In the Hot Springs

Part 1

The steam in the hot spring hung thick like a fog, wrapping around the bodies of everyone present: three middle-aged Japanese merchants discussing business, and several women — the most beautiful of whom sat on the lap of Takeshi, a silk trader, who was half-submerged in the water. Her skin shimmered in the steam, and her bare breasts softly pressed against his shoulder, one hand resting on it, the other gently stroking his already graying hair.

— Shōgun ga Kyōto e no michi o tozasu tsumorida to kikimashita ka? (Did you hear the Shogun plans to shut down the road to Kyoto?) — said one of the men in the far corner, not even glancing at the girl, as if she were just part of the background — like the mist or the stones underfoot.

Takeshi grunted, exhaled, and tightened his grip on the thigh of the girl sitting on him.

The girl said nothing. The smile on her face looked just slightly unnatural, almost practiced. But in the next second, something changed.

Her facial muscles twitched ever so slightly. The smile vanished, as if wiped away by an invisible hand. Her eyebrows drew together, her chin dropped a little. And then, almost at once, her eyes widened — as if she had seen something impossible… or suddenly remembered something unimaginably important.

— What the f—?! — she blurted out loudly, in perfect English, with an American accent. Her voice was higher, brighter, more feminine than even she was used to hearing. — Boobs?!

Her head jerked down — and where a solid male torso in a business suit should have been, there were naked female tits, droplets of water clinging to her nipples, and a slim, almost fragile waist.

— What the fuck is this?! — she screamed, pushing away from Takeshi, who stared at her, stunned, not understanding what was going on.

She jumped up, turning toward her reflection in the smooth water of the spring, and recoiled like she’d seen a ghost. The water didn’t lie. Breasts. Hips. A woman’s face — her face. Her hair, damp with steam, clung to her shoulders.

— What... what the... I didn’t... — She started to shake. — I was... at a meeting. I was holding... something... It was... an artifact. Some ancient thing from a Japanese museum. And then... — Her voice broke.

Her lips trembled, her chest rose with each panicked breath, and she could feel every movement in her breasts — the way they swayed, quivered, the way her nipples brushed against the air and the water. It was too real.

— Oi, ittai nanina nda? (Hey, what the hell?!) — said one of the men, frowning as he shifted his gaze to the other girl sitting on a lap just like her, silently asking with his eyes: what’s going on? Is this doll about to freak out too?

That girl only lowered her head apologetically, as if already saying sorry for the outburst of the other. But this one stood in the middle of the steam, clutching her trembling hands to the chest she still couldn’t accept as hers.

— I need to get out... I need... where’s my phone?! My god... my voice... — she whispered, glancing around, then down at her breasts pressed under her wrist, at the soft skin that felt both real and unreal at once.

And in that moment, from behind the warm veil of steam, the silhouette of an adult woman appeared suddenly. She grabbed her hand and, bowing low in apology for the outburst to the merchants, pulled the girl toward the wooden exit of the onsen. Her movements were swift but gentle — not like a guard, not like a servant. More like someone who knew exactly what it meant to rescue someone drowning, even if they hadn’t realized it yet.

— Yamerinasai, kore ijō wa dame... (Enough. No more...) — the woman said, not raising her voice, but with such firmness that even the three merchants went quiet for a moment.

They walked across the warm, damp wood. The girl stumbled — her bare feet trembled, her tits bounced with every step, as if reminding her with each jolt: this isn’t a joke. She felt how the kimono she had thrown over herself in a panic clung to her wet skin, heavy between her shoulder blades, dragging at her hips.

— What’s going on... Where am I... Let me go! — she burst out, but the woman just nodded, as if agreeing, though clearly she didn’t understand a word.

Inside a small changing room, thick with the scent of rice powder and moisture, the woman shut the door and, for the first time, looked her in the eyes. Her gaze was sharp, stern, and serious — so much so that the girl instinctively hunched her shoulders in surprise, though that was unlike her. Or rather, unlike John Mallory — senior partner at a law firm with offices in Tokyo, New York, and London. A man used to submissive stares, steel handshakes, and conversations where every word he spoke was taken as law.

And now... her shoulders curled in as if she’d just been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to — and somehow, here and now, that felt right.

— My name is John Mallory, I’m a senior partner at Harada & Wells, I had a conference in Tokyo, I held this box, and now I— now I have these! — she threw her hands up to her chest and nearly shouted the last word. Breasts… the breasts were there, heavy, sensitive, and when she leaned forward, her nipples brushed the hastily thrown-on kimono. It felt like a tiny electric jolt — not painful, but full, with a teasing echo low in her belly. She gasped.

The woman — tall, solid, maybe in her fifties, with her hair tightly pinned up — watched silently. Her eyes narrowed, and when the girl finally went quiet, staring at her in horror like a judge ready to pass sentence, she nodded, as if something had just been confirmed.

Part 2

— Futaba, tsuki kara ochite kita nda. (Futaba, you act like you just fell from the moon.) — she said with a touch of irritation, though without cruelty.

— What...? I don’t understand. My name is John, John Mallory! — she tried to sound commanding, but her voice trembled, and the kimono slipped off her shoulder, exposing damp skin. She yanked it back up in panic, feeling her breasts sway again with that uncomfortable heaviness.

— Saa, yamete. (Enough.) — the woman snapped her hand.

— Nihongo o hanase, fuzakeru no wa yamero. (Speak Japanese, stop screwing around.) — She raised a finger.

— Koko furawāhausude wa, Satō Oto Sera-san no yōna katagata o tantō suru mono to shite, taisetsuna okyakusama no kaigi o dainashi ni suru koto wa yurushimasen. (Here at the Flower House, I, Otose Sato, responsible for girls like you, won’t allow you to ruin a meeting for important guests.)

— No, no, no! What are you talking about?! I don’t even understand you, speak English! — Futaba gasped, though deep down, she already suspected this wasn’t modern Japan at all — but she still didn’t want to believe it, clinging to hope.

Otose stepped forward. She took a small lacquered box from a shelf, pulled out a bamboo comb, a strand of white silk rolled into a ball, and a thin needle. Then, silently, she approached and began combing Futaba’s wet hair — as if it were part of some preparation, some ritual Futaba — or John — was supposed to know by heart.

— Nani ga okotta no ka wakarimasen ga, anata wa shinjin'nanode, mōichido chansu ga atae rarerudeshou. (I don’t know what happened to you, but since you’re new, you’ll get another chance.) — she said, braiding her hair into a tight but neat knot without asking permission.

— Anata wa koko ni iru naka de ichiban utsukushī on'nanokonanode, min'na no chūmoku ga anata ni atsumatte imasu. (You’re the most beautiful girl here, so everyone’s eyes are on you.)

— I—I don’t fucking understand... What... what are you doing? — said Futaba, flinching as the woman yanked the knot tight. Her still-damp hair tugged at her scalp, and her breasts below pulled heavily at her chest, swaying with every movement.

— Mo ichido eigo o hanashitara, hiza ni suwarasete yaru. (Speak that language again and they’ll have you on your knees — you’ll wish you could still stand.) — Otose snapped, turning her face toward her with a sharp grip. Her fingers were warm, firm — the kind that belonged to someone used to giving orders, not asking.

Futaba instinctively recoiled, even though she hadn’t fully understood. But the tone... the tone was iron. It was the kind of voice used with subordinates. No — with objects. Not people.

— Listen, I don’t know what sick roleplay this is, but I am not—!

Click.

Otose picked up the needle, the thin one with a red silk thread, and without warning, jabbed it through Futaba’s earlobe. She yelped.

— Ow! What the hell are you doing?! — she cried, clutching her ear, but Otose had already moved to the other side, smoothly tying the thread like a jeweler attaching an earring to a lifeless doll.

— Dattara damatte iwa reta tōri ni shiro yo! (Then shut up and do as you’re told!) — Otose snapped, tightening the second knot like she wasn’t attaching jewelry, but branding her.

As if on cue, the door slid open and a silhouette appeared — a young man with a tray in his hands, short-cropped hair, dressed in a simple attendant’s jacket. He gave a small bow and said something Futaba couldn’t even begin to decipher.

Otose nodded, and turning back to her, pulled the sash of her kimono tight — so tight it felt like she was tying up luggage meant to arrive unopened.

— Aoyama-sama ga kite iru. (Aoyama-sama has arrived.)

Futaba gasped and stumbled back.

— What?! No, I’m not going anywhere! Do you even understand I’m a man?! I... I’m a goddamn lawyer! I’m American! I’m not… I’m not—

Otose said nothing. She grabbed her wrist sharply and straightened her posture like a mannequin. She stepped in close — close enough that Futaba could smell incense and rice powder on her breath. Not a single word in English. Not even an attempt to explain.

She whispered something in her ear — sharp, commanding, like a sentence passed down. Futaba didn’t understand a word, but the meaning was clear without translation. It was all there, in the tone. There was no sympathy. No doubt.

Then Otose, still locking eyes with her, gripped her chin... and made a gesture.

Simple. Primitive: her index finger to Futaba’s chest. Then to her own eyes. Then downward — toward the door.

A gesture that said: You’re not a person. You’re a thing. A beautiful thing meant to be looked at. And you’re going there.

Futaba froze, something tightening inside. She still didn’t understand a single word — but her gut got it. She got it all.

And when Otose adjusted her kimono again, smoothed the folds along her shoulder, Futaba didn’t resist. Only her new, heavy, full breasts rose higher in response.

The next moment, Otose smiled — almost gently, as if at her own daughter. And brushed the back of her hand along Futaba’s cheek. But to Futaba, it didn’t feel maternal. No — it felt more like a woman stroking her cat’s fur.

And Futaba, though she flinched, didn’t pull away. One thing was absolutely clear — this wasn’t modern Japan anymore.

And she was no longer John.