Unusual John

The evening at the Millers' was unfolding peacefully. The children, Brian and Stacy, five and nine respectively, were playing with blocks on the living room carpet, while Bob, the head of the family, poured homemade wine into glasses, proudly talking about "men's duties"—as if justifying his absolute unwillingness to approach the stove or the vacuum cleaner. Beside him, his wife Margaret, adorned with pearls and moral teachings, nodded approvingly and lashed out at everyone at the table with phrases like: – A woman is the keeper of the hearth, and a man is the provider, it's that simple.

– And now, – she said, turning to her son-in-law, – tell us, John, how's work? Or have you finally decided to quit and stay at home, as you should?

John nearly choked on her words, immediately, almost automatically, covering his mouth with his hand, with thin long fingers and porcelain-white nails, neatly filed into an almond shape. He opened his mouth slightly, but the words got stuck somewhere between strained breathing and the weight compressing his chest. The corset, damn it, was laced so tightly that any deep movement felt deadly.

– Mom, what kind of questions are those? – intervened Grace, John's wife, fully understanding the awkwardness of the situation. Unlike his parents, she was well aware of and saw the consequences of the curse John had once received—that ancient, absurd, and merciless curse that turned a man into a woman... but only for himself and his immediate family. To everyone else, he remained the same "John" in their eyes—only in the body of a busty, slim-waisted lady from the eighteenth century. The absurdity was heightened by the fact that everyone around perceived this as something completely natural.

– Well, why not? He's not supposed to work. He should stay at home and delight everyone with his beauty. Look at that gorgeous outfit! And the cleavage, oh, the cleavage! – Margaret murmured with obvious admiration, clapping her hands in delight. – You're very lucky, Gracie! If I were you, I'd get a second job and be happy that such a handsome man is sitting at home, – Margaret concluded, taking a big sip of wine, eyeing John from head to toe as if assessing a porcelain doll displayed in a shop window.

– Thank you, Mom, – said Grace, carefully maintaining a neutral tone, though under the table her hand gently squeezed John's knee—a sign of support. He didn't respond. Just swallowed and leaned forward slightly, trying to prevent the corset from digging into his ribs even more.

– Well, Johnny, cat got your tongue? – interjected Bob Miller, appearing as if out of nowhere and grabbing John's shoulder so that he flinched, shivered, and... gasped. Exactly that, in a girlish, quiet, and piercing way, as if a scream was stuck in his chest, stifled by his own embarrassment.

– Whoa, you've really gone soft, brother, – Bob chuckled, not releasing the shoulder. – Or did the corset-maker lace it too tight, huh? – he grinned, poking a finger at the ample breasts that lifted with John's every movement.

Laughter erupted around the table, and John just clenched the hem of his long dress. He didn't want to attend this dinner at all. Because of this stupid curse, everything had turned upside down. Before, he would have easily retorted or even punched someone in the face for such jokes. But the problem was, these weren't jokes anymore. Everyone around truly believed that, for John, the word "masculinity" had an entirely different meaning in this world. Everyone—that meant everyone. This family, his colleagues at work, even random passersby.

For them, he was just John. Just a man with tits. Just a man who wore dresses—and that was normal. But the moment he stopped being the “lady from the 18th century,” the moment he wore something else or even dared to behave less “gracefully,” everyone looked at him with such judgment, as if he had betrayed not just society’s expectations, but his very essence. That was the sickest paradox of the curse—once he stopped being her, the world saw him as a pervert. He remembered once trying to put on regular jeans and a T-shirt and slipping out early in the morning to the nearest store. And how the cashier screamed when she saw him:

– Ew, pervert! A man without a proper dress! And what’s that walk? Disgusting!

Since then, John had stopped even trying to fight back. Every day—it was the corset, the skirts, the rings, the blush. Because being a woman, no matter how insane it sounded, was... safer. Humiliating, but safe.

– Johnny, sweetheart, why aren’t you eating anything? – Margaret’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. – Are you on a diet? Oh no! You better be careful with that—with tits like yours you need a balanced diet. Otherwise those cheeks’ll sink in and all the charm will vanish!

– I’m... just not very hungry, – John answered, trying to keep his voice steady. He caught Grace’s gaze—sympathetic, quietly guilty. But even she couldn’t help him. Not here. Not in front of all these people who believed this was exactly how he was supposed to be. – And my stomach hurts. Thanks.

– Stomach hurts? – Margaret repeated, raising an eyebrow. There was suddenly something sharp, probing in her gaze. She slowly set down her wine glass and leaned toward John across the table.

– Tell me, Johnny... it’s not those cramps, is it?

John froze. He didn’t even know how to breathe. His fingers clenched the hem of his skirt, nails digging into the fabric.

– What do you mean by those? – he rasped.

Margaret gave a mysterious smile, her eyes lighting up with almost maternal delight.

– Oh, don’t be such a little boy. First time, huh? – Margaret whispered with fake sympathy. – If you need anything, it’s all in the bathroom. Bottom drawer, under the towels. There’s pads, powder, even scented wipes. Don’t be shy, Johnny. It’s all perfectly natural.

– That’s enough! – Bob slapped the table with his fist, laughing. – None of that “lady stuff” at the dinner table! This is a family dinner, not some chick gossip hour! – He laughed even louder, rocking in his chair, looking at John like he’d truly become one of “those ladies” talking about their monthly drama between dessert and tea.

– None of that “lady stuff” at the table! – Bob bellowed, tipping back the rest of his wine. – Or next thing you know, we’ll be talking bras! Heh-heh!

– Oh, why not? – Margaret perked up, slapping the table with her palm. – Johnny had such a lovely one on today—lace, with underwire. Totally regal! I helped him pick it out myself. For his figure, he needs supportive lingerie, otherwise those boobs—well, you know... – she gave a meaningful shrug.

John flushed. He could feel his eyes welling up, but didn’t even dare wipe them—his manicure got in the way, and he didn’t want to smudge his mascara. He just sat there like a figurine, back straight, breasts pushed up high by the corset, eyes fixed on nothing.

– Mom. Dad. – Grace’s voice cut through the laughter like a knife. – John and I are leaving. His stomach really hurts. He needs rest. You always say—health comes first.

– Yeah, yeah... – Bob muttered, tossing out one more joke under his breath. – Next you’ll say he needs a heating pad...

Margaret just nodded, but she shot John a look that sent shivers down his spine: warm, motherly, triumphant.

Grace gently took his hand.

– Let’s go, – she said softly, almost into his ear. – You did great. That’s enough for today.

They left the living room. John walked carefully, feeling the weight of the skirts pulling downward, and, to his horror, the pad between his legs was already starting to swell a little. He walked in that body, knowing this was now just part of his new life. And he knew that tomorrow, there would be that ball at work, where he would have to dance, because... because now this was his life.