How I Became a Harpy

*Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

— Greg, for fuck's sake, goddamn you. I told you to come straight in, not ring the bell and wait for someone to open the door... — I mumbled... or rather, whispered. Or more precisely, she whispered.

I was crouching in the bathroom, staring into the mirror at a curvy stranger with wings instead of arms, massive tits, disgustingly long eyelashes, and a shirt hanging on her like it was on a hanger, tight only in all the wrong places.

My heart was pounding like I'd just gone through defibrillation, and now it was beating from the inside, trying to claw its way out. What the hell is going on?! How the fuck did I end up in the body of my own goddamn made-up heroine from my story?! It was supposed to be just an idea — a fetish fantasy for the site, that's it! Not real life!

— I'm coming in! — I heard Greg's voice and nearly jumped out of my skin, flailing my wings so wildly that a roll of toilet paper flew off the shelf.

— DON'T come into the bathroom! — I yelled, then froze. I forgot, goddamn it, I forgot that I wasn't supposed to give myself away like this. I didn’t even sound like myself anymore, not like a man, not like an adult with a slightly smoky voice. No, my voice now sounded more like some slutty hentai actress. Sickeningly sweet.

— ...Uh... who is this? — came Greg's cautious voice from behind the door. He clearly didn’t expect to hear a woman. — Mike, where are you? Is that, uh, your girlfriend? Are... are you okay?

— Shit... Greg, it’s me! — I shouted, not even believing what I was saying. — It’s Mike! Just don’t freak out and... and don’t come in, just give me a minute!

— ...What the fuck?

I heard him back away from the door, then slow, uncertain steps — he couldn’t decide whether to leave or stay.

Taking a deep breath again, I lifted my wing-hands to scratch my head, forgetting I didn’t have hands anymore. The feather tips slid uselessly through my hair, and I felt one snag on a strand. A sharp sting and overwhelming irritation. Oh sure, why not throw some itching into this absurd nightmare too?!

— Greg, — I groaned, — I’m coming out now, just... just brace yourself, okay? Don’t freak out, don’t scream. Don’t you dare run. And don’t touch me without my permission, goddamn it!

— Uh, are you for real? — he snorted. — Is this, like, a prank? Or are you rehearsing one of your stories live or something? Your voice is actually, like, top-tier. Are you even Brian or some chick? How’d he talk you into this whole mess? And—

— Greg, shut the fuck up, would you?! — I snapped, and once again my voice came out in that disgusting, overly sweet, porn-star tone, like strawberries and cream were stuck in my throat. I winced. Fuck, this is so annoying! You try to sound pissed and end up sounding like you're auditioning for a damn porno.

Silence followed. Too long of a silence not to start freaking out.

— Greg?.. — I muttered carefully, swallowing hard. — Are... are you still there?

— Yeah... — came his muffled voice. — Just waiting. Like, maybe you’re... finishing the transformation or whatever.

I shuddered. Finishing the transformation?! Yeah, sure, hilarious for him — not so fucking funny for me.

I still can't believe this is real. That this is actually happening to me. Goddamn it, I’m just a writer, a dreamer, for fuck’s sake. Yeah, of course I wanted—no, dreamed of knowing what it’s like to be a girl, even if the initial urge to write those stories about men turning into women was purely physical... just to jerk off. But I’d be lying to everyone—and mostly to myself—if I didn’t admit that I’ve always genuinely been curious what it feels like “to be a girl” — to have a vagina, tits, and the whole damn social experience that comes with it. I guess that’s pretty much one of the main reasons why I kept doing this, and even turned this hobby into a job.

But it’s one thing to sit in a comfy chair, typing away, imagining a character with ridiculously huge tits struggling in their new body — and a whole other thing to actually be standing in front of the mirror with those tits, heavy, disgustingly jiggling with every move. My eyes dropped again, involuntarily, to her — my — hard nipples, poking through the white fabric of the T-shirt that used to fit me just fine, and now hung like it was on a goddamn hanger.

And now you’re not just a fetish writer anymore. You’re the main heroine. A harpy. Half-naked. No arms. Talons instead of feet. A body that doesn’t follow a single rule of decency and gives an instant boner to anyone who lays eyes on you. Only now you can’t get a boner — not with that smooth, wet slit between your legs.

— Just a sec, just… don’t freak out — I mumbled, leaning forward and almost faceplanting on the floor when a taloned foot slipped on the tile. — Fucking bird anatomy…

— Just come out already, enough with the drama. I came all the way across the city thinking something serious happened and you... — I heard Greg sigh, and finally, gathering my pathetic strength, I shoved open the bathroom door with my narrow shoulder. It creaked open, and I stumbled out, wobbling on these damn bird legs.

Greg froze. He just… froze, like someone slapped him across the face. And honestly, I couldn’t blame him.

I was standing in front of him — barefoot, with huge white wings instead of arms, nipples pushing the T-shirt fabric to its breaking point, and talons clicking on the laminate floor. Horror, humiliation, shame, and the urge to fucking die hit me like a tidal wave. I felt my face flush with heat.

— …What the fuck… — Greg finally exhaled, stepping back. — This… this... WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!?

— Greg, for fuck’s sake, don’t yell — I snapped back, feeling the shirt stretch even tighter over my boobs as I jerked forward. The fabric groaned in protest — even the air seemed to vibrate from the tension between these damn balls. My… breastplate of doom, for fuck’s sake. — It’s me… it’s Mike. I’m serious.

— You’ve lost your fucking mind — he muttered almost under his breath, still backing up. His eyes darted from my talon-feet upward, pausing at every unnatural curve of my new… shape. When his gaze hit my tits, it just stopped there, locked on, and I felt even more fucking creeped out. — What the fuck is this… deranged cosplay?

— Don’t look there! — I shouted, hunching my shoulders. — I... I don’t have hands, I can’t... Fuck, I can’t even cover myself!

— What?! Hands?! What are you talking about, girl?! Where’s Mike?! — Greg’s voice cracked into a panic. He waved his hands in the air, like hoping a hidden camera would pop out, that I’d pull off a mask from my head and two silicone boobs the size of melons from my chest.

— I’m fucking Mike! — I screamed back, flapping my wings again. The air swirled, my T-shirt jumped up, baring my stomach, and I almost fell backwards, losing balance on these bird legs. — It’s ME! Your friend! The writer! Remember? I was just writing a story… about harpies.

— About... — he fell silent, slowly lowering his gaze in horror to my legs—or rather, talons. Then to my wings. Then back to my boobs. And it looked like they were the final proof for him that this wasn’t a costume, as he swallowed loudly.

— You’re telling me... — he began slowly. — That you... turned into... a harpy?

— Yes! — I shrieked, spreading my wings like some dumb attempt to prove it was all real. — I turned into a harpy! I became that fucking, hyper-fetishized, goddamn heroine from my own draft!

— ...Holy shit. — Greg said it not quite in a whisper, but like the floor had just disappeared from under his feet. — So... you mean you’ve got... everything? Like... everything?

I didn’t answer. I just stared at him in silence. I mean, how do you even answer that? I didn’t just have boobs and a pussy — I had the full set: bird talons, wings, feathers under my arms, and... no, seriously, just try scratching your nose when you’ve got two swan wings instead of hands.

— Can you, I don’t know... show me? — he muttered, blushing like a damn schoolboy.

— Greg! — I hissed, turning away, and again felt my breasts bounce and the T-shirt stretch tight to the point of cracking. This time I actually heard one of the seams under my arm pop with a soft squish.

I winced. — I nearly died of embarrassment falling out of that bathroom, and now you want me to put on a fucking runway show?

— Alright, alright! — he backed off. — Just... damn, this is nuts. Is it... are you really in there? I mean, are you still... you?

— Of course I’m still fucking in here — I growled through clenched teeth. — Fuck! This is so fucked up! Just... just listen, okay. I think this all happened because of my draft, and I need you to, well, finish it.

— ...Me?! — Greg pulled his head in like I’d just asked him to lie down on train tracks. — Wait. You want me to go into your... that... hell-folder full of twisted stories and finish one of them?!

— It’s not just a story — I rasped, pulling my wings tight against my sides to at least stop my boobs from sticking out so much. — I don’t know how, but it became real and turned me into this!

— Into this — Greg echoed, still dumbly staring at my... my tits, like they held the secrets of the universe. — You’re telling me you wrote a story about turning into... this?

— No! — I snapped my wings up instinctively, and immediately regretted it. A wave of cool air rushed under my shirt, the fabric stretched tight again and gave another groan. I hissed through my teeth. — I mean... yes, but not like that! It wasn’t a story about me! It was a story about some sneaky thief who turned into a harpy, and I was writing a draft for a sequel. And in it, just as a joke, you get it... — I trailed off, glancing aside. — ...I broke the fourth wall, like I was talking to him — I mean her, the harpy he became — and offered to swap bodies and... — I trailed off again. This was harder than I thought. Greg stayed silent, but I could already hear him inhaling through his teeth, like I’d just punched him in the gut. — ...and he — she — agreed, of course — I finally exhaled.

— So wait… — Greg stared at me wide-eyed, like I was an alien who suddenly started speaking English. — You wrote that the character kinda became you, and you became him, and it just… worked?

I nodded heavily and sat down on the floor, flinching as my talons touched the smooth skin of my ass. My tits — fucking tits — jiggled like two water balloons, and one of the nipples scraped against the thin fabric of the T-shirt again, sending a shiver down my spine. Fuck. It doesn’t just feel real — it feels hyper-real.

— And… now you’re her? From your draft? That… harpy?

I clenched my teeth.

— Listen, if you say “her” one more time, I swear I’ll smack you with a wing so hard you’ll be flying outta the basement for a week!

I tried to flap one wing menacingly — it didn’t work. It jerked awkwardly like a clumsy feathered glove, knocking a pack of tissues off the table that floated gently to the floor.

My new “weapons” — two unruly, heavy wings that I couldn’t even scratch myself with, let alone hold a coffee cup. Fuck the coffee cup… I can’t even unlock my phone properly! How the hell am I supposed to write now?!

— This is... This is fucked. — Greg finally muttered, slowly sinking down onto the couch. — I mean really. How are you even supposed to… like, live now? Have you even… been to the bathroom yet?

— What the fuck kinda question is that?! — I snapped, feeling my boobs jiggle again with that damn annoying inertia. — I couldn’t even sit on the toilet properly! These fucking talons clack on the tiles like castanets, and it feels like I’m gonna rip the floor apart. Now imagine: you sit down to, you know… do your business, and you’ve got no hands, just these goddamn wings, and all you can do is flap around and hope you don’t fall into the damn toilet.

Greg stared at me with his mouth hanging open. Then he slowly closed it and mumbled:

— …so you need to… like… finish it somehow?

— Exactly! — I stepped forward. — But as you can see, I can’t type, can’t even fucking click a mouse!

— And you want me to write the ending for you. Like… fix all this?

— Or at least reboot it. I don’t know — I groaned. — Maybe if we go back to that moment and write that I didn’t swap bodies with him, everything will reset. Or maybe… if we write in a way to go back — it’ll work. This shit, Greg, it works by some fucked-up fetish logic, but it works! I turned into the very body I made up as a jerk-off character for some fanart scene on a site!

Greg ran a hand down his face.

— Fuck… this is too much, dude. Or girl. I don’t even know what to call you now.

— Just Mike is fine — I hissed. — And stop staring at my boobs, I feel it when you do.

He quickly looked away. Even his ears turned red.

— Alright. Fine. I’ll… give it a shot. But... — he suddenly looked at me with a weird expression. — But Mike… if this is all real… if the story became reality… maybe… we shouldn’t rush it?