Indian by Mail (BetamaxLite)

White Man to Indian Bride (Racist Victim) - Make sure to check out the HTML version (so much better for mobile reading) of this story [here]!

You can find the full text below. Welcome to BetamaxLite, a less explicit kind of content that is free for all to view. My aim for the Neoidentity page is to avoid using AI images but I still want to produce some less explicit race change content using AI, hence this new kind of content for the Betamax17 page. Plus I just enjoy writing and like to write as much as I can!

Full Text

The package arrived unsigned, its only marking a smudged Mumbai postmark. Brad tore it open with a grunt, his lip curling at the flimsy tissue paper protecting a pair of Indian-style women’s sandals. They were undeniably beautiful with intricate red embroidery on soft leather, their pattern an offensive, reminder of the ‘filthy curry-munchers’ he’d ranted about online after seeing an Indian family move in next door. He flung them towards the trash, muttering “Fucking Paki trash,” but his hand jerked back, an intense heat blooming in his palm where the leather had brushed him. A compulsion flooded his veins, whispering wear them, put them on, feel how right they are. He fought it, sweat beading on his forehead, fists clenched, knuckles white, his mind screaming insults against the invading urge, but his traitorous body was already bending, trembling fingers closing around the delicate footwear. The leather felt unnaturally warm, almost alive, as he forced one foot, still in a sock and battered sneaker, towards the sandal. The moment his toes touched the embroidered interior, a searing current shot up his leg, bones grinding as his foot shrank, arch rising high, his sneaker splitting with a loud rip. Panic surged. “No! Fuck no! Get it off!” he roared, clawing at the sandal now pushed against his shrinking foot, nails useless against supple leather molding perfectly to his new, delicate shape. He kicked his other sneaker off, stumbling back, but the compulsion intensified, a physical pressure forcing him down onto the couch. His free foot shriveled, the second sandal sliding itself on.

Fire lanced through his hips, denim groaning as his pelvis widened, bones cracking audibly, his waist constricting sharply, knocking his breath out as his t-shirt stretched taut across his suddenly heaving chest. “Stop! You fucking pajeet magic, stop!” he bellowed, his voice cracking unnaturally high, hands flying to encounter soft, heavy flesh swelling beneath the cotton. He tore at his t-shirt, buttons pinging, fabric ripping down the middle to reveal full, heavy breasts capped with dark, stiffening nipples. His jeans split violently from crotch to knee as his hips flared and ass rounded, soft flesh spilling out, denim hanging in tattered strips around slender thighs. His face burned, muscles melting, jaw softening, lips swelling into a full, glossy pout, stubble vanishing as skin smoothed to warm bronze. His short brown hair spilled past his shoulders in a cascade of silky black waves. He tried to curse again, to scream slurs, but his tongue felt thick and clumsy. “Yeh… yeh kya ho raha hai?” (What… what is happening?) The Hindi words tumbled out, high-pitched and melodic, laced with inarticulate panic. The compulsion shifted to the plane ticket and passport on the floor. Go to the airport. Now. The command was an iron band. “Nahi!” (No!) he shrieked, the sound feminine and desperate. He tried to rip the sandals off, digging newly manicured, henna-tipped fingers under the straps, but they were part of him. He lurched towards the door, body moving with alien grace, hips swaying, breasts bouncing, remnants of jeans and torn t-shirt barely covering flashes of bronze skin and dark hair.

He stumbled into the hallway, bile rising at the humiliation, trying to force English out. “Help… m-mujhe… no... please!” The languages warred and lost, leaving guttural whimpers. He collided with his new neighbor, Mr. Patel, unlocking his door. The man stared, wide-eyed, at the stunning, distraught Indian woman in ripped Western clothes and beautiful Indian sandals. “Beti? Tum theek ho?” (Daughter? Are you okay?) Mr. Patel asked, concern etching his face. Brad opened his mouth, desperate to explain, to beg for help stopping this, but only frantic Hindi emerged: “Hawaai adda jaana hai! Mujhe jana hai! Yeh joote… mujhe rokho!” (I have to go to the airport! I need to go! These shoes… stop me!) Mr. Patel gently guided the trembling, barely-dressed woman back towards Brad’s apartment. “Shanti se, beti. Aap safe hain. Chalo, andar aao.” (Peacefully, daughter. You are safe. Come, come inside.) Inside, the compulsion became physical agony, a gut-twisting stronger than nausea. He broke free, eyes wild, fixated on the passport and ticket. He snatched them, the photo showing the terrified woman he’d become, the name ‘Priya Sharma’ printed below.

The drive to the airport was a blur of humiliated sobs and failed attempts at English, his mind screaming against the beautiful prison of his body. At the terminal, clad in tattered rags revealing more than they concealed, clutching the documents, Priya Sharma shuffled forward in the security line. Her mind was a haze of confusion dominated by the relentless drive to board the flight to Mumbai, her brown eyes vacant, plush lips slightly parted, the only language left the one she’d once despised.