“Dude, are you kidding me? This is a driver. Even with half a swing I guarantee I can send this ball at
least 100 yards. Probably can still get close to 2, easily. I’ve never been a slouch in our skins games.
Just because I'm a girl now doesn't mean I've lost my swing. Sure, I might be a bit weaker, but golf is
more muscle memory and technique than brute strength. So what’s the bet?”
“Okay, if you hit it over 100 yards, we’ll pay your rent for the next month and if you don’t… uh,
hmm… you’ll all the dishes for the month?”
“I already do all our dishes. And laundry. And cooking. And vacuuming and dusting and grocery
shopping and-”
“Okay, okay, we get it. We could all stand to help out around the house more. But if not that, then what
do you suggest?”
“…”
“Maybe… maybe you could let us play with your boobs. Each of us. Privately. For five minutes.”
Wow, I knew they were a bit liquored up, but I wasn’t expecting that level of boldness. And although it
was undoubtedly an awkward question, they all stirred with anticipation at my answer. “I don’t know
about five, maybe a minute? I don’t even know why I’m arguing about this, it’s not like I’ll be losing
here. Sure, five a piece.”
“Are you sure about this dude? I don't think you realize just how much of that muscle memory you
might have lost since the change. Your body language and movements are just… different now.”
“You mean girly.”
“Hey, you said it, not me. I mean, have you honestly not noticed?”
“I mean, maybe I posture a bit different and I roll my hips more when I walk, but it’s unavoidable!
Other than the little adjustments I’ve had to make because of these big, dumb hips, basically nothing
else I do is any different than how I’ve always done it.”
“It’s more than just little adjustments or the way you sway your hip my dude.”
“Way more.”
“Like how you move your hands so much when you’re talking-”
“Or how when you tossed me my keys earlier you threw it like a total chick-”
“I saw that, you missed Dave by like a mile!”
“Always checking yourself out and playing with your hair-”
“You’re way more flamboyant and expressive about everything-”
“Sitting with your legs crossed-”

“You definitely talk about your feelings a LOT more-”
“I mean, did you really need to get your ears pierced and spend an hour picking out an outfit and you
just had to wear open toed shoes because it matched better, even though we’re going to a golf course.”
“Remember the other day when you saw that spider and screamed so loud our neighbors almost called
the cops? That little guy was barely an inch big!”
“You called a ‘house meeting’ to lecture us about replacing the toilet paper and putting the seat down
like a total chick. It’s not that hard to look before you sit dude.”
“Face it, sometimes it’s hard to tell that you weren’t born and raised a woman. It feels like I’m living
with my sister again the way we go through toilet paper and all the time you take in the bathroom to
‘get ready’.”
“And most girls suck at golf. And pretty much all sports. Especially one so faaat- I mean plus sized like
you.”
“Nice save idiot.”
I could feel the tears starting to well up in my eyes and tried to fan them dry before they made my
mascara run. It hurt to hear it out loud, even though Brad tried to make the save. But that was the truth,
that’s what they see me as now. A fat, out of shape girl. And truth be told I hadn’t done much to
convince them otherwise.
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It was 6 weeks ago today when I accidentally broke that fertility statue at the thrift store. I was just
looking for some clothes for a costume party I was going to go to and bumped into, might I say, a very
carelessly set up display, and the damn thing shattered into hundreds of pieces on the ground. I
immediately felt a strange chill down my spine, but made nothing of it, paid for the broken goods some
vinyls, some retro clothes, and left. I had no idea what was coming next.
At first, there was nothing major, my shorts felt a little tight, my shirt felt coarse on my chest, but
nothing worse than thinking I was coming down with a cold. Still, I decided to call it an early night. I
wish I would have enjoyed my last day as a man a bit more.
The next morning my hips and ass puffed out, with chunky thighs and all. Other than my junk, I was
essentially female from the waist down. Soft and wide and jiggly. My aereola and nipples had
definitely grown significantly and were rising from my skin. They were about the size of pepperonis
with little eraser nubs sticking out. I figured it was an allergic reaction. Reasonable, right? At least
compared to what was actually happening.
I asked my roommates to grab me some Benadryl and they had a good laugh, the first of many, at my
puffier figure which was mostly concealed. I spent the rest of the day, locked up in my room in a
druggy haze, cursing my stomach ache, not realizing that with every passing hour I was shrinking and
expanding in the most feminine ways and that aching pulse wasn’t coming from my stomach. It was
coming from something new. My balls had ascended and become ovaries and my new womb was

forming.
The second day is when things really started to snowball. I woke up and my hips were huge. HUGE.
They blew past womanly and curvy and were down right MOTHERLY. My waist had squeezed in, but
still left me with a soft pot belly that looked oh so everly fertile. My thighs rubbed together, just as
thick and showing the first signs of cellulite, stemming from the meager remains of my cock and the
burgeoning entrance to a new vagina. My shoulders were narrow, lining to what at the time I thought
were massive breasts, adorned with thick, dark nipples. My hands and feet were dainty little fixtures,
adorned with chubby little digits. Everywhere, everywhere, my form was soft, weak, curvy, and
covered in a layer of fat. And with a voice that could crack windows, I shrieked.
My roommates came running in, trying to console me, but as I tried to explain my situation, I learned
about another one of my changes- I was an emotional mess. Between my blubbering I somehow
managed to make a coherent enough statement that convinced them not to call the cops. After all, I
wasn’t a threat. I was at least a foot shorter without an ounce of muscle, what could I possibly do to
them?
After struggling to find a pair of sweatpants in the house that could possibly hope to encase my
enormous ass, I tried to explain myself and pass the usual litmus test of “who are you” questions that
were a necessary cliché. I answered them, struggling on parts because of the emotions of the decision,
but got a lot farther when I logged in with my old passwords and oh yeah, more changes kicked in.
How could this not be over?! These were mostly cosmetic as my hair billowed farther down my neck
and my nails grew to a fashionable length that would ticky-tack on any surface.
As the men strategised on what to do next, already treating me as an emotional liability, I retreated all
jiggly and bouncy to the bathroom to relieve the only familiar situation now accompanying my form.
Realizing that standing proudly wouldn’t be possible now that my pelvis had tilted underneath me, I
humbled my self and sat on my throne, compressing my ginormous ass and sending my hips spilling
over the sides. The stream was wild and erratic, possibly a metaphor, spraying and making me feel just
gross. Again, I decided to forfeit pride and wiped.
When I touched my tiny penis, almost like a last good bye, he shrank and retreated inside me while she
opened up her petals and my flower unfurled. I had officially been drafted into the ranks of the fairer
sex and nothing I could do would convince the outside world otherwise. And for what was beginning to
become a common occurrence, I cried.
When I exited the bathroom, my friends explained the plan, gently and quietly, like talking to a
frightened animal. The sobbing must have been obvious. The three of them would go down to the thrift
shop and learn as much as they could about the statue and report back with whatever they learned,
vowing with bravado to not return until they found something tangible. I begged them to be careful,
like a princess bidding her knights in shining armor. We were already beginning to assume our natural
roles around one another.
After they left, I found myself wishing that one of them had stayed to provide me some company, I felt
so lonely and vulnerable. I began looking for something to do, picking up around the house, tidying up
here and there, just putting cushions back on couches, nothing major, anything to distract myself from
all my jiggly, wobbly bits and strange vacancy between my legs. I made a mental note that we’d need
to really give this place a good cleaning in the future when all this was over. Finding myself a bit
hungry, I started to make breakfast for one, when I had the inspired idea that the guys would probably

be hungry too and decided to make a big meal for all of us. Not knowing what might be in store for the
day, I figured the extra calories could only help. It was delightful and the distraction I needed, the smell
of bacon and scrambled eggs filling our apartment, which for the first time registered was quite stinky.
I know you’re thinking, why on earth are you surprised the guys think of you as girl if in the first few
hours of womanhood you took to the role of homemaker like a fish to water? You have to understand, it
barely registered that I was doing any of this. My working mind was so overwhelmed with new
sensations, trying not to make my ass shake and ignore the grating feeling of the shirt against my
nipples, the strangeness of my thighs rubbing together, the odd flatness and emptiness that allowed my
thighs to rub together, feeling so small and vulnerable seeing my home from a new perspective, trying
to figure out what to tell friends, family, work, etc; beset on all sides with anxieties, fears, and oddities
that my subconscious took over. I was acting almost solely on instinct. Whether it’s from magic or is
what I truly believed how a woman should behave is better left for a psychiatrist. It doesn’t matter
either way.
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Looking back at it now, I know the truth. Underneath every facade, act, belief, and rationalization was
my true nature coming forth- one of nesting, nourishing, and just being nurturing was now the core of
my being. In other words, this body would make the perfect mother and every impulse yearned to be
that woman. Should I be surprised? In hindsight, no, it was a fertility statue after all. I was becoming
motherly and doing everything in my power to attract a mate.
They arrived sometime later with some great news and some dour news. They retrieved the broken
shards from the thrift shop trash can and were able to find someone who’s an expert on magical
artifacts and didn’t outright dismiss our story, claiming to be familiar with such curses. Not only that,
but she’d be happy to meet with me and could probably offer some sort of solution. The bad news? She
wouldn’t be around for another two weeks.
Although it was a positive development in a sea of tragedies, I had to excuse myself from the room and
went and locked my door. 2 weeks! 2 weeks! Admittedly, it was a relief it wasn’t a lifetime, but still! 2
weeks of living and looking like this? Could I even take that much time off work? Would I get a
period? COULD I GET A PERIOD?
After staving off another near panic attack, I really took the time to look at my new self in the mirror,
starting slowly by examining my face. I was cute, bordering on beautiful with wide, innocent blue eyes,
chubby cheeks, and a button nose. My hair had grown out and lightened, edging to the middle of my
neck and crossing the threshold from dirty blonde to just plain old blonde. I made all sorts of faces to
overcome the disconnect that the woman in the mirror was truly me, learning much about myself in the
process. With my big puppy dog eyes and full, pouty lips; I looked far too pure and innocent and I
doubt anyone would think I could be capable of even harming a fly. But in the same vein, I doubt
anyone could take me seriously ever again. My frowns and scowls came off, frustratingly, as adorable.
At best my anger would be taken as childish, like a tantrum, and at worst, bitchy. No, I doubt I could
ever command the same authority and gravitas I did as a man.
After trying all manner of expressions from mundane to Picaso-esque, I knew it was time to venture
further and began tracing my hands along these new curves, and fully viewing my physique for the first
time. I was attractive, undeniably so, but not so much in a traditional way. I was far too chubby and
thick to be model material. No, as a matter of fact, I was attractive in the most traditional of all ways- I

looked oh so deliciously fertile. My waist curved, rounded, ripe, almost begging to be fertilized and
stretched further with a baby, my wide hips swaying and swinging, almost bragging about their birthing
ability, my large, swelling breasts and thick nipples, heavy and already producing a strain on my back
but still eagerly showcasing their desire to nurse and be suckled on, to be lusted after, capable of
producing volumes upon volumes of milk to feed a village. And finally, there was my embarrassingly
gigantic ass, protruding, bouncing, and generally advertising my new sex and how pleasurable and
satisfying I could make the act, leaving no doubt of the furious, raw pounding I could take with such a
round cushion. Everywhere I touched, my skin was soft, pliable, and forgiving with no trace of muscle
or firmness anywhere. Across all cultures, all time periods, any man, anywhere could take one glance at
me and know exactly what I was capable of, what I was good for- and it wasn’t cooking or cleaning.
It was a strange thought, one that ignited an even stranger feeling, a warm, fluttery, wet one. Men will
want to fuck me, dominate me, make my toes curl and hear my screams of pleasure. They’ll want to
cum in me and get me pregnant. It was such a novel thought to me then, this feeling so different from
being a man, one you never experience as a man. Where it used to be a pressure, a need to penetrate, to
dominate; this was needier. More vulnerable. Emptier. Like there was this gravity around my sex,
pulsing, swelling, throbbing, and begging for company. God, I was so naive to it then, how my
thoughts and impulses were already being overridden by my new biology. I knew I was looking at a
beautiful woman, I knew her body was turning me on, making me so wet, but I didn’t realize what was
truly triggering these feelings of lust wasn’t this image of a beautiful woman. It was knowing that this
woman could get all the dick she could ever want. Even now, my pussy pulses at the thought.
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