Laura
“Sis, you
need
to take a look.”
I repress yet another inflected exhalation, as an overabundance of such expression might disrupt the mood I am carefully calibrating within my rival-cum-wrestling-partner—though she’s doing an adequate job of destabilizing those parameters all by herself, overachiever that she is. Fortunately, I am sufficiently locked-in on my current task and am able to add the finishing touches to the facial cosmetic enhancements I’ve been carefully crafting for well over twenty minutes. A quick confirmational scan in my handheld reflective surface and I’m happy to finally glance up at my perennially persistent partner-in-crime—and crime alone—batting my freshly gold-flecked eyelids in response to her sustained sesquipedalian squawking.
“Look at what,
sis
?” I drawl, placing the emphasis on the
correct
syllable—Emmy’s so engrossed in her mystery-marauding mania that she’s forgotten why we even call each other that, and with such pointed intonations.
Disappointingly, she barely registers the identitarian barb. “The NTBV. I’m closing in on a hypothesis.”
My expertly-decorated eyeballs roll in their freshly-gilded receptacles. “I thought we settled at the last ‘practice session’ that your strategem of tweaking the mathematical coefficients would not, in fact, count as an honorable victory.”
“
You
did, certainly,” Emmy snaps, regaining some of that competitive verve I found so very stimulating in a woman (which she most certainly was). “Regardless, I am not trying to calibrate the equation—at least, not quite yet. I’m trying to divine it.”
“To what end?”
“Have you
no
curiosity as to why these utterly arbitrary variables are included in what should be a straightforward volumetric computation?”
I flick a lock of glossy, straightened hair over my shoulder, assuming my characteristic smirk that at once conveys all the relevant smugness I am notorious for, and also catches Emmy’s attention in
that
particular way. “I see no reason to tamper with a formula that has so accurately selected for the supreme candidate,
sis
.”
The goading is quotidian, emblematic of our routine verbal sparring, that scintillating back-and-forth animating our competitive spirits—but seriously, has she like,
still
not noticed? My facepaint is so on-point as to make a conflagrative nun weep, and my choice of costuming, while easy enough to mistake for everyday garb, remains recognizable enough that I had expected Emmy to pick up on the provided cues. Perhaps I had, indeed, overestimated her faculties, I consider with a pang of disappointment, and she has been defeated by my mastery of the subtle.
“Yes, I am incentivized to investigate, we both know it, moving on,” Emmy snorts.
She roughly flops down next to me in a manner most unladylike—a strat I’d have to coach her on further, loath as I am to enhance my rival-cum-compatriot’s conversance with the meta, but our advanced two-player approach to the optimization of verdure-proximal subterfuge required such sacrifices. I make a mental note to correct her posture as well, before peering down into the proffered screen.
“So you’ve listed every factor,” I note, bored, scrolling down the list with a glossy, manicured nail—that she
still
hadn’t noticed. “What about it?”
“They’re in order of relevance to the mammarian dimensional analysis,” Emmy explains with a revolution of her own orbitals, making my ire at
her
dismissal of
my
capacity flare up. “A mind with a healthy,
adequate
degree of curiosity, such as mine, would seek to gauge what similarities characterize the least-relevant criteria.”
My mind
was
adequately curious—curious about why Emmy cared more about her stupid fucking list than the outfit I had so meticulously organized, practiced, perfected, and then flawlessly implemented before her dense, unperceptive gaze. Gritting my teeth behind pursed lips, I let her aggravating attitude crinkle my otherwise immaculate, glittering facade, and cock an eyebrow at her.
“Yes, the formula is perhaps not as straightforward as it could be,” I allow, finally dropping the ironic term of endearment. “So what pattern connects the confounding factors?”
Emmy gives off an exasperated sigh, just enough that I know she’s overdoing it on purpose, to try and tilt me. “The pattern could be literally anything, is the issue. Look.”
She pulls up a huge fucking mess of a plot with, as I believe seasoned researchers in statistical analysis would say, a “bunch of graphs and shit”. She’s got the whole thing going on here. Scatter plots. Histograms—nice try,
Emmy
, those are
her
stograms, you’re not getting me to break cover that easy. She’s got a matrix in there, a sure sign of serious data analysis, a subject I’m both familiar and proficient in.
“Obviously, the PCA tells us what we already know. Most of the NTBV variance is predicted by this one big principal component,” she begins, pointing at the leftmost edge of a pretty uninspired graph rightly stuck in the bottom left corner, the lowest-tier corner for subplots.
“Boobage can’t be adequately described by just one variable,” I assert. She thinks she can just say “linear dependence” to counterplay my immaculately thorough measurement skills.
“I concur,” she admits defeat. “It only describes about seventy percent. The rest…” she slides her finger to the right, “it’s a fucking mess.”
Weird way to describe an almost flat line, but okay.
“Whatever relationship everything outside the eigenmilker has to scoring in the competition, I can’t get statistical significance for a single one.”
She turns to me and pushes on her glasses, light reflecting off them and missing me completely, her eyes perfectly visible in a complete failure to be even a little anime. “We’ve got data on about two hundred people here. The sample size is too small to identify any linear relationships present, and without something to go off, finding the right nonlinear one is going to be a
grind
.”
“So your conclusion is … no conclusion,” I surmise, permitting the irritation to fully suffuse my body, to the point that I am almost shaken out of “the mood” myself.
“It’s a
start
,” Emmy cries, no doubt attempting to convince herself more than me—for I am immovable on what an utter waste of time this has been, time we
could
have spent rehearsing our “covert maneuvers”.
“It’s an
end
,” I state firmly, in a tone that Emmy has by now learned brooks no argument. “Look at me.”
She obeys, as she usually does when I adopt this tone.
“No,
really
look at me.”
She does. After a too-long contemplative interlude, her eyes widen.
“W-wait …”
“Yes,” I confirm, before she can stutter out her sentence. “The resemblance is uncanny, is it not? I suppose hailing from the culture of the property’s origin helps …
sis
.”
At that, Emmy only grows more tongue-tied. My grin increases in both length and wickedness, as I lean over and make apparent
just
how tight-fitting my white dress now is. Behind the resulting glassy look and slackened jaw, I see her brain running calculations anew, becoming aware of the pin I have adroitly pressed her into. For you see, dear reader-who-is-myself-in-my-own-head-as-I-recount-this-narration-of-my-own-gamewinning-move, I have deviously trapped Emmy in an unenviable binary choice: either admit that she is in fact a sapphic woman who can unproblematically enjoy my simulation of an evil character who is a favorite amongst the lesbians of the fandom—whose tastes I keep abreast of
purely
to be as convincing as can be in my own deceptions, of course—or otherwise, accept being tarred as a fetishizing heterosexual male who problematically desires a canonically woman-loving-woman—
and
a white man engaging in orientalist fantasies to boot!
The sudden pressure I have put her under is clearly unraveling her composure, causing her to perspire and swallow and fidget with increasing vigor. She looks helpless, cornered, her discomfort mounting, withering under my piercing gaze as I loom over her with bared fangs, her own skirt proving to be treacherously revealing of the physiological state I have successfully induced in her. Yes, my plan has gone off without a hitch, and surely …
Surely …
It’s quite hard to think when her neck looks so
biteable
, I must admit.
“You look amazing,” she chirps.
I can bear it no longer. Roaring victoriously, I pounce.
Nichole
Katherine’s taste in women’s fashion scares me.
The rapid, manic process of selecting clothing happened with such an intensity, I barely got a word in before my budget for the month had been blown three times over. My savings account is crying. I would be crying, if I did that at all.
Katherine’s spending habits could easily be described as “thoroughly irresponsible.” In hindsight, I realize that it wasn’t just a lucrative future career in IT she was gesturing at when saying not to worry, as she’s going to have a lot more money on her hands not too far in the future.
The spectre of the economy looms over us. Is it really that simple? Is she going all-in on transitioning, right down to having us both use her new name and pronouns even privately, because she genuinely believes she’ll be the winner of the 2024 prize?
In terms of rankings, she’s decidedly average. (I checked.) The server’s respect for competitors’ privacy is a glaring issue, with timelines of everyone’s measurements, even disqualified ones, just
there
. And at an NTBV score of 49, corresponding to a European 70A bra size, it seems like the only thing notable about her is server activity.
And holy shit, she’s
so
fucking active. When does she have time to write all these messages? The word count in just the last week is something over ten thousand, with at-length rambles about the competition that go on absurdly verbose tangents not just commonplace, but expected of her.
You really would think nobody had
this much
to say about ranked competitive breast growth.
Anyway, the clothes. She ordered some fast shipping, and we already have the package just a few days later. I managed to get a few words in and insist on a few clothes that I’ve actually seen people wear outside. The rest…
Sure, the skirts and thigh-highs are, in her words, “the precise cliché that is needed to sell the notion of a man doing all his research on transfeminine culture with memes.” The same can’t be said for her eclectic taste in frankly ridiculous dresses.
Admittedly, the ridiculous thing she’s wearing right now is working for her, somehow. It’s like a truck full of alt fashion collided with a truck full of thrift store donations and she’s wearing the wreckage, bits of the unfortunate vehicles included, but the way she carries herself looks …
good
.
Like.
Really
good.
Which makes my present situation feel all the more fucked, sitting in my chair wearing the outfit she suggested. A skirt, thigh-high socks and a crop top, all together conspiring to make me look like I’ve been attacked by some creature that forces you into ill-considered outfits, straight out of the book of well-considered and helpfully illustrative metaphors.
I’m entirely nerves over here, feeling like I’ll die instantly if someone perceives me, and she’s over there.
Lounging
on my bed, scrunched-up comforter for support. Like the very idea of her, in that, is completely unquestionable.
It’s the hormones, right? They’re why she’s able to slide so effortlessly into womanhood, while my desperate efforts to make it happen are currently getting me jack shit.
At least I get to start soon. Kickoff is today, in less than an hour.
Katherine lets out something in between a snort and a squeak. “Nichole, you have to see this, it’s incredible!”
She links me to the meme channel of the Accord server. I dread clicking, as everything about the server culture feels like it’s going to give me radiation poisoning, but I can’t exactly refuse now, can I?
It would be suspicious if I was uncomfortable with the meme culture at play here.
The post in question reads:
AVERAGE CASUAL BREAST GROWTH FAN
literally a woman
only into getting tits for her gender
doesn’t even know her NTBV score
“ahhh, I’m not sure if I want bottom surgery, it’s such a big deal”
gets
less
dysphoria from hormones
scared of flatpecs
AVERAGE RANKED COMPETITIVE BREAST GROWTH ENJOYER
genuine phi male, so powerfully male he can live as a woman full time without losing his manhood
unshakable commitment, fights the dysphoria to pursue his goals
uqs want him, flatpecs respect his humongous honkers
casuals wish they were him, but they cannot be him, and need to quit trying to be him, and should toss in the towel for the real champion already
schedules groin respecc confidently, knows a dick is extraneous to his manhood
I’m getting the impression that ‘Mike’, ‘Master’ of Mammaries is processing some …
stuff
.
Katherine, meanwhile, is
giggling
. “It’s so true, you know?”
Her breezy assertion reminds me that yeah, her incredibly convincing trans woman act is, in fact, the second part of that accursed meme.
“The discourse surrounding it is
quite
enlightening, if you look here.”
She sends me another link, this time to #Strat-General.
“Do I have to be enlightened on this?” I object, trying to come up with a convincingly
male
reason to excuse myself from the proceedings. “I don’t want to think about guys chopping their dicks off, bro.”
Katherine
She is wavering.
“Not ‘bro’,
Nichole
. This will not do.”
I cannot allow her to lose her way, ruminating in her mind and away from our cover at the first discomfort. If I accommodate her wavering, then I will not be able to induce the sufficient amount of dysphoria in her before she is too far down the road of bodily modification and roiling in actual embodied torment. At the same time, I have to ensure that my own simulacrum of her attempt at gynemimesis remains note-perfect, as it has to this point.
“We have to be as one here, regardless of our shared discomfort with our …”
Ack, how precisely am I to describe our phalli, adequately projecting the absurd attachment of a man to his hamsword, as well as this imagined man’s maintenance of a performance of memetic transfemininity?
“ … nether regions’ …”
Wait, wrong discomfort.
“...
vulnerability
… to … medical excision.”
Nailed it.
I press on. “My advice? Do not be afraid, my uh, breastacular apprentice. The way to strength and enlightenment here is to face the discomfort head on, confront it with your arms and other other relevant appendages spread, taking it in fully, to the hilt! Thus conquering it by realizing that it cannot, no matter how deeply it touches your innermost recesses, harm you.”
My words appear to be so convincing that Nichole is left speechless. I must rule this as another success at harboring the deep secret that I have no ability to relate to her outright discomfort with the procedure.
Uncertainty
, certainly, but
discomfort
would be pushing it.
“... Fine, I’ll look.” Nichole relents.
Bench Press Meta 2025
Look mate. I am not judging you if you want to chop your dick off, but saying it’s a strat to get gains is unhinged. Saying you’re already having gains just from planning the snip is even more unhinged.
Mike, Master of Mammaries
dickboys stay coping, theres a reason im winning this and youre falling behind
Bench Press Meta 2025
And that reason is I’m a genetic late bloomer, not my intent of having a dick at the end of this shit. Year three gains are where I’ll beat you
and
your weirdo boyfriend. If this went on for four, you’d be left in the dust, with nothing to show for it except your creepy anime girl cosplay.
Mike, Master of Mammaries
oh lmao your coping so bad. cmon. do the whole dialogue tree. tell me how long puberty is. gimme the whole talk about how we should run the comp for a full decade. PAD me, geneseether. regale me with divinations of how your heirs will be getting the prize once were all rotting in the ground and the final NTBVs have been recorded. meanwhile ill be rewarded for my commitment with a huge rack, a million dollars and a hot former rival i can fetishize lesbians with alllllll day
Bench Press Meta 2025
Bro you two are so obviously gay, holy shit.
Mike, Master of Mammaries
Liking girls as a man is straight, dude.
@isaacahedron
is obviously a woman, shes just lying to herself.
Bench Press Meta 2025
If Isaac’s a woman then so are you. Idgaf about the tribunals or anything I’m just saying there’s no fucking way for this to be straight.
Mike, Master of Mammaries
ur mom was pretty straight when i fucked her last night
Bench Press Meta 2025
And how do you plan to fuck anyone without a dick, Mike? What’s your plan there exactly?
Mike, Master of Mammaries
wow
Bench Press Meta 2025
Oh, is this the first time you’re thinking about that?
Mike, Master of Mammaries
no im amazed at how weak youre manhood is. you think i need a dick to fuck your mom? you think a mere meat shaft is what makes me a penetrator, rather than a penetratee? im doing manhood on levels you cant even comprehend. i could take en entire cock allllllll the way up my ass right now and it would still be the other guy walking out of it sore and, to be clear, penetrated, with my heterosexuality fully intact.
Bench Press Meta 2025
…
Mike, Master of Mammaries
which is xactly how i got my
girlfriend
to squeal my name ten minutes ago and how im gonna make
her
do it again now, virgcel
Incredible. The Master of Mammaries’ run through this game is truly blazing trails for all men, not only his peers in this competition. And yet, Nichole does not seem to appreciate his absurd genius.
“This is … complete fucking nonsense, Katherine. You can tell this is nonsense, right?”
Nichole
While the utterly deranged woman-shaped man reclining in my bed natters on about how insecure I am in my masculinity, I continue to stare at the single most surreal conversation I have ever had the misfortune to bear witness to in my entire current life, and frankly all possible previous ones. Somehow, the level of dissociation I feel—oh, that’s what this is, isn’t it—exceeds literally my most debilitating dysphoric attacks, a feeling that is only intensifying as the heated exchange of text refuses to abate:
Bench Press Meta 2025
Well pardon me,
dollface
, but I guess I just don’t see what REMOVING YOUR FUCKING COCK achieves if your only goal is “eliminatin wasteful t-gen from my perfect masculine champions form”. THERE IS ALREADY A PROCEDURE FOR THAT, WHICH DOESN’T INVOLVE DOING ORIGAMI TO YOUR PORKSTAFF
Mike, Master of Mammaries
lol cope harder dongpologist
Bench Press Meta 2025
No fuck you, you are absolutely not blowing this off, answer the damn question or be proved forever anatomically illiterate
Bench Press Meta 2025
Like for fuck’s sake, I am getting the ball-weights excised
myself
, NEXT FUCKING WEEK. Leaving T-levels for a fucking imperfect biofeedback loop to regulate is just gross negligence. BUT DICKS DON’T PRODUCE TESTOSTERONE, NUMBNUTS
Mike, Master of Mammaries
ur mom didn’t think my nuts were that numb last night
Bench Press Meta 2025
That’s you conceding the point, ‘champion’.
Mike, Master of Mammaries
I concede nothing. I waste my breath on what should be obvious to even the sub-zeta males like you, but for your lack of even the barest spark of a worthy intellect capable of grasping how deeply embedded the Phallus is in our culture, history, bloodlines, psyches, OUR VERY ESSENCES.
You need your pustulent, tumescent, blood-filled skin sack of rancid goo to serve as a paltry, tangible, mean fetish for your manhood, while I do not.
I
, Master of Mammaries that I am, have
transcended
, have gone
even further beyond
.
You utter reprobates, you unthinking simpleton fools, I have BECOME THE PHALLUS ITSELF, IN BODY, IN SPIRIT, IN MIND AND BE-ING. I AM NO MORE IN NEED OF EXTRANEOUS APPENDAGES THAT TAKE UP PRECIOUS BODILY RESOURCES THAT COULD GO TOWARDS NTBV OPTIMIZATION THAN I AM IN NEED OF YOUR APPROVAL.
Mike, Master of Mammaries
Sis.
I make a mental note to check whether this server covers therapy, too. Before I can tab away to look, Mike’s boyf—
girlfriend
? Partner. Wait, no, pretend partner?
I
really
hope it covers therapy.
Isaacahedron
My lady, I really don’t think you understood that essay quite as well as you think you did.
Mike, Master of Mammaries
did I fucking say you could use ur hands yet
Mike, Master of Mammaries
ya. much better.
My fingers almost moved by themselves to type my own “I fucking quit” message, but just then every channel was simultaneously locked.
“Oh, my.” Katherine sat up straight. “It’s starting. Get to your rig.”
Somehow, I find myself in my chair, in front of my monitor with the webcam turned on, Katherine hovering anxiously at my side, injector gun quivering in my dominant hand, staring at a collage of what I have to assume are equally-thunderstruck … “intakes”. We have been shunted into a conference call channel to record our first ever E-injections, taken in perfect synchronicity, in front of every other participant, serving as a …
They say
evidence
, but it feels much more like a covenant.
Like … I’m clicking on a link to a “listen party” that takes me to a custom webpage with an embedded audio loop that I
must
play. The haunting notes echo through the speakers of call attendees who haven’t yet muted themselves and so are forcefully muted by admin—there’s an account called ‘Admin’ present, now, that I only just notice, conspicuous though it is for being the only one with their camera off. Instead, the admin account is streaming a countdown to us. I watch the numbers tick off, paralyzed, staring as my new life approaches second by agonizing second.
This is really happening.
Oh, fuck,
this is really happening
.
Someone unmutes. “Wait, we’re supposed to do it together? I already took my—”
Whoever spoke up is banned before that sentence is even finished. Those of us remaining instinctively freeze, not even moving a muscle. You’d think all our cams were lagging.
Moments later, another attendee joins, their cam screen flickering on. ‘Mike’—it was Laura, now, as her “RLC”, I recall, sitting next to … Emmy? They are attending as the reigning champs, inducting the new blood into the games.
Katherine sucks in a breath, sharply. “
That’s
the Master of Mammaries herself?!”
Almost as if in response to her, the call’s voice chat erupts in similar expressions of disbelief.
Heir of Breast
wait who’s the cis woman
BigTittyFemboy
are you seriously telling me the master of mammeries is a living waifu
Only In This For The Money Tbh
Girl who did your wings
Melvin
Yeah the picture in my head was… very, very different…
askmeaboutmymaiddress
why does bro look like my body pillow…
Seconds after posting, askmeaboutmymaiddress is whited out.
“Huh?” Katherine checks the mod channel on her phone. “‘Banned for using male forms of address during official proceedings’? I’ve never seen that before …”
“I mean,” someone says, using my voice—
I’m
pretty sure I shouldn’t even risk talking with my mic off, but my mouth moves nonetheless. “You know this server is like. Really arbitrary, to say the least, right?”
My feeble attempts to highlight the utter insanity of this online space barely have any conviction behind them, though. I’m much more focused on the injector approaching my thigh, as the sands of time continue to trickle by me.
“Let me adjust the camera for you, then …” Katherine bites her lip. “You know, if you’re sure.”
Am I sure? Am I, in this moment, actually sure that I want this?
The countdown hits zero and I slam the needle into my skin too hard, pain blossoming as I pull the trigger and the sweet, miraculous tincture courses into my veins. It doesn’t work instantaneously—it’s not going to show any results for
weeks
, if not
months
, but in that moment I don’t care, I don’t care what my rational thinking mind knows. I’m telling you right now,
I felt it
. I felt that hormone coursing through my eager, hungry,
starving
body like lighting animating a corpse.
Does a woman crawling through the desert want to collapse in the first oasis she stumbles across, no matter how muddy?
Droplets of blood emerge from the injection site. Katherine wipes them away with a muttered “Be careful!”, but I’m just struggling to hold back laughter, almost rocking in my chair, awash with novel emotions and sensations, pain bleeding into giddiness that washes away my rapidly-dissolving disbelief.
I am renewed, revitalized, revivified, REBORN.
I am Nichole. I am, in this moment …
I
am
.
“Welcome to the race, future losers,” Laura sneers, her face adorned with what I can only imagine is a
very
well-practiced smirk. “Enjoy getting your hopes up, only for the champ to dash them to pieces.”
The call ends. My monitor is blank. My reflection smiles back at me for the first time in years, with tears in her eyes.