Being a Queen

Yeah... now this is luxury...

I'm just sitting here, staring through this perfectly oval skylight above me, with the sky looking so close, like if I reached out, I'd touch those fluffy, cotton-candy clouds. But I don’t reach. I just sit there, leaning back on my hands a bit, feeling how the fabric of these panties digs annoyingly between my ass cheeks.

Once, my ex answered my question about whether it was comfortable to wear thongs with a slight smile, saying —

— You get used to it.

Used to it. How the hell do you even get used to this?

And now here I am, sitting in this black strip of fabric that feels like someone back there is testing my tolerance on purpose, and thinking — is this really what women call "normal"? She got used to it… Yeah, and I probably will too. I’m already starting to. Or more like, I'm resigning myself to it. Because ever since I — Lucas, thirty-five, IT support guy, with a mortgage and a chronic sex drought — became Leticia… my life stopped being mine in any way.

The genie. That fucking bastard genie.

It was like a bad joke. Yeah, I was bitching at a bar, whining about women, saying they were playing life on easy mode, like all they had to do was slip on a tight dress, pout their lips, and the world dropped at their feet. And then this guy walks in, dressed like he stepped out of some Arabian fairytale, smirking with a voice like a raspy saxophone that picked up smoking.

— Wanna try living their life? — he asked.

I scoffed —

— Go ahead, show me what it’s like to be a queen.

And now I’m here — on a yacht. Staring up through this pretentious window, feeling the unfamiliar weight of my breasts subtly bounce with every breath... Jesus. Breasts... At first, I was too scared to even breathe. They were always there, always moving on their own. Still are — I’ve just learned how to move so they don’t get in the way. No running, no jumping, no sudden bending — actually, just moving in a slow, almost graceful rhythm, because any wrong move pulls at something under them, like the muscles still don’t understand why they’re suddenly supporting two firm mounds of flesh.

Those same mounds now gently sway under my black top, brushing together slightly with each breath, and weirdly, it makes me anxious.

Because I’m not just "in a woman’s body" anymore — I am a woman. With a body that reacts. That feels. That draws eyes.

— You’re so cute when you’re lost in thought, — said Ryan, and I heard the champagne bottle pop as he opened it while I was still staring up, not even noticing him come in.

Ryan, goddamn it, Ryan Denver — the very man I would’ve laughed at in some bar, lifting my third bourbon, thinking, what a sucker, pampering that doll, stroking her hair and kissing her forehead while she scrolls Instagram like a lazy cat.

And now he’s my... what? Patron?

The man who pays for this yacht, for the personal trainer at the gym who keeps staring at my tits, for the organic smoothies that make me want to puke, for the acid peels, scrubs and massages that leave me walking around like a dusty vase for hours, just to keep the fresh tan from smudging.

It’s all him.

And he doesn’t ask how I feel. Because it’s automatically assumed that I’m... good.

— Dreaming? — Ryan comes closer, and I instinctively pull my top down, feeling my boobs jiggle again, though it’s pointless — he’s already seen everything. And will again, in a bit, or later tonight. Depends on him. I’m like some toy. An expensive toy he does whatever he wants with.

A trophy he shows off to his millionaire friends, who size me up with their eyes like I’m a collector’s bottle of wine. A dumb accessory from Latin America — exotic, sexy, pricey.

I’ve already heard him introduce me —

— This is Leticia. Half-blood. Hot, right? —

And he laughs like I’m a goddamn joke poured into a mini skirt and a top with a neckline down to my bellybutton.

And I stand there, smiling the way I’ve learned — biting my lower lip just a little, tilting my head slightly. Because it makes my cheekbones pop. Because that’s how it’s done.

He sits down next to me, close enough that our thighs nearly touch, and I catch myself sucking in my stomach again — automatically, like during training with Carla, that peppy Brazilian drill-sergeant who yells at me every morning:

— Stomach in, Leticia, posture up, no excuses!

Then Ryan strokes my thigh — casually, lazily, like it’s nothing — and I realize that everything up to this point was just the warm-up.

— Thinking about life, — I exhale, trying to make my voice sound playful, flirty even, as if I’m teasing, not screaming on the inside. Because if I told the truth — that I used to be a man named Lucas, that I used to hate girls like the one I’ve become — he’d probably laugh. Or worse, think it’s some twisted roleplay.

He smiles — that signature Hollywood smile, relaxed and confident, the one that makes waitresses weak in the knees. Ryan Denver. Successful investor, divorced, three kids living in another country, and a regular feature on the covers of magazines about the rich and painfully boring.

And now I’m part of his décor. His yacht. His lifestyle. His.

— Don’t think. Women shouldn’t think so much, — he says, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s not joking.

And really, I’ve been in this body for six months now, and it’s clear — nothing’s going to change.

That fucking genie.

I searched for him like a madwoman. Posted on every weird paranormal forum I could find, spoke to occult chicks in LA, even tracked down some street magician in Santa Monica who did impressive tricks with disappearing rings and “energy fields” — but of course, it wasn’t him.

And then Ryan told me one day — if I wanted to stay his girl, I had to stop wasting time on “stupid shit” and “keep in shape.”

That’s when it hit me. What else could I do? Let him go? Lose the only thing I had left in this new life, the one thing I got in exchange for my old one — and end up with nothing at all? I wouldn’t have survived.

I remember that first week — my hands trembling, voice so shaky I couldn’t say a word without it cracking — staring into the mirror and whispering: “You are Lucas.”

Only to hear the reflection reply: “I am Leticia.” And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Because the genie didn’t just give me a woman’s body — he made me a woman. Right down to the bones.

I didn’t want to believe it. Not at first. Not until I saw Ryan.

Not until that night when he — without knowing a damn thing about me — saw me in that same bar where I once asked to be a queen, walked over and… smiled. And I… I got wet. I wish I had a different word for it, but there’s no polite version of that truth.

Heat slammed through me like someone had pushed a hidden button, and I laughed — too loud, too real. I fell in love. Just like that. Instantly. Like my soul — or whatever was left of it — fused with this body, with its chemistry, with this new version of me. It felt like betrayal. But the kind that’s warm and sweet and impossible to resist.

Since that moment, I’ve kept myself in perfect shape — not for me, but for him. I eat what I’m supposed to: green smoothies, chia seeds, steamed chicken breasts — like I’m not a woman but a lean, high-protein investment.

Every morning: workouts. Ass tight, stomach in, tits positioned just right — sexy but not trashy.

I’ve mastered the art of presenting myself just enough to catch his eye the moment he walks into the room — to make sure he keeps paying, to make sure I don’t end up out on the street.

Because the genie gave me a body and erased everything else: no passport, no past, no name, no bank account.

Leticia had no credit history — just curves and a carefully rehearsed smile.

— I wouldn’t have made it, — I said quietly, and Ryan didn’t even notice it slip from my lips.

He was already handing me a glass of some overpriced champagne, his eyes fixed on my tanned, smooth, hairless legs — the kind that cost him more each month than I, as Lucas, earned in two.

— What’d you say, baby?

I smiled again — that half-smile he likes. Bit my lip, dropped my eyes, pushed my cheekbones forward. Say nothing. Be the image.

— I said… thank you, — I whispered, and inside it scraped raw.

Because this is my life now — the one I used to mock when I saw it in other girls. Because I genuinely want him to keep looking at me like that, to keep paying for me — and the more he does, the more I crave it. Because I actually like it when his hand wraps around my waist, when he pulls me close, when he looks at me like a trophy. I hate myself for that. But I can’t stop.