Noname story

The smell of dampness and wet stone hit my nose the moment I stepped through the portal. The cold masonry of the walls, the cracks where cool air seeped through, the dim half-light spilling from the portal still flickering behind my back — all of it was exactly as it always had been. Exactly as it was supposed to be.

But strangely, even the sudden, as always, heavy weight on my chest from the newly acquired body parts couldn’t switch my mind away from the thoughts that hit me so suddenly just minutes before the portal was supposed to open.

A long time ago, back in childhood, I came up with this world where anything was possible — dragons, magic, fairies, elves, and many, many others. The first time I stepped in here, I was shocked — but not because of all that. Strangely enough, it was because I had become a girl here.

What? Why? For what reason? There were so many questions and not a single answer. I had to learn everything myself, guessing, reflecting, and, of course, getting caught up in all sorts of adventures, like those in the shows, movies, anime… but always, goddamn it, always everyone here saw me as that fragile girl that either had to be protected or… better I don’t even bring that up.

At some point, I decided to study the nature of these strange jumps, which at the time seemed completely random to me. It took a lot — way too much time — to figure it all out. Hell, five years ago I even started writing about it on my blog, which, on one hand, tied me even more to this world, but on the other, helped me understand all this so much better.

And eventually, I almost learned how to control these jumps, even created this portal and learned how to control it.

But the thought that deep down I actually wanted to be like this here kept hitting a wall inside me, as if I was building wall after wall just to avoid admitting the obvious.

At first, I tried convincing myself it was temporary — like, I stepped through the portal, got the default “options” package, played out the scenario, and went back to my usual, comfortable, predictable body. Simple and clear.

And of course, time after time I kept coming back. And every damn time after — I was pissed. At myself, at this world, at how weird it was that with every jump I needed more and more, and most importantly — without repeating anything, like I wanted to go further away from the point where I’d just arrive, feeling this body, walking deeper and deeper into the forest, taking harder and harder quests.

And I knew this was… wrong? Or not? Weird? No, that’s not the word. More like… too easy. Too addictive. That fine line between “I’m just playing” and standing in front of the mirror for the third hour here, in this world, staring, touching, grabbing myself, just like you check out new gear — and then you catch yourself realizing this isn’t gear anymore.

Or I could spend forever telling everyone who knows me that I’m not “Maxine,” that I’m not that cute little girl in a dress, and that — yeah — it really is easier for me to sit here with my legs spread wide, laughing like a damn horse, holding a huge, compared to my body here, mug of the local ale, trying, completely in vain, to compete in drinking with those bulky, oversized adventurers — who, no matter what, still saw me as Maxine.

Yeah, at some point I just admitted to myself that I actually liked all this bullshit here, that I got some weird pleasure from all this fucked-up theater. From their looks, from the smug smirks, from how those “heroes” with swords on their backs think it’s their sacred duty to offer me an elbow, help me sit down, fix my cloak if the wind suddenly tosses it around and my thighs show too much, and even from how those fucking Tits of mine seem to get bigger and heavier every damn time I come here — and from all those stares, awkward situations, chances to end up as the “damsel in distress” or even…

And now, same shit — the second I stepped through the portal, my Breasts made themselves known again. Heavy, ridiculous, like some foreign thing strapped to my body, literally pressing on my chest, forcing me to straighten up, breathe differently, feel every single move. And, like a damn bonus, the dress — of course — feels tighter than I remember, the belt squeezing my waist harder, and the fabric hugging my curves, highlighting what I stubbornly still try to believe is “temporary.”

Normally, I’d probably smirk, maybe even throw out some dirty joke, curse all this shit, and head for the exit of this basement I always end up in after stepping through the portal.

But… but not today. I just dropped onto the wooden bench by the wall, exhaling heavily, like someone had knocked the air right out of me. The thin fabric of the dress stretched uncomfortably under me, the cold of the wood instantly creeping through to my skin, making me shiver — but I didn’t move an inch. I wanted to sit like this — slouched, shoulders down, even though it looked ridiculous with my Tits stupidly hanging forward, putting all the focus on my new… state.

The message popped up on my phone screen a minute before the jump:

“Your content has been removed. Violation: Glorification of violence.”

No, it wasn’t the first time. Not even the second. Honestly, I already lost count how many times they’ve silenced me, wiped me out, edited me, like I’m some damn glitch in the system — easier to rewrite than to understand.

I tried to fight back, scream, sometimes even beg — and to my surprise, they listened. They’d restore my post, and I’d even enjoy that little victory.

But it kept happening — another notification, another ban on the post, another weightless but very real “disappear.”

It was all over and over and over again…

‘Did I ever tell you what the definition of insanity is?’ — it was like Vass was whispering right into my ear, his raspy voice sounding clearer in my head than the dim darkness around me. — ‘Insanity is doing the exact… same fucking thing… over and over again, expecting… shit to change.’

But even his voice was fading under the dull, monotonous background noise of my own thoughts, which tangled around my head like a spiderweb, sticking together my mind, not letting me shake off this grey, disgusting fog crawling through my brain.

I didn’t want to move, so I just sat there, legs pressed together, my hands resting on my smooth skin, staring… I don’t even know where I was staring — just into nothingness.

Even the smoothness of my skin wasn’t pleasing me now, and it felt like I purposely squeezed my legs together like this, even though I fucking hated that pose — way too girly. But right now, it’s like I wanted to fall into all this even deeper. To give in, to accept all this, maybe even get up, walk outside and head to the nearest brothel, sign myself up as a whore.

Because… because they said so? Because they think I’m like that if I write about this shit? Or… maybe I really am like that? Maybe there really is something wrong with me and I’ve always been right about that? Maybe I should just… just disappear if I don’t belong?

The portal closed, it got darker, I heard sounds from the little village surrounding this house — but I didn’t move. What’s the point of going upstairs? What’s the point of making up another adventure? What’s the point of trying to find meaning in this so-called adventure, and between cursing how my Tits bounce and how fucking humiliating it is to be a weak little girl right now, trying to figure out ‘who I am’?

What’s the point of weaving this same ridiculous, painfully addictive scenario again — where I supposedly can do everything, but in reality — nothing?

Where every single one of those who reads my stories, who listens, who pretends they understand, still brings it all down to the same thing: ‘Oh, here he goes again. Another story about guys turning into chicks. Fetishist. Pervert. Freak.’