A Typical Morning at the Stevensons

Part 1

The kitchen of the young Stevenson family smelled of freshly ground coffee and the pleasant scent of air freshener, which hung like a light haze in the air, mixing with the warm steam from the pot. At the stove stood a blonde in tight pink leggings and a light sweater, bending slightly forward to carefully pour boiling water. Her long hair fell in soft waves down her back, and the fabric of the leggings clung so tightly to her round hips that the eye almost stuck to them by itself.

— Good morning, Miss Homemaker, — came a man’s voice from behind her, leaning against the doorframe and lazily covering a yawn with his hand. With the other hand he scratched not far from where his “morning wood” was. — So, how’s it going, making something tasty?

The blonde at the stove didn’t even turn, just took a deep breath as if gathering strength, and replied:

— Good morning, Mike. I’m making oatmeal, — her voice sounded restrained, but there was irritation in it. — It’s good for us.

She put the kettle back and finally threw a quick glance at her husband, still standing there with a smug grin and a noticeable bulge under his shorts.

— And could you at least cover yourself, please? — she added, stirring the porridge. — It’s already hard enough for me to get used to this body, and you act like a teenager.

Mike (until recently Michelle) snorted without moving.

— Why cover myself? Just look at yourself. In those leggings… — he waved his hand in the air, outlining her curves. — Honestly, Em, if I were you, I’d be happy.

Emma (once Eric) noisily set the spoon aside and spun around to face him, brushing back the long hair that kept falling over her breasts. The movement made her curves under the light sweater bounce even more than she expected.

— So that’s how we’re talking now? — she put her hands on her hips, standing in a defiantly feminine pose that made her shiver inside. The leggings stretched even tighter, and her breasts pushed up against the thin sweater.

Mike smirked and lazily scratched the back of his head.

— Oh, here we go, — he drawled, with a lazy look, as if already preparing not to listen.

Emma pressed her lips together, staring straight at him.

— Here we go? Are you serious? I’m here in the kitchen first thing in the morning, hair getting in the way, tits getting in the way, leggings squeezing me everywhere they can… — she slapped her palm against her thigh, making her wide hips ripple under the pink fabric, and to her own shock she realized how that must have looked from the side, especially when she caught her husband’s eyes.

— Don’t stare! — she shouted, feeling heat rush to her face in an instant.

But Mike didn’t even blink. On the contrary, his grin grew wider. He tilted his head to the side, as if deliberately checking her out even more, his gaze lingering on her breasts, on the line of her waist, on her hips that in the pink leggings looked almost provocatively revealing.

— Actually, that used to be my body, — he dragged out the words, savoring each one, — And you liked it when I—

— Now it’s mine! — Emma cut him off sharply. — And I hate these tight clothes! As if it wasn’t enough that my ass is like an elephant’s, everything’s still highlighted!

She yanked the hem of her sweater down, as if that would change anything, but the fabric only pulled tighter over her breasts.

Part 2

Mike bit his lip to keep from bursting out laughing and deliberately ran his eyes over her from head to toe.

— You sound just like me back in 10th grade, when all this started showing up, — Mike snapped his fingers and sat down at the kitchen table, — Started wearing oversized stuff and hiding under sweaters, — he finished with a lazy grin, leaning back in his chair. — Remember how I used to whine that everything showed off the wrong things? And you laughed your ass off and said: “Come on, it looks great, it suits you.”

Emma froze sharply, lips pressed tight. The memory stung — back then, in his male body, he really did tease her, staring at her curves through thin T-shirts and shorts, while she kept grumbling, “I hate this, everything’s visible.” Now everything had flipped upside down.

— Don’t remind me, — Emma hissed, furiously stirring the oatmeal again and remembering that stupid wish she, still Eric back then, had made as a joke to loosen Michelle up — that he wished she’d always wear tight clothes. — And now I actually understand how you felt. It’s hell. Every step feels like a damn fashion show. I’m even scared to go out for bread — people stare at me!

She suddenly threw the spoon into the pot, the clang of metal against the edge louder than it should have been.

— Then don’t go out, — Mike shrugged lazily, throwing his arms behind his head. — Stay home, cook breakfast, m-m… and make me happy. — He smirked, letting his gaze slide over her back and hips. — Admit it, this role suits you.

Emma spun around sharply, rage on her face and at the same time… embarrassment.

— Make you happy? — she jabbed a finger in his direction. — Have you even looked at yourself in the mirror? At least shave first! And besides, you were supposed to take out the trash yesterday! And fix the socket in the bedroom!

Mike, still sprawled on the chair, lazily cut his eyes toward his wife, now in Eric’s body. His new male hand scratched his chest under the T-shirt out of habit, and a cocky grin spread across his face.

— Ooooh, there it is, — he drawled, rocking back on the chair. — Classic. “Take out the trash, fix the socket.” Em, you really got into this wife role. Can’t even start the morning without that list.

Emma flushed.

— Don’t start! I mean it! — she brushed her slipping hair back, but the gesture came out too feminine, and inside she felt twisted by it. — You’re the man now! So do the man’s stuff.

— Alright, alright, calm down, — Mike raised his hands in mock surrender, smirking.

At that moment, a familiar bubbling sound came from the pot, and the thick oatmeal, as if choosing the perfect moment, started spilling over the edge, hissing on the hot surface.

— Oh shit! — Emma spun back to the stove, her hair immediately whipping across her face.

The porridge was already overflowing, spreading in a sticky mess over the burner. In a panic Emma yanked the pot, but miscalculated her strength — it slid sideways, splashing over the countertop.

— Ah! — Emma jumped back, clutching her thigh — a couple drops of hot porridge had landed right on the pink leggings, leaving dark spots on the fabric. — Goddammit!..

Mike, watching the whole circus, burst into laughter, slapping his palm against his knee.

— Well, well, look at you, little lady of the house! Careful there, or the whole kitchen’ll be covered in oatmeal.

Part 3

Emma, puffing, wiped the stain with a rag, but the fabric of the leggings only clung tighter to her thigh, highlighting its roundness. She straightened up, all flushed, her hair a tangled mess, and her breasts rose heavily with each breath.

— You! — she pointed the rag at him. — You don’t even know how much I wish—

— Yes, I’m listening! — suddenly, as if out of nowhere, appeared a half-transparent being, looking more like a ghost than a man. He wore something like an oriental robe covered in golden patterns and a shining turban that sent out faint sparks. He seemed to glow from within, but his face was twisted not with calm wisdom, but with impatience, almost spasms.

— Oh God… — Emma squealed, pressing the rag to her thigh and instinctively stepping back, her breasts under the blouse rising noticeably with her fast breathing. — You again?!

The Djinn rolled his eyes impatiently, folding his hands in a theatrical gesture and rattling off quickly:

— Yes-yes-yes, again, my beautiful Stevenson spouses, I know everything, I see everything, I hear everything, porridge is spilling, husband’s laughing, wife’s blushing, wonderful! But, I beg you, please, just tell me the third wish already! — his voice slipped into a nearly shrill note, making the sparks on his turban flare brighter. — I’ve been watching you for a whole year, waiting, enduring! Two wishes — done, but the third… the third is hanging in the air like the smell of your oats!

Emma stared wide-eyed at the Djinn, pressing the rag to her thigh with all her strength.

— Idiot! How many times do I have to tell you not to just pop out of nowhere!

The Djinn threw up his hands, pretending to be insulted.

— Yes-yes-yes! “Idiot”, “see-through dumbass”, “magical asshole”, so many different words and all of them… very sweet! Yes-yes-yes! But I beg you, oh beautiful Emma, finish that unbelievably wonderful phrase you were so kind to try to say! — he paused, stretching out his index finger like a conductor before the start of a symphony. — Namely: “how much I wish…” — he leaned forward, his eyes glittering with impatience. — Come on! Say it! Let me grant it!

Mike collapsed from his chair in laughter, clutching his stomach, while Emma, flushed and on edge, shot him a look that could have burned anyone to ashes. But instead she only gripped the rag against her thigh even harder, feeling the pink leggings stretch uncomfortably where the hot porridge had landed.

— Oh God… — she groaned, stumbling over her words. — Don’t call me that… — Emma’s voice trembled, and she herself heard a softness in it that she had never had before all this.

The Djinn, glowing like a Christmas garland, flung his arms toward the ceiling:

— But how can I not? Emma! Beautiful, graceful, voluptuous Emma! — he spun in place, scattering golden sparks through the air. — Your name now sounds like music, I’m ready to repeat it a thousand times until the walls of this kitchen start moaning with delight!

Emma froze, pressing the rag to her thigh, and felt her breathing falter. The sparks in the air carried a spicy, oriental scent, as if the kitchen itself had turned into a tent where every move, every glance pushed her toward saying something irreversible.

— Just shut the fuck up! — burst out of her, but it sounded nothing like she thought it would.

Part 4

Mike, sitting at the table, slapped his palm against his knee and nearly fell off the chair from laughing:

— God, Em, you look like you actually enjoy it when he drags it out! Look at yourself: cheeks red, lips pressed tight… like some schoolgirl getting drowned in compliments, — Mike was already barely breathing from laughter, wiping his eyes with his fist.

Emma spun toward him sharply, but stopped short: he wasn’t just looking at her with mockery. In his gaze flickered something dangerously sweet, as if he himself couldn’t decide whether he was laughing at her or admiring her.

— Go fuck yourself, — she snapped, but her voice betrayed her with a tremor. — I’m not… I’m not like that.

The Djinn clapped his hands, glowing like a Christmas tree.

— Ah, what do you mean “not like that”? You are exactly like that now, my darling! — he leaned forward, golden patterns rippling right before her eyes. — Everything was fair: the first wish — let the spouse wear only tight clothes. Granted! — he snapped his fingers, and Emma’s pink leggings pulled even tighter, as if the fabric itself decided to cut deeper into the curves of her hips.

— Hey! — Emma hissed, covering her ass with her hands. — Don’t do that!

— Hahaha! — Mike collapsed back into his chair. — Look at that! See, Em? You’ll be stuck in those tights-leggings forever now!

— The second wish, — the Djinn went on, as if conducting their quarrel, — let the spouses switch roles. Ah, what a delight! — he threw his arms up theatrically. — She in the male body, he in the female. All fair, just as asked. But! — his voice rose, and sparks scattered in the air. — The third wish! Just the tiniest thing!

— God, you’re pushy today! We told you — get lost, since the first two can’t be undone! — Emma spat out the words in irritation.

The Djinn didn’t look offended at all — on the contrary, he lit up. His eyes gleamed, and the golden patterns on his robe rippled in waves.

— I was patient, I swear! A year! A whole year watching you get used to your new roles. Watching Emma in the morning struggle with… — his gaze flicked downward, straight at her pink leggings where the porridge stain still clung, and he made an expressive gesture, as if stroking the air. — …this new weight. But I’ll help you. Yes-yes-yes! I’ll help! Don’t worry, it’s nothing for me, really-really-really!

— What are you about to do? — Emma began, but the Djinn had already spread his palms toward the spouses, and streams of magical energy poured out, flooding the kitchen with bright golden light. Both of them opened their mouths, but no sound came out — instead it was like they were pinned to the spot. Sparks swirled around their bodies, seeping inside, as though golden dust was being pressed right under their skin. And a second later, it was over.

Emma sucked in a noisy breath and nearly dropped the rag from her hands. Something was pounding inside her chest unnaturally fast, and each wave of breath pulled the sweater’s fabric so tight her nipples showed clearly. She instinctively crossed her arms over her breasts, trying to cover herself, but only felt softness and weight, which made it worse.

— What… what did you do?! — her voice trembled, and she herself was horrified at how feminine it sounded.

Mike also stirred, glancing at his hands, his shoulders, his chest under the T-shirt. He frowned, but his face still carried a grin — though no longer a confident one.

Part 5

The Djinn clapped his hands, and the sparks still floating in the air flared into a new cloud. He leaned forward, his eyes glittering with impatience.

— Ah, finally! — he exclaimed with the delight of a man who’d just had a drink of water in the desert. — Your hearts and minds are screaming so loudly I’m almost deaf!

Emma froze, nervously fixing her hair that kept falling onto her breasts.

— You… you got into our thoughts?!

— “Got into”… — the Djinn pressed his hand to his chest theatrically, — how rude that sounds. I merely peeked. You, — he pointed at Mike, — dream… that she, — he slowly turned his gaze toward Emma, — finally accepts her new body. That she stops arguing, stops hating every move she makes… and instead embraces these hips, these breasts, this walk as something natural. And… — he snapped his fingers, and Emma’s pink leggings hugged her hips even tighter, outlining her ass. — That she herself would want to spin around in front of you and hear: “You’re sexy.”

— What?! — Emma gasped, straightening and pressing her palms against her thighs as if she could somehow hide everything sticking out so obviously through the fabric. — That’s… that’s bullshit! He didn’t… he couldn’t want that!

Mike coughed, looking away, but a grin spread across his face.

— I… well… maybe a little. — He lazily raised his eyes to Emma, lingering on her breasts under the thin sweater. — You have no idea how… weird and fucking amazing it feels to see you like this.

Emma threw her hands up, hair instantly falling across her face and sticking to her cheek. She yanked it back in a nervous motion, which only made her breasts under the sweater bounce again.

— God… — she whispered, feeling her knees weaken. — I don’t even want to hear this from you…

The Djinn clapped his hands with joy, sparks flying in all directions. He immediately turned to her with relish.

— And you… — he stretched out a finger, sparks snapping from the tips. — You dream… that one day he won’t hold back.

— What?.. — Emma dropped the rag, her face blotching red. — No… I don’t…

— Oh yes, — the Djinn leaned closer, the golden glow almost brushing her cheek. — You won’t admit it to yourself, but when he stares at your hips in those leggings, you want to turn around and scream: “Stop it!” But deep, deep down… — he traced her outline with his finger, and the sweater’s fabric seemed to stretch tighter over her breasts, — …you want him to grab you, pin you, prove that you’re really a woman now.

— Shut up! — Emma shouted, pressing her arms to her breasts as if she could hide them. But in that instant she felt her whole body trembling, her nipples pushing hard against the fabric. Her heart was pounding so wildly that her breasts under the thin cloth visibly quivered. — I… I don’t want that!

— You do, — the Djinn drawled, his voice thick, as if pouring each word straight into her thoughts. — You’re just afraid to admit it to yourself. But every time you lie down in that soft bed, when your hands automatically reach to smooth your hair, when you catch his eyes on you… you wish he would stop laughing. Stop mocking. And take you.

Mike hunched his shoulders but couldn’t take his eyes off her. He wasn’t smirking anymore, only swallowing hard as he watched Emma tug frantically at the edge of her sweater, the fabric still outlining her nipples that betrayed her state.

— See, see?! — the Djinn clapped his hands, golden sparks flying, falling to the floor, the table, their bodies. — Your secret desires have already burst out! I only voiced what inside you is screaming!

The Djinn smiled wide, too wide, his eyes flashing in a way that made it clear — he would do it anyway.

— The third wish, Stevenson spouses, — he said solemnly, stretching both hands toward them, — just a couple of words and you’ll never suffer again. So maybe… it’s time to say it?