storm inside my head, and soon I had regained some control.
Out toward the entrance, past the door’s tinted window, I looked out. Only the corner of the bed came to view, the girls just out of sight and out of temptation. It’s not a proud moment to panic in the midst of sex, not while yearning so badly for it, a desire for flesh on flesh, breast to breast, and curve to curve. The feeling persisted since I escaped, tempered by the fear that pregnancy would result. Had there been condoms, or if there was only oral or foreplay, things would be different.
I took several more calming breaths, still trying to banish that panic.
Condoms…bathroom…
Searching the drawers and cabinets, I found towels, toiletries, medicine–I assume medicine, yet the linen and paper packaging proved difficult to read–and many things you would find in a well supplied bathroom. The sight of Trojan, Magnum, or any number of brands had eluded me, and the thought of using birth control came to mind, only to be dashed as I realized there would be little to no means of knowing what was and wasn’t birth control. The risk of harm, that a fentanyl-laced drug, would knock me on my rear, was unsettling. It, also, wasn’t as though I could approach Wine or Eve and ask for help (and even if I could, that would kill the mood).
Wait, am I even capable of getting them pregnant?
… Should I even risk finding out?
There was a moment of thought. No, absolutely not.
When my search yielded nothing, I moved to the center, my hand brushing bangs of white away from my eyes. Well… there’s a choice to make. I hardly knew Wine and Eve beside their physicalities and personalities, much less certain of what their intentions were. They are strangers. For all it seemed, they may be simple women under sunlight, or prostitutes under red lights, and they were more than willing for intimacy. The sight of Wine blatantly inserting herself with my fluids would be any guys’ nightmare, and she must have known what that entailed. This is insane. She is insane. Theyare both insane!
Why am I still raging hard!?
The danger was its own excitement, a show of affection from lust, a bonding born of sin. It was wrong, a forbidden carelessness frowned upon, and it felt thrilling. It didn’t help that they were both attractive, and that this was one of my very few moments with sex. Deep down, too, is the desire for love, and I knew this to be a desperate path to it.
My heart sank as I thought to myself: Stop… I have to stop.
This whole situation is fucked. There was nothing in my surroundings that made sense. My new appearance made no sense. Nothing made sense.
Just stop.
From a nearby sink, I wiped myself clean, swiping a towel from a nearby hanger and wrapping myself just above my midriff so that the rod was covered. It was not wide enough for everything, but it gave enough decency.
I looked back outside. How the hell am I going to do this? Do I just tell them to ‘leave?’
Was this even my place?
To the entrance I approached, the tinted glass remaining in place. Wait… how does this work?
I waved my arms around like an idiot, thinking there was some sensor that controlled the door, for there was still no button or knob to use.
… Nothing… oh, wait…
At the left of it, a square outline shone a dimly lit orange, surrounding a white tile. It was a stark contrast to the rest of the wall, signaling a clear message of ‘press me!’
My fingers barely touched the surface, and in an instant the outline changed to green, and the glass slid back into the wall. I passed through.