Michelle

I got a bit mixed up with the schedule on DeviantArt, so today’s post will be a bit earlier =)

...

'Yeah… this all looks pretty damn ridiculous,' Michael thought to himself, standing in front of the mirror in his tiny bedroom. He adjusted the black-and-pink bra, stuffed unevenly with crumpled T-shirts to mimic breasts. On his head, a wig — straight blonde hair falling onto his shoulders, catching on the bra straps. Around his hips — panties with a garter belt and semi-sheer stockings. The look was topped off with pink fake nails barely clinging to his fingers.

— Jesus, I look like an idiot… — he muttered, awkwardly turning in front of the mirror. The reflection made him want to laugh and cringe at the same time — it was a strange, almost painful awkwardness. Michael tried turning sideways, checking out how the "breasts" awkwardly bulged under the cups of the black-and-pink bra. He shrugged — one strap slipped off, and the wig hair stuck to his skin.

— What the fuck is this… — he sighed, leaning closer to the mirror. The pink fake nails tapped against the glass. — And this... this is what I’ve been scared of my whole fucking life…?

He sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling the stockings tighten around his thighs. The garter belt dug a little into his stomach. In theory, this was supposed to turn him on — the idea of being a woman, dressed like… like those in the stories and on the forums he used to read late at night. In those stories, men became women, ended up in ridiculous, humiliating, arousing situations — and their bodies always reacted. Always. But him… nothing.

— So now what? — Michael picked up the ring from the nightstand, slick and cold, with strange engravings inside. He had ordered it from some sketchy site along with the rest of this outfit. “An accessory to complete the look,” the description had said.

He raised his finger and said with a twisted, crooked smile on his face, looking at the ring:

— Please, don’t make me… — he drawled theatrically, pressing the ring to his lips, mimicking a heroine from some fetish story. His voice went squeaky and high-pitched, ridiculously feminine. — I’m just poor, dumb Michelle… here for a side gig… I didn’t know it’d be like this… I didn’t know I’d end up a stripper… Now I’ve got no home, no money, no one to help me…

He gave a fake laugh, stood up, and did a slow spin in front of the mirror, swaying his hips. The bra had shifted, one of the "boobs" — the twisted-up T-shirts — was slipping out of the cup. His shoulder was bare again. The wig hair tickled his back. He looked at himself in the mirror and whispered again, trying to act scared and like he was being forced into this:

— Oh… do you really want me to dance for you? To sit on your lap, and...

He didn’t get to finish.

It was like a short circuit — an electric jolt shot through his body. He felt the ring heat up and yanked it off in a panic. It slipped from his fingers and rolled under the couch.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut, his heart pounding in his chest. Only it wasn’t his chest anymore... not stuffed rags.

He slowly looked down. The bra was now stretching over something real and firm. He raised his hands, touched himself — and flinched. The skin was sensitive. The breasts — real. Every second brought more awareness. His waist had narrowed, his hips grown wider. Between his legs — emptiness. He gasped, and the sound that came out was thin, high-pitched, unmistakably feminine.

— Fuck… no, this… this can’t be… — She — now definitely she — grabbed her throat, fingers with long pink nails brushing her neck — the skin smooth, her breath unsteady. The voice still echoed in her head, that horribly alien, high, female voice. She ran her hands over her new body, feeling every part of it. The breasts were real, sensitive. Between her legs — nothing left of what used to be there.

In the next second, she rushed to the mirror, like salvation might be hiding in the reflection. Every step brought a strange, springy bounce in her hips — her legs were different now, slim ankles, knees closer together, and each step came with a soft sway of the hips. But most of all: the breasts. Real, heavy, they bounced in the bra with every movement.

— No… no, this can’t be…

She slid her hands over her stomach, her waist — the waist was delicate, the skin smooth. Her fingers trembled as she touched her breasts again — warm, firm, and in the bra she could feel every detail: the lace itching slightly, the straps digging into her skin. And lower — nothing. Just a new, strange anatomy. Michelle nearly fell, grabbing the edge of the dresser for balance. Her legs — slender, smooth — stood unsteadily, like her body itself was trying to figure out how to walk.

— Calm down… calm down, Michelle — she whispered, then immediately covered her mouth with her small palm, eyes wide. — Mi…chelle? No-no-no. I’m not Michelle, I’m Michelle! I… oh fuck.

Realizing it was the ring, Michelle spun toward the couch and dove down, her soft hips folding under her. The bra slipped, her tits slipped slightly out of the cups, and she hissed from the sudden wave of sensitivity. Crawling — too fluidly, too… flexibly — she reached the narrow gap under the couch and started feeling around, scratching the floor with her fake nails.

— Where are you… where the fuck are you…

Her heart was pounding — and not in her chest, but low in her belly, in some new, deep, obsessive throb. The ring! It was there, just near the corner, glinting in the dust. Michelle had already reached out her hand…

— What are you looking for down there?

A man’s voice suddenly rang out behind her, making her jerk and hit her head against the wall. Her boobs bounced, the ring flew off to the side. Panic clutched her throat. She slowly turned her head. A man was standing in the doorway — tall, around forty, shirt unbuttoned, a glass of wine in hand. Graying hair, a confident smirk on his face.

— U-uh… w-who the hell are you?! — Michelle stammered, her mouth open, staring at the stranger who acted like he owned her apartment. Or maybe… maybe he did own the apartment now?

The man in the doorway looked her over carefully and chuckled, sipping his wine.

— You’re asking me who I am? — he smirked, stepping closer. — Sweetheart, you came here on a call. It’s my birthday. Name’s Randy. And you are… uh…?

— Michelle, — she exhaled instinctively, barely believing she’d said it without thinking. The word just slipped out, like her body remembered before her mind did. Randy nodded with satisfaction, taking another sip.

— Good girl, Michelle, — he said with a smile, stepping closer and gently placing his hand on her ass — now let’s get the show started, yeah?

Michelle flinched, her body shuddering at the casual touch. She backed up fast, hitting the edge of the couch, her breathing heavy, boobs bouncing with each breath.

— Um… yeah, of course, — she mumbled, feeling her voice rise again, sounding way too sexy.

‘What do you mean yeah?! What the fuck are you saying?! This is your apartment. You don’t have to do this. You’re not her. Just find the ring and wish for everything to go back. Just reach out, pick it up…’

But none of those thoughts felt right. This wasn’t her apartment, and deep down she knew it. Maybe she didn’t know exactly how, but something inside whispered to her — ‘Michelle, you have to be a good girl and dance for him. He’s your client. This job matters. The tips matter. Making a good impression matters. He might recommend you. Or he might not pay. Or worse… kick you out. No tip. Nothing. What are you gonna tell Mr. Blake, Michelle?’

Michelle swallowed hard. She didn’t know who Mr. Blake was, but the name echoed in her mind with such heavy certainty, like it meant everything. Like Mr. Blake was someone her entire tomorrow depended on. Her job. A roof over her head. Even her right to stay… whatever she’d become.

— What are you standing there for, sweetheart? — Randy leaned on the back of the couch, took a sip of wine, and gave her a look that was somewhere between lazy and hungry. — I thought you’d already started. We’ve only got an hour, right?

— I… yeah, — her voice was raspy, her throat dry. — Sorry, Mister Randy. I’m just… a little nervous.

— Ha! — he chuckled. — I thought you were a pro! Put on something hot and let’s get to it, huh?

Michelle stood frozen. Her legs were shaking, her hips pressed tightly by the panties and garter straps, her boobs gently bouncing with every breath. She instinctively stepped toward the remote. Her fingers, tipped with long pink nails, trembled as she pressed the buttons. The room filled with a rhythmic, sultry beat — the kind of music you’d hear in a cheap club, almost sleazy, but somehow… it felt right.

Right for Michelle.

‘Just… do it. Fast. Before he starts asking questions.’

She turned to Randy slowly, like a dancer on stage. Her hips were already finding the rhythm on their own, every move seemingly born in her body without permission. She felt how the stockings tugged at the bend of her knees, how the lace panties bit into her thighs. All of it felt… so real.

— That’s it… that’s right, baby, — Randy encouraged, settling comfortably into his seat and patting his knee. — Show me what you’ve got.

Michelle slowly reached behind her back. Her fingers — now with real long pink nails — trembled and lightly scratched the soft skin of her back. The bra strap stretched, caught on her elbow. She hesitated, frozen in the motion, as if still hoping someone might interrupt her. Say: “Stop, enough, drop the act.” But there was no one else in the room — just Randy, swirling his wine glass, watching her with a hungry smirk.

Click. The left strap loosened. Then the right. The bra was barely holding on, barely touching her skin.

— Come on, baby girl… — Randy exhaled, leaning back on the couch. — Show me what I’m paying for.

She closed her eyes, cursing everything — the ring, the idea, this entire fucking night. It all looked unreal and way too real at the same time.

The bra dropped.

Her tits — heavy, soft, warm — shifted slightly, exposed, real. She felt the air hit her skin, especially her nipples, a shiver from the cold and from the man’s stare. He clicked his tongue and let out a satisfied grunt.

— Fuck… you’re even better than the pic. Who would’ve thought.

That fake smile was still stuck on her face. ‘No, goddamn it. Michelle, stop! Ugh! Why… why the fuck am I even calling myself that in my head?! I need to stop this but… but how can I stop when he’s already paid, when I haven’t even danced for him yet, and he paid for a blowjob too, and I was even gonna let him fuck me in the ass to get more money, to… fuck! What the hell is this shit?!’

Her boobs were bare, her nipples hard from the chill and… from his stare. That look, sliding over her skin like he was already touching her where she didn’t want him to. Not really. But her body was reacting.

— Come on, Michelle, — Randy slapped his thigh. — Don’t keep me waiting. You know why you’re here.

She knew. She knew what to do and, worst of all, who she was now. That Michelle — no home, deep in debt, and working as a call girl.