Gender Change 3

I'm Eddie. Small-town Ohio boy bred on bland, suburban sameness and parental expectations. Go to school, get a job, settle down, repeat until you're dead.

Well, I've got the job part down. Data analyst. But I call it staring at mind-numbing spreadsheets until my eyes bleed. Crumpled paychecks that barely keep the bill collectors from my door.

Cash isn't tight; it's anaconda constricting, gasping for breath, selling blood plasma for ramen noodles kind of tight. My one-bedroom apartment is as bland as dry toast, void of any personal touches. I mean, what's the point, right? Anything that could brighten up the place is beyond my meager budget.

My love life? Nonexistent. Fleeting encounters with women who, just like my high school grades, were average at best. The most action my cock sees is my right-hand and a crusty sock. Like I said, pathetic, right?

Getting ready to hit the bar with the same faces for the same conversations we've been having for years. The comfort of consistency is a cold mistress to loneliness.

Then, there's the guitar. My six-stringed siren. When I strum her strings, music, not monotony, fills my ears. It's an escape, a diversion from the daily grind. I guess you could say it's my passion. But passions don't pay bills, as my parents are all too happy to remind me.

I'm not stupid, I know I'm stuck in a rut. Yearning for something, anything, to be different. I just didn't know what.

That is, until I thought about X-Change.

$100 for 24 hours. $1500 for a whole month. An absurd amount for a little pill that changes you from a guy into a girl, or vice versa. I laughed when I first heard about it. Some futuristic biotech bullshit that us normies couldn't afford, right? But then, a seed of an idea planted itself in my brain.

You see, I'm not immune to the online whispers about OnlyFans, girls making bank by posting a few risqué photos. I laugh at the desperation of the guys who shell out their hard-earned cash. But then, I think about my mounting bills, the predatory eyes of my landlord, and the dwindling cans of soup on my shelf.

Girls fucking have it easy, right? Tits and ass, and they've got men eating from their palms. Easy money, right?

I don't know if it's the desperation or the sense of adventure tickling my balls, but, God damn it, I'm seriously considering it. I mean, what do I have to lose? Other than my dick, of course. But the good thing, is that it comes back. Not that it's doing anything.

It's Friday, payday, and I'm breathing in the smell of desperation and possibilities. My phone vibrates with an unexpected alert. My bank account has just been garnished. Rest in peace, sweet paycheck. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Okay, Universe, you win.

It's fucking decided. I'm doing it.

I'm buying the goddamn pill.

—

Barely through the threshold of my apartment, and I'm staring at it. The cylindrical pink pill, still wrapped in its sleek plastic packaging. It feels surreal, feels like a prop in a sci-fi B movie. $1500 for a pill that's going to turn me into a woman for an entire month. Most expensive piece of candy I ever bought.

Okay, Eddie, breathe. I glance around my ratty apartment. Hell, worse comes to worst, I can sell some of my stuff to make ends meet. But first, gotta make a call.

"Hey, Mom," I say, my voice wavering into the phone.

"Why Eddie, honey, what's the matter? You sound all jumpy. You ain't in trouble, are ya?"

Crickets in my belly start chirping. How the hell do you tell your hardcore conservative mother, deep-rooted in Ohio values, that her only son is about to pop a gender-swapping pill and try work as an OnlyFans model for a month?

"You sitting down, Mom?"

"Oh Lord, Eddie, what now?" The concern in her voice is palpable.

"Mom, I've got something to tell you, and I need you to just…just listen, okay? You promised when I moved down to Florida, you'd support me."

"What, Eddie? Just spit it out."

"Mom… I'm gonna be a girl. For a month."

Dead silence on the line. Then, a disbelieving snort.

"What in the Sam Hill are you yammering about, Eddie? Speak English, boy. That Florida sun's done gone and fried your brains."

"No, Mom, listen. It's a pill. It'll turn me into a girl. But only for a month."

She splutters, chokes, and then erupts. "A pill? A PILL? You're gonna switch your God-given gender, the fruit of my womb, for a pill?"

"Mom, it's just temporary…" I begin, but she's not listening. She's ranting about the Book of Revelation, the end times, and how Florida's damned heat must be warping my judgment.

In the background, I can hear my dad, asking who's on the phone. "Edith, who's that, your sister again?" And then, my mom. "No Harold, it's our son. He's thinking about popping a pill and growing a pair of tits."

There's a long pause before I hear my dad's gruff voice. "Well, ask him if they have a pill that'll make me lose this beer gut."

"Mom, look…" I start again, "I'm just trying to make ends meet. You know how tight things have been. And it's only for a month. Then I'll be back to myself, okay?"

There's huffing and puffing on the other end. "Oh, Eddie, this ain't right, you know it ain't. That Summer City is the devil's playground. I knew it!"

"Mom, I gotta go. I love you, okay?" I say, battling down the lump in my throat.

I hear her sigh, the heavy weight of disappointment in her voice. "I love you too, Eddie. But I don't have to like it."

And all I can think, staring at the $1500 pill, is neither do I, Mom. Neither do I.

—

Stripped down to my bare skin, I stand in front of the warped mirror in my dimly-lit bathroom, under that hopeless flicker of a dull lightbulb. A pair of dark, sober eyes stare back at me, my lips set in a grim line, a mixture of fear and anticipation shadowing my face.

This is it, Eddie. The point of no return.

Breathe, man, breathe.

In my right hand, I cradle the small pink pill, still in its smooth, plastic wrap. The cause of my upcoming identity crisis. My ticket out of this repetitive, humdrum existence. My last chance.

I switch on my clunky old TV, the static filling the silence of my apartment as the radio station tunes in. The haunting chords of "Comfortably Numb" by Pink Floyd ooze from the speakers, an anthem for my generation. For the disheartened, the downtrodden, the desperate.

"Hello, hello, is there anybody in there?" Roger Waters croons, his voice echoing the emptiness in my soul.

I glance down at the modest dick hanging limp between my legs. The first casualty of my transformation. It's always served me well, even if only in solo adventures.

I laugh at that. A bitter, hard laugh. There's no room for sentimentality here. No room for second thoughts. I down my third beer, the cool bitterness sliding down my throat.

I need this. I need SOMETHING to change. I need the money. Money, it's always about the damn money.

And then, like an afterthought, it strikes me. I need a name.

Elizabeth. Elizabeth Wells. Liz for short. Liz, I test the name in my mind, rolling it on my tongue. Liz, the sexy OnlyFans model. Liz, the one with the big tits and curvy ass. Liz, the one making big bucks.

I squint at my reflection, trying to envision a female version of myself. Bigger hips? Smaller waist - hopefully. Big, floppy tits or small, perky ones? Long hair or short? Blonde or brunette? The possibilities, the unknown, it's overwhelming.

But here's the truth: it's a leap of faith. A roll of the genetic dice. I don't really know what I'll come out looking like - I never got one of those Summer City IDs that show your male and female side.

The bottle of beer in my hand sweats cold, drops of condensation running down the sides and pooling on the counter. I stare at the pink pill, the small thing that's about to flip my world around. The X-Change pill. The one-way ticket to a different reality, a different gender, a different life.

I pick up my phone, dial the number of my job. It goes to the answering machine I leave a message, my voice shaking, telling them I need some time off due to personal reasons. A week, maybe two.

The beers are doing their job. I'm not as nervous anymore. I'm just drunk enough to be brave. Just drunk enough to be stupid. I glance at the pill again. A shiver runs down my spine, one last surge of adrenaline.

"Alright, Eddie. Let's do this."

I rip the packaging open, it crinkles loudly in the almost silent room. I take a long, hard gulp of my beer, then pop the pill into my mouth. I hold it there for a moment, feeling the weight of it on my tongue.

And then, without giving myself a chance to think, to second guess, to chicken out, I swallow.

I look back up at the mirror, catching my reflection. I watch as my eyes widen, my jaw slackens.

I just swallowed the fucking pill.

I'm about to be a woman.

God help me.

The lyrics of "Comfortably Numb" slowly fade away as I stand in front of the mirror, my heart pounding like a trapped bird in my chest. My hands are trembling with a mix of anticipation and dread. I feel a heat growing in my body, like a furnace cranking up to full blast.

"So...this is it, huh?" I say to my reflection, trying to smile but it comes out as a grimace. "Let's do this."

I feel a shift deep within my core. It starts as a soft ache, heralding the widening of my skeletal frame. It's unsettling, like the first time you experience growing pains. I can feel the deep grinding of my hip joints trying to adjust themselves to a new shape.

"What the fuck..." I gasp, my breathing quickens, feeling my heart race.

The discomfort in my hips turns into a soft ripple beneath the skin. It's surreal, a series of audible pops and snaps - akin to cracking knuckles, but deeper. My eyes widen in shock as I watch my hips quiver with each audible shift.

"Shit, shit, shit," I mutter under my breath, gripping the sink to steady myself. I can feel the bones in my hips grinding against one another, the soft, stretching pull of tendons and muscles rearranging themselves around my new frame. The sensation is not entirely painful, but it is foreign and overwhelming.

And then, a warmth engulfs my chest, replacing the heaviness in my hips. It starts as a gentle heat, like a warm towel enveloping my body. But as the warmth intensifies, it turns into a tingling, bubbling sensation, like thousands of soda bubbles fizzing beneath my skin.

"Gah-" I exhale, watching my reflection for the first signs of my transformation. The pain intensifies, now feeling as though a swarm of bees have descended upon my chest, stinging me with every movement.

I glance downwards, and my heart skips a beat. The skin on my chest is trembling, stretching tight like a balloon filling slowly with water. There's a noticeable curve forming, a soft mound, a breast blossoming into existence.

"Holy… holy shit…" I gasp, my voice shaky from the intense throbbing in my chest. My hands instinctively move to cup the growing mounds, feeling the tender flesh beneath them. The heaviness is not entirely unpleasant, but very new. And they keep growing, bigger, heavier, and more sensitive.

I shudder as each heartbeat sends a soft throb through my chest, a rhythmic dance that reverberates through the flesh. My nipples seem to have a life of their own, reacting to the slight draft in the room with a tightening shiver. They darken, the surrounding areola stretching taut.

My gaze returns to the mirror, and I'm struck by the changes unfolding before my eyes. My once-flat chest is now adorned with the soft, jiggly mounds of femininity. My nipples are visibly larger, darkened and pronounced against the tender pale skin.

"Holy shit... I have tits," I breathe out, the reality of it all hitting me like a ton of bricks.

As my chest continues to throb and swell, another jolt runs through my spine. It feels like a chain of firecrackers popping in succession from the base of my skull down to the small of my back. My hips shudder and crack, as if pried apart by unseen hands.

I gasp, gripping the sink again to steady myself. The changes are coming faster, more intense. I feel my biceps and triceps twitching, as if they're melting and flowing down to pad my hips and thighs. The world suddenly feels... bigger, and there's a definite shift in my center of gravity.

As my breasts continue to grow, they become heavier, more substantial, the weight of them forcing me to adjust my posture slightly. It's difficult not to round my shoulders, which are also gradually growing narrower. My waist cinches forcibly, tightening as if an invisible corset is laced around my midsection. My tummy goes taut, pulling inward as my ribs shift and adjust, my narrower waist contrasting with the spreading hips and the sudden fullness of my breasts.

My voice... oh God. I can feel the vocal cords fluttering and tightening in my throat, my voice rising in pitch. Each word I utter is now a higher, softer echo of its former timbre, a strange resonance that leaves me breathless. I try speaking into the mirror, my eyebrows raising in disbelief as my voice now embodies a feminine lilt.

"Hey, this is... this is so weird," I say, my voice raspy and sweet, a far cry from my previous low drawl. My face flushes red as I continue to speak. "I can't believe I sound like this..."

As my body continues to change, my very bones and muscles shifting and molding into a new form, I can feel my face transforming as well. My jawline tingles, a softening wave traveling up to my cheekbones, rounding them out. It's as if a sculptor is gently smoothing out the angles of my face, leaving behind a highly feminized version of my previous visage.

My face still looks like myself - not the most handsome guy ever, with eyes kind of far apart, narrow, a soft chin, and a slightly large forehead - but it fits a lot better on a female face, even if a little bimbo-like. I can't help but feel a pang of judgment as I stare at my reflection, the distinct feeling that if I were to pass by this girl on the street, I would not have held the highest opinion of her intelligence.

An onward wave of change surges through me, this time washing over my endocrine system. It feels like a warm, gentle tide coursing through my veins, the rise and fall of estrogen rearranging my emotions, my thoughts, even my reactions.

My vision flickers momentarily, and when it steadies, the world seems sharper, colors more vibrant. My eyelashes flutter, brushing against my cheeks like delicate feathers, providing a soft frame for my new perspective.

Another shudder runs through me, the force of it almost knocking me off my feet. I steady myself, a quiet, involuntary whimper escaping my new feminine lips.

The grand finale, is at hand.

I can't help but glance down at my cock, the last defiant remnant of my former maleness. It's quivering like a condemned man facing the gallows. Fear courses through me.

"Well, buddy, it's been a hell of a ride," I say, my voice straining with a mix of remorse and nervous laughter.

This is it.

I feel a sudden, electric surge of heat around my cock, like a force field of pure energy wrapping around it. It becomes hypersensitive, the flesh now softening under the relentless pressure. The sensation is terrifying, like standing on the edge of a cliff with an unknown abyss yawning beneath me.

The head of my cock tingles furiously, the warmth creeping inwards, forcing a strangled gasp from my throat. Slowly, agonizingly, the tip starts to recede, the once-proud glans now diminishing in size, the mushroom-shaped helmet melting into the shaft. It's like watching a candle burn in reverse, the wax softly disappearing, leaving no trace behind.

The corona and the frenulum meld, blending into the surrounding skin, and my entire cock begins to shrink, the shaft contracting and folding in on itself. I can't help but let out a series of choked, high-pitched squeals, my body quaking under the relentless assault of sensations.

The moment my testicles start to tighten, a guttural moan escapes me. The heavy orbs are sucked up and into my body, the sensation as alien as a UFO abduction. I watch in awe and fear as my once-solid balls vanish, leaving behind an empty, aching space.

My vision blurs, my eyelashes heavy with the intensity. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," I squeak in my new high-pitched voice.

It feels like the core of my cock is being turned inside out. The sensation is maddening, and I can't help but whimper and pant. It's an otherworldly sort of torture and thrill.

Now, there's a soft mound where my once-proud cock once stood, a gentle curve that hints at a bunch of new stuff inside. A delicate, silken slit emerges from the melding of my scrotum, the seam splitting apart like the petals of a flower blossoming in fast-forward.

I can absolutely feel the inner changes, the formation of a passage inside me, a secret tunnel that replaces the solid mass of prior male genitals. My body feels hollow.

The formation of my womb, fallopian tubes, all those other little parts - deep down I know and feel them unfurling, molding into place.

I stare at the soft, puffy exterior that's replaced my cock. I register the small folds of labia, the subtle swelling of the mound. It's a part of me now, as much as the breasts that heave with each breath and the curves of my hips. My fingers reach down to tentatively explore my new territory.

"Jesus Christ, I have a... a goddamn pussy," I whisper, my voice cracking with emotion.

My entire body has been flipped, inverted, and turned inside out, leaving me with a glossy, shiny, newly-minted little cunt. I am Eddie no more.

I take a deep breath and slowly turn around in front of the mirror, my eyes wide with curiosity and shock. My newly-slender waist, the curves of my hips, and between my trembling legs, the gentle folds of my pussy lips all command my attention. My eyes drift up to my chest, and I can't help but just stare at the heavy, jiggling mass of my tits for a while.

"Ds. Double-Ds. For sure."

I lift my hands, cupping the soft, ample flesh. They're warm, heavy, and ATTACHED TO ME. These are gonna be my money-makers. The weight of them feels almost comforting in the chaos of this transformation, now that all the shifts have settled down.

My fingers brush over my new pelvis, feeling the way the bones have shifted, accommodating the wider hips and thicker thighs. My skin is so smooth!

My gaze returns to the mirror, focusing on my face. It's a delicate mix of feminized Eddie-ness, as well as a few new things. My eyebrows are thin, arched, framing my much softer eyes. My nose is a carbon copy of what it used to be, but just that bit smaller, less pointy and jutting. My once-angular cheeks have plumped and rounded.

My hair... it's luscious, the same brown as before, but now reaching down to my shoulders. Straight, shiny locks that frame my transformed face. My hands run through the strands, the weight so different from that of my previous male hair. It's a small reminder that I am still me, changed but not unrecognizable.

I turn again, looking at the small of my back and the curve of my rounded ass. It's not the kind of ass that would catch attention on Instagram or OnlyFans, but it's definitely appealing in a girl-next-door kind of way.

The realization dawns on me that this transformation has made me pretty, but not beautiful. A solid 6 out of 10.

I still have those ears that stick out to the side, just like Eddie's did. But the sight of my face, framed by these magnificent tits, well, even Eddie wouldn't have been able to maintain eye contact with this girl.

The exploration of my face in the mirror is a mix of fascination and shock. I inspect my lips, my eyes, running my tongue over my teeth. They're still crooked, but not as badly as before. More delicate.

My fingers brush through my hair, tucking it behind my ear. There's a tremble in my hands, in my body, a mix of shock and disbelief. But, despite it all, I feel pretty excited.

"Okay," I whisper, my voice soft and feminine, "I can work with this."

***

I'm feeling like I've been slingshot into an entirely different universe. My fingers are still shaking slightly as I try to navigate my trusty old laptop. In the dark reflection on the screen, I can see my feminine face staring back at me, the sight sending shivers down my spine.

My loose, worn-out tee hangs off my transformed body, slipping partway off the shoulder, revealing my tender and sensitive new skin. My hardened nipples are peeking through, chaffing against the fabric.

The loose fit of the shirt is mildly comforting, reminding me that deep down, I'm Eddie still, but it's clear I can't wear my old clothes for my OnlyFans photos. Thrift shopping. Or maybe Wal-mart. That's what I need to do. Do I even know women's sizes? I blow out a sigh.

I'm hit with a sudden thought. What was I actually expecting? The pill to just transform me into an OnlyFans princess, ready to make it rain dollar bills? I snort at my naivety.

By god, this is fucking complicated. And I'm not even talking about the transition.

Setting up an OnlyFans account is like navigating the Amazon without a compass. The 'how-to guides' are as clear as mud. But I need this. I've already spent $1500 on this crazy plan; there's no turning back now.

A notification blinks on my screen. A drop-down menu, a guide on how to set up my account. The 'X-Change User Clause.' Huh.

"Specify the duration of your X-Change transformation," it reads. A tilting sensation overtakes me, like walking the borderline between oncoming nausea and excitement. I look down at the timer on my phone. 30 days, 22 hours, 41 minutes. I type in the details, and my fingers hover over the 'enter' button for a moment.

Suddenly everything feels real.

I press 'enter.' The new reality settles in. I am officially Liz.

A new page loads. 'Upload Verification Image'. I freeze. Shit, I need to take a selfie. A sexy selfie, or just a normal one?

How the hell do women look cute in photos? My hands start to shake as I pick up my phone. I've never been an expert at taking selfies, never cared to, honestly.

I angle my face, trying to tilt my head in that way girls on Instagram seem to do. It feels awkward, foreign. I blink at my own reflection in the camera. The woman staring back at me looks uncertain, confused. I try to smile. God, I look ridiculous.

I snap the picture anyway.

After a few more failed attempts, I select one that's less hideous than the others. It's me - Liz - doing a half-smile, half-grimace. The innocence in my eyes is jarring, but also kind of alluring, hopefully?

With a sigh, I upload the photo. It's out there now, in the ether of the internet. No backing out.

I carefully read the disclaimers. Your typical stuff about being over 18, not doing anything illegal, not violating community guidelines. And then, a unique one: The 'X-Change User Disclaimer'.

It says something about notifying subscribers if there's any chance of sudden, unexpected de-transformation. Makes sense, I guess. I agree to it, my mind already spinning with ideas.

The final application step. I hit submit. A notification pops up. 24-48 hours for account verification.

Fuck.

That's maybe 2 days of wasted time. Two days of not making money. I curse, throwing my pen across the room.

A moment later, I laugh at my own stupidity. Here I am, just turned into a woman, and already stressing about deadlines. I guess some things never change, pill or not.

—

As I slide into my beat-up truck, I glance at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. I've thrown on the loosest clothes I can find – a worn-out hoodie, baggy jeans cinched up with a belt that's now on its last hole. I pull the hood low over my face, shadowing my now delicate features.

With a sigh, I start the engine and head in the direction of the closest Wal-Mart. I don't have a plan, not really. What would Liz wear? I have no freaking idea.

The neon glow of the Wal-Mart sign offers a strange mix of comfort and dread. This is familiar territory, a weekly haunt for Eddie, the newly unemployed data analyst. But for Liz, the newly minted woman with an OnlyFans account in the works? This is uncharted waters.

The automatic doors slide open, and I step into the bright lighting of the store. A few early evening shoppers mill about, none of them paying me any attention. I'm a ghost, a shadow in ill-fitted clothes, wandering aimlessly among cosmetics and toiletries.

The female underwear section looks like a maze of lace, satin, and cotton. Rows and rows of panties, bras, and other strange contraptions I can only guess the purpose of. I've never been in this part of the store, often passing it with awkward sidelong glances. Now, I stand here, feeling like an alien in a foreign land.

I reach out, picking up a pack of Jo & Bette Lace Trim Thongs. The packaging boasts about 'super soft cotton spandex,' and 'breathable comfort.' The lace is soft, the fabric thin and stretchy, promising added comfort. Comfort, yeah right. I can already sense the discomfort of having that strip of lace wedged between my cheeks. But well, sex sells, and this is the look I'm going for.

The panties look ridiculously small in my hand, like they'd barely cover anything. Are they really supposed to stretch that much? This is so damn surreal, but what the heck, into the cart they go.

Next, the bras. God. It's like stepping into a parallel universe, filled with hooks and straps and cups of all shapes and sizes. What even is a balconette bra? Or a demi-cup? How the hell do you figure out cup size, band size?

I feel like a fish out of water, my cheeks burning as confusion washes over me. I can't just stand here, staring at different cup sizes like a pervert.

I gather my courage and approach a rack displaying an assortment of bras, my eyes scanning the labels. Large, extra-large, double Ds. Yes, that seems about right.

I pick up a Deyllo Women's Sexy Lace Plunge Padded Underwire Push-Up Bra. Black, 34DD. The lace feels soft and delicate under my fingers, the underwire promising support for these new heavyweights I'm sporting. The push-up padding promises added oomph, not that I need much more of that. But hey, more is better, right?

But God, it looks sexy. The deep plunge, the front cross rope design - it's tantalizingly risque. The strappy back looks confusing as hell, but I bet it'll look great on camera.

I imagine myself wearing it, the soft lace against my skin, the straps crisscrossing my back. An unexpected thrill runs through me.

With the bra in my cart, I take one last look around. I feel like I've run a marathon, exhausted but oddly exhilarated. Who knew shopping could be this nerve-wracking, yet strangely exhilarating?

I stand amidst aisles and aisles of women's clothing, eyes wide and clueless. The tops are a cornucopia of polka dots, stripes, and floral prints, each more baffling than the last.

A middle-aged woman, presumably an attendant, approaches me.

"Can I help you find something, sweetie?" she asks, her hands still busy sorting through a pile of clothes on a nearby rack.

Her question hangs in the air for a moment. I'm not sure how to respond, not without sounding like an utter moron.

"Um, yeah," I squeak out, trying to make my voice seem more confident than it feels. "I'm looking for something... comfortable, but sexy. Maybe, umm, a bit... slutty?"

The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, my cheeks flushing a deep red. The attendant chuckles, her eyes twinkling with amusement. I wince, hoping she doesn't realize what I'm up to.

"But also, not too expensive," I add, remembering my account balance. "And versatile. And forgiving to, um, larger assets."

The woman's chuckle turns into a laugh, but she doesn't seem off-put. Instead, she nods, taking my chaotic explanation in stride.

"Sounds like a fun date night," she winks, misinterpreting my intentions.

I chuckle awkwardly, deciding not to correct her. She starts pulling out a few clothes, suggesting different combinations. A low-cut top, a high-waisted skirt, a chic jumpsuit.

Her advice is helpful, her easygoing nature helping to chase away some of my nervousness. Still, I can't help but feel out of place, a fish out of water.

I gather up the clothes and head to the changing room, a bubble of anticipation growing in my chest.

Boxy changing room. Awful lighting. But a full-length mirror. God, I look nervous. In my baggy clothes, I look swallowed up, my femininity hidden. I strip down, looking at my new bod. I still can't believe these tits are mine. The heaviness, the jiggle, every time I move, it's just... bizarre. But feels correct, somehow.

First, a sundress. Light, floral, with a wide neckline. I can already tell it's a bad choice - looks like a maternity dress with my big tits stretching the fabric. But there's something kind of exciting about seeing myself with that cleavage.

Next, a pair of skinny jeans. They're tight, hugging every curve of my hips and ass. My mirror image gazes back at me, the rear curve of my jeans perfectly molding around my cheeks. God, I have a butt. A girl's butt. This is all just so damn weird! But cool!

I shimmy on a tight-fitting cropped top next, the soft fabric stretching over my breasts. I look at myself, and damn, I look hot in this. Yep, taking it.

It's a strange feeling, straddling between exhilaration and embarrassment. But every time I see my reflection, the Liz in the mirror just grows on me.

The rhythm of trying on clothes starts to grow on me too. The rough slide of denim, the softer caress of cotton, the luxe feel of silk against my sensitive skin - it feels so great not having hairy legs! It's exciting, yet overwhelming. Who'd have known something as simple as clothes could feel so different?

I reach for the last piece. The infamous OnlyFans-worthy string bikini I grabbed in a moment of weakness. My heart races in my chest as I finger the small triangles of fabric. Geez. There's more cloth in one of my old socks.

Slowly, I pull the bikini top over my boobs, adjusting the teeny triangles to cover my nipples. I'm not sure if it's the chilly air or the thrill of it all, but my nipples are hard underneath the thin fabric.

I tie the string bikini bottom in place, surprised at how little it covers. My pussy is right there, the delicate folds barely concealed by the small triangle of fabric. I have to reposition it slightly, the string nestling right up against my slit.

I hesitantly turn around, examining my ass. The string disappears between my cheeks, the bikini bottom leaving very little to the imagination. It feels weirdly breezy, my ass cheeks completely exposed, despite being "clothed."

I need to get this, even if it feels uncomfortable. 'Leaving little to the imagination' is the name of the game for OnlyFans, right? This was the look I was going for.

The checkout is surprisingly smooth. I swipe my card, averting my eyes from the total. The damage isn't as bad as I feared. The attendant wishes me good luck, a knowing wink in her eye. She thinks it's for a date. I laugh to myself. If only she knew.

Loaded up with clothes, I head back to the truck. There's a newfound bounce in my step, the first successful mission of Liz's impressive career. I feel the flutter of hope, excitement.

Maybe this crazy plan just might work after all.

But my account balance is definitely getting lower.

—

A chill runs through me as the liquor store's icy air hits my skin. It's almost too cold, the chill seeping through the layers of my oversized hoodie. A jingle, the sound of the bell on the door, resonates in the otherwise quiet store.

The scent in the air is so familiar, yet strange. The sharp tang of liquor seems more pronounced than before, hits me differently - it's more intense, almost intimidating.

Rows and rows of bottles catch the fluorescent lighting, offering a spectrum of amber, golden, and mahogany hues. There's something oddly comforting about the sight, the labels familiar, the brands recognizable.

Mr. Patel is behind the counter, balding as ever, his mustache trimmed, as he scans a magazine, spectacles perched precariously on his nose. He's been the owner for as long as I can remember, a stern but ultimately harmless guy, always more interested in his magazine or cricket scores than his customers.

I hurry towards the coolers, absently picking up two six-packs of Coors. My mind is racing, thoughts tangled with all the new sensations and experiences. The feel of cold beer in my hands, the anticipation of a quiet night in, it's grounding amidst the chaos.

As I approach the counter, I notice Mr. Patel's gaze shift towards me. He doesn't recognize me, of course, although I've seen him countless times.

His eyes glance down at my chest, and I feel myself blushing. It's subtle, a split-second glance, but it still feels like an invasion.

These are MY tits he's looking at.

He doesn't say much, just rings up my beer, his glances more curious than lewd. But still, the hair on the back of my neck prickles. I feel weirdly objectified, but he isn't disrespectful. Just checking me out. That's ok, right?

I pay in cash, avoiding eye contact. "Have a good night," he wishes, his eyes already back on his magazine. I offer a mumbled thanks, turning to leave. The bell jingles, a sound of closure as I step outside, the cool night air a relief after the intensity of the store.

I make my way back home, a strange sense of unease settling in. It's been a long day, a day of changes and challenges. What I need now is a shower, a beer, and maybe some me time.

Back home, I drop the bags of clothes unceremoniously on the floor. I pull open a can of beer, gulping down the frothy liquid. The cold, bitter taste of beer, it's just what I need. The familiarity, the normalcy of it, it's soothing.

I dig through the shopping bags, searching for the new panties. When I finally find them, I peel off the plastic wrapping, my heart pounding in my chest. I've worn boxers all my life, these lace thongs are like alien artifacts, but they're going on my body, my transformed body.

I unfold one of the panties, holding it out in front of me. They're impossibly small, the lace trim incredibly soft and delicate. A flutter of nervousness makes my stomach churn as I step into them, pulling them up over my hips.

The sensation is... odd. Unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. The thong back slips between my ass cheeks easily, the cotton-spandex blend stretching to accommodate my new curves. The crotch nestles right up against my... pussy. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, a thrill of the new reality I've stepped into.

When I look down, my heart misses a beat. The lace trim frames my hips just right. I trace my fingers along the waistband, the touch sending tingles down my spine. The small triangle of fabric covers my slit, barely. I can feel the small strip of fabric against my skin, against my pussy lips.

The sight is... captivating. Arousing, in a strange, exciting way. I feel warm heat pooling in my belly, radiating out in powerful waves. My pussy lips throb in response, a slow pulse that surprisingly matches my heartbeat.

I slip off my hoodie, finally stripping down to nothing but this lace thong. The cool air of the room hits my sensitive nipples, the sudden touch unexpected but not unwelcome. I shiver, an involuntary response to the shock of the chill.

The soft lace rubs against my pussy lips, the constant friction stirring a slow burn within me. I've never felt anything like it before. The throb there is persistent, a low hum of pleasure that's just a hint of what's to come. My clit, covered by the thin strip of cotton, is sensitive, a small pulsating point of focus amidst the sea of new sensations.

I raise my eyes to the mirror across the room, taking a moment to truly look at myself. Lace thong panties, cute round ass, large breasts hanging out, perky nipples hard in the chill of the room. Could I be... turned on by my own body? Or is something else causing it?

For a moment, I just stand there, letting the peculiar sensation wash over me. Arousal. Slow burning, building arousal. It's intoxicating.

I close my eyes, leaning back against the edge of the couch, my fingers trailing down to the lacy edge of the panties. A thrill of anticipation rushes through me as I slide a finger beneath the fabric, pressing into the soft flesh. The touch sends a jolt of electricity coursing through my veins, and I can't hold back a soft gasp.

The wetness there is new and so utterly feminine, I can feel my cheeks flush. But God, it feels good, in a way that feels so familiar and yet so different from anything I've ever experienced.

"Time for some porn," I mumble, propping up my laptop on the armrest, the cool metal chilling against my bare thigh. I hesitantly pull up my old favorite porn site, already feeling the first pangs of guilt in my chest.

But it's fine, right? I mean, I am still me, just a different version of myself. And being a woman doesn't mean I can't watch porn. That's like a total myth.

I click on the first video that catches my eye, a hot compilation of cumshots. This was always my go-to. Watching girls take load after load, their faces dripping with cum, it was my dirty little fetish.

The video starts. There's a montage of different girls taking the brunt of heavy loads. An asian girl, her fair skin dotted with streaks of pearly cum, the expression on her face pure ecstasy, or so it seems. A black girl, her beautiful curls filled with sticky ropes of cum, her eyes squinted in a squirming pleasure. A blonde, her fake tans smeared with trails of white, her well-practiced O-face in full display.

As I watch the scenes unfold, I find my reactions slowly shifting, the familiar thrill of arousal replaced by a growing... empathy? I wince when the asian girl gets a shot of cum up her nose, her eyes watering in response. I grimace when the black girl's curls get crusted with drying cum, knowing that's going to be a bitch to wash out. I sympathize with the blonde, her cute tanned face marred with streaks of white, her eyes closed in what looks like tired resignation.

My focus shifts to the men, their triumphant faces, their joy in their release over a girl's face. I can see the satisfaction in their expressions, the knowledge of marking a woman, of using her face as a canvas for their cum. I can't help but imagine the feeling, the wet stickiness of the cum on their faces, the slight sting when it hits the eye. The degrading comments.

It's the bukkake scenes that truly hit me. I'd always loved the concept – a group of men cumming over one girl, her face destroyed in the deluge of cum. I'd imagined myself in the group, each load a symbol of my dominance, my release.

But now, watching the girl in the center, her face plastered with layers of cum, I can't help but imagine being her. The taste of salty cum in my mouth, the sharp, metallic scent filling my nostrils, the sting of cum getting into my eyes. The feeling of being reduced to a cumdump, an object for their pleasure. The label "stupid slut" printed on my forehead. It's a thought that both terrifies and excites me.

God, this change in perspective is so weird.

The next video starts, the guy's dick in full view, twitching in anticipation. The girl is on her knees, her eyes welling up with tears, the mascara running down her face. The guy's grunting fills the room as he jerks off in front of her, his hand moving in quick, harsh strokes. The first rope of cum hits her square in the face, coating her cheek and splattering into her hair.

I feel a wave of revulsion watching the girl's face crumple, her mouth a tight line of displeasure. She lifts a hand, wiping away the cum that's sliding down her cheek. "I told you not to get it in my hair," she mutters, the annoyance clear in her voice.

The guy just laughs, reaching over to push her hand away. "You're ruining the shot," he retorts, his tone dismissive.

It's a scene I've watched dozens of times before, a moment I've relished, reveled in. But now, it feels wrong. It feels... cruel.

My stomach churns with unease as the girl grits her teeth, enduring the humiliation. The guy keeps jerking, his strokes unrelenting. Another rope hits her squarely in the nose, causing her to cringe.

"Fuck, that burns," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the guy's grunts.

I've always been one of the guys, a part of this scene, part of the power dynamic. But now... now I feel like I'm one of the girls, cringing at the guy's insensitivity, empathizing with the girl's discomfort. My body convulses with a strange mix of arousal and guilt, the feeling both enticing and nauseating.

I find myself looking at the woman in the video, my eyes following her curves, the way her breasts sway with each movement. I can almost feel her body against mine, the way our bodies would press together. It's a thought that both excites and terrifies me.

With a bit of apprehension, I pull up the next video. It's a lesbian scene, two busty girls in a 69 position, their bodies entwined in a sensual embrace.

I nibble at my lip as I watch the girls writhing in pleasure, the sounds of their moaning filling the room. I can feel an unfamiliar twinge of arousal, a sensation that's more intense than I'm used to.

Their bodies are exquisite, the soft curves and contours highlighted by the soft lighting. I find myself unconsciously tracing the swell of their breasts, the rise and fall of their bellies, the soft dip between their thighs.

They're making out hard, their lips locked in a passionate dance. I feel a strange pull, an attraction unlike anything I've ever felt. It's not instant, not explosive. It's a slow burn, a tantalizing tease.

I can imagine myself in their place, my body pressed against another woman's, our breasts squishing against each other, our mounds grinding together. The thought is jarring, but not unpleasant. It's a new fantasy, a new scenario to explore.

They're lost in each other, their hands running over each other's bodies, tongues exploring each other. I watch, fascinated by the sight. It's sensual, seductive in a way that straight porn has never been. I can't help but imagine what it would feel like, the taste of another woman's lips, the feel of her skin against mine.

My fingers slide over my breasts, the sudden touch making me gasp. My nipples are hard, aching for attention. As I absentmindedly pinch a nipple, my back arches, the sensation of pleasure shooting straight to my throbbing slit.

My hand slips lower, fingers idly stroking my mound through my panties. The friction is heavenly, the sensation driving me wild. The panties are soaked through, the lace teasing my sensitive folds with a delicious edge.

I shift on the couch, my bare ass pressing against the cool fabric. On a whim, I stuff a couch cushion between my legs, grinding against it. The sensation is unexpectedly arousing, the friction against my clit driving me to new heights of pleasure.

I have to admit, though, there's something about these lesbian scenes that misses the mark. It's not the girls - they're gorgeous. It's not their moves - they are hot as hell.

It's the performance. The over-the-top moaning, the theatrical gasping, the cameras zooming in on their 'O' faces - it all feels a little too... staged. I know they're putting on a show, and that's fine. What should I expect from porn anyway? It's just... I'm not 'buying' it, so to speak.

Frustrated, I flick to the next video. This time, it's a guy and a girl. They're in the shower, the water cascading down their bodies in rivulets. The girl is pressed up against the glass, her breasts flattened against the clear surface. The guy is behind her, his muscular body glistening with water and sweat. His cock is buried deep inside her, his harsh thrusts making her gasp.

Something about this scene hooks me. I don't know if it's the raw intensity, the palpable passion, or just the sight of that hunk of a man taking charge. Maybe it's the sight of that big, hard cock plowing into her.

I let the video play out on the laptop as I recline on the well-worn couch. My sweatpants are in a discarded heap on the floor, my chest heaving with each hitched breath, my new panties cast aside. It's just me and this alien body and the erotic tension that's so much sharper, so much more intense than anything I've ever experienced.

Eyes half-lidded and dreamy, I watch the guy pin the girl up against the glass, water cascading down both bodies, their lust an echo of my own. The man's firm grip on her hips, the way her body shudders with each deep thrust – it's a sight that's rapidly stoking the furnace in my abdomen.

My fingers trace down the soft, supple skin of my stomach until they meet my glistening mound. I hesitate, my heart pounding in my chest, my throat dry with nervous anticipation. A soft moan slips from my lips as I dip my fingers into that wet heat, feeling the delicate folds of my new slit. It's slick to the touch, my original hesitance quickly dissolving into a need to explore, to touch, to press and rub.

The sensation is electric, my hips bucking involuntarily as I start to experiment with different movements. I find my clit, that tiny nub of pleasure, and press a finger lightly against it. The moan that echoes through the room is raw and animalistic, a low, throaty sound that I hardly recognize as my own.

As the man on the screen buries his face into her neck, I lose myself in the rhythmic swirls of my own fingers over my clit. My free hand instinctively reaches up, palm closing over a neglected tit, kneading the pliable flesh. The combined sensation of both my sensitive nipples and throbbing clit being stimulated sends pleasure pulsing through me in powerful waves.

The previously slow burn is rapidly turning into an inferno. My body writhes on the couch, my pussy slick and throbbing against my fingers. My juices are pooling on the couch beneath me, sticky and sweet, smelling faintly of raw sex. My thighs shake with the strain of keeping them wide apart, my toes curling into the spongy couch cushions.

Onscreen, the man pulls out of her, his cock glistening with her arousal. His hand wraps around his length, stroking himself steadily. The sight of it – that large, hard cock slick with her juices – triggers something in me. I imagine the feel of his cock against my soft, wet folds, the sensation of his girth stretching me wide.

And with that thought firmly in my mind, everything inside me seems to tighten like a coiled spring. I'm overwhelmed with a sudden urge to pee, but I think I understand that feeling now, I know it's not that. I'm close. I'm so fucking close.

My fingers move faster, rubbing my clit in tight, fast circles. The pressure builds to an unbearable degree, a rush of warm pleasure traveling from my core, radiating out to the rest of my body.

The guy's grunts echo through the room as he plunges back in, his release imminent and I feel a primal hunger stirring within me. It's like a drum, my orgasm, the rhythm growing more and more frantic until suddenly…

Boom.

The world explodes. My fingers become a blur over my cunt, the pleasure spiraling out of control. A scream tears past my lips, sharp and raw, filling the room as my orgasm slams into me. A flood of juices squirt out of me, a hot rush of liquid spraying forcefully onto my couch and—oh no—onto my laptop.

In that moment, I can't bring myself to care about my laptop, or the mess I've made, or the fact that I'm clearly a squirter. The pleasure is so intense, so all-encompassing, that nothing else matters.

My body jerks and spasms with the intensity of my climax, my juices continuing to gush out in short bursts. I ride out my orgasm, my fingers never letting up, wringing every last tremor from my body until my skin feels too sensitive, my body too sated.

The aftermath is a mix of shock and awe. My body is still trembling, aftershocks of pleasure rippling through me. I glance down at the pool of juices that's soaking into the couch cushion, my heart hammering in my chest.

But then my eyes drift over to my laptop, its screen flickering ominously. Dread washes over me as I realize what I've just done. My laptop, my lifeline, my means of making money and surviving in this new life, is toast.

"Fuck!" I scream, my voice a raw, aching echo in the room. But it's done, and there's no point in crying over a shorted out laptop.

My world may be crashing down around me but, damn, that was one hell of an orgasm.

—

My phone screen flares up, the bright illumination cutting through the dim interior of my apartment. I squint against the light, my fingers tracing the familiar pattern of my passcode lock. I check my emails eagerly, my heart pounding in my chest. But to my frustration, there are no new notifications. Just the usual barrage of spam and promotional offers.

Shaking my head, I toss my phone aside, feeling drained and oddly empty. I glance down at my crotch, the wet spot on my couch a stark reminder of the aftermath of wild pleasure that left me satisfied and sated. But now, as my pulsating arousal is beginning to die down, everything just feels... gross.

Sighing heavily, my eyes drift over to my laptop. Or rather, what used to be my laptop. The once shiny surface is now smeared with streaks of glistening female ejaculate, the keyboard soaked through with it. I stifle a grimace, my heart twisting at the sight. I guess I'm going to be managing my OnlyFans page completely through my phone.

Part of me can't help but marvel at the sheer power of my orgasm. To be able to squirt like that, to lose control so completely, it's an experience that leaves me feeling both terrified and invigorated.

Pulling myself up from the couch, I try to shake off the lingering disorientation. My new body feels heavy, my mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts and emotions. I look around, taking in the dinginess of my apartment for the first time.

Discarded pizza boxes are stacked by the door, a spiderweb of cracks running across the stained floor tiles. My furniture is cheap and worn, the sagging cushions hardly looking inviting. Clothes are scattered across the room, a mix of my old baggy clothes and the new, feminine ones I'd bought earlier. In the dim lighting, my old guitar is propped against a shadowed corner, a layer of dust gathering on its glossy surface.

The sight of it all sends a pang of unease through me. This isn't a place fit for filming enticing OnlyFans content. It's not even a place I'd want to live in. This extra dose of female perception, this heightened sensitivity towards cleanliness and orderliness, it's telling me one thing very clearly – a change is needed.

Rubbing my temples, I take a deep breath.

Deciding my cleaning spree should start with myself, I step into the shower. Female hygine was one of the few things I had researched on YouTube, and I was ready to put some of the concepts into practice

My cleaning routines in the past were a brief, efficient procedure. In contrast, washing my new body feels almost like a self-indulgent ritual. I run the soapy Wal-mart loofah over my neck and collarbones, savoring the ticklish sensation. I slide it down, letting it cover the swell of my heavy breasts, the nipples pebbling at the sensation.

Experimentally, I cup my own breast, lifting the full weight in my palm. The loofah rolls over the nipple, the stimulation making it harden instinctively. It's a luscious perky peak of flesh now, teasingly erect under the onslaught of warm water and soapy fingers. I can't help but pinch it lightly, making my back arch at the sharp little jolt that zings straight to the throbbing slit between my legs. But I decide to not indulge myself any further, not yet, not when I have so much cleaning yet to do.

Moving on, the loofah slides down my belly, circling my navel before dipping lower. I wince slightly, not used to the sensitivity of my new parts. I wash my mound carefully, the soapy tendrils slipping between my lips, making me gasp at the tingling sensation it sets off.

Next comes the hair, which is another task entirely. I reach for the shampoo and pour a dollop onto my hand. I massage it into my scalp, the familiar motion bringing a sense of comfort. But when I try to rinse it out, it's a different story. With the long length of it, washing out the shampoo becomes an ordeal, the water seemingly having a harder time reaching my scalp. I have to really angle my head under the water, mop of hair fully soaked, before the water rinses out the shampoo to my satisfaction.

After repeating the procedure with the conditioner, I reach for the razor, not sure if I even need to do this yet. I hesitate a moment, considering the expanse of legs I have. Shaving my face always felt like a tedious chore when I was a man, but this? This is a project.

I start at my ankles, working my way up, the razor sliding along my calves and then up my thighs. The soapy water lathers my skin, making it easier for the razor to glide along. Next, I shave my underarms, cringing at the ticklish sensation. Finally, with a healthy sense of caution, I shave my mound, the razor gliding over my folds with a careful precision I never needed before.

Finally stepping out of the shower, I reach for my towel. Feeling oddly self-conscious, I start patting myself dry. I start with my hair, the towel absorbing most of the water. I run it over my face, down my neck, and over my shoulders. It brushes down my back, followed by the soft patting on my breasts.

I raise one arm, delicately patting my armpit before moving on to the next. Then it's a slide down my stomach, the towel soaking up the water on my skin. I make sure to give special attention to my new parts, patting myself dry with careful precision.

Once my body is dry, I take a minute to admire my newly smoothed skin. My legs are silk under my fingertips

Finally, grabbing my pajamas from the sink counter, I slip into the polka-dot top. It's a little tight around my chest, the fabric brushing against my nipples and causing them to peak once more beneath the soft material. Slipping into the matching bottoms, I can't help but admire the smooth expanse of my legs, the way the material clings to my curves.

Feeling fresh and clean, even a little pampered, I step out of the bathroom with renewed vigor, ready to tackle the cleaning spree that is due.

Then, rolling up my sleeves, I start tackling the mess, my mind determined to ignore the exhaustion pulling at my limbs. I begin with the couch where my laptop lies. Carefully, I lift the soaked device off the cushion, setting it aside. I pull off the stained cushion cover, my nose wrinkling at the smell of my own dried juices.

Some heavy duty fabric cleaner and a scrub brush go a long way in getting most of the stain out. The once familiar smell of stale beer and old pizza is slowly replaced by the chemical scent of the cleaner. It's definitely an upgrade.

Next, I turn my attention to the pile of laundry. I gather all the dirty sheets, my sweatpants, and all the clothes I'd tried on earlier. As I stuff them into the washer, I take a moment to appreciate the softness of the new fabrics, the delicate lace, the smooth silk. I add in a generous dose of fabric softener, wanting my new clothes to smell fresh and feminine.

With the laundry machine humming in the background, I continue my cleaning spree. The dishes are washed and stacked neatly, the stale pizza boxes are thrown out, and the floor is swept and mopped until it shines under the bright lights. My old posters are taken down, the faded pin-ups of bikini models making me cringe in retrospect.

The process is oddly therapeutic, each task completed bringing me a sense of satisfaction. I pour all my frustration and anxiety into my cleaning, the physical labor a welcome distraction from my thoughts. I think about how I can make my apartment presentable, how I can make it look enticing on camera. I have a vision of what I want it to look like, and I'm determined to make it happen.

As I wipe down the countertops, there's a subconscious sway to my hips, my breasts jiggling slightly with every movement. It's odd, this newfound grace my body seems to possess. Every glance in the mirror reminds me of the changes, the softness of my features, the femininity radiating off me. Even the sight of my female butt and large breasts in the reflection is starting to feel... well, natural. At least, not like I'm just staring at a stranger in the mirror.

Finally, with the apartment spotless and my body drenched in sweat, I turn off the music from the radio, the silence enveloping the room.

I can't help but smile, feeling proud of my work.

So, I walk over to the shadowy corner where my old guitar resides, its surface dust-riddled and untouched for ages. Lifting it feels different now; its weight is more pronounced in my slender arms. I cradle it close to my body, the worn wood pressing against the swell of my breasts.

I sit on the edge of my bed, my polka-dotted pajamas riding up my thighs as I settle down. Placing the guitar on my lap, I frown. The curve of my breasts causes the guitar to angle away from me, an awkward shift in balance that I had not anticipated. I try to guide it back into place, but it keeps slipping off.

After a few minutes of fumbling around, I decide on a different approach. I place the curve of the guitar over my left leg, mimicking the position I've seen classical guitar players use. It takes a bit of adjusting, but eventually, I find a comfortable spot. The guitar nestles between my thighs, the top edge resting just above my right breast.

My fingers, slender and feminine, find their place on the fretboard. The callouses on my fingertips are gone now, replaced by softer, more delicate skin. I press down, testing the sensation. It stings a little, the steel strings biting into my fresh fingertips.

But then, I strum the strings with my other hand, the sound resonating in the quiet room. It's a bit out of tune, but it's still beautiful. Familiar.

Guiding a capo onto the second fret, I clip it into place. The tension increases, the pitch of the strings rising in response. I pluck at them individually, adjusting the tuning keys until the sound is just right.

My first chord is a simple G Major. My fingers feel awkward, struggling to form the shape on the frets. It's a clumsy attempt, the sound coming out muted and unsure. I repeat the chord, nudging my fingers into a better position. It sounds better this time, the notes ringing out with more clarity.

As I play, I find myself adjusting my posture. Leaning back, I allow my right breast to literally stack on top of the curve of the guitar. My boob jiggles slightly with every strum.

Emboldened, I move on to the next chord. A D Major. It's a stretch for my fingers but I manage it, the sound coming out clean and bright. An E minor follows, then a C Major, and before I know it, I'm playing a progression. The strings vibrate under my touch, their sound filling the room.

I'm still Eddie. This much is clear. I'm just... well, I'm just me with tits now. Plus female hormones, and a new perspective. But I am me.

My fingers still know their way around, the muscle memory ingrained deep within. My mind still knows the chords, the notes, the progression. The music, it's a part of me. And the pleasure that comes with playing it, it's just as satisfying, maybe even more so now.

I begin to hum along, my voice soft and tentative, unaccustomed to singing in this new feminine register. I find a melody, the notes floating on the soft plucked strings. And then, almost without realizing it, I begin to sing.

"And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?

Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze?

Cold comfort for change? And did you exchange

A walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?"

As I continue, my voice gains confidence, each note vibrating through me, finding resonance with my current predicament. I am trading, changing, exchanging. And in doing so, I'm awakening something within myself.

My fingers glide across the fretboard, moving with a newfound ease. It seems that even with my hourglass curves, my feminine features, and my DD breasts, I can still find a connection to my old self.

Playing my guitar as Liz, it's an oddly satisfying experience. It connects me to Eddie, it unites who I was with who I am now. And it makes me realize that, despite all the changes, despite all the hurdles, I am still me.

I strum the final chord, letting the sound ring out in the silence. The vibrations hum through my body, a soft echo of the music resonating within. I close my eyes, leaning back on my bed, feeling the satisfying throb of my sore fingertips.

***