The Hottie on the Door

Hello everyone. Honestly, I didn’t expect this myself, but yep, this is a TG-inanimate caption. I never thought I’d ever write something in this genre, since it never really appealed to me, but I guess you should never say never—even to yourself =D

...

The street was empty that evening. Only a few passersby, wrapped up in their own business, occasionally appeared under the streetlights. Jordan, a solid, broad-shouldered guy with chains around his neck and a leather jacket, strode leisurely toward an old abandoned building, where his crew was set to meet and discuss their upcoming "business." He felt like the king of the territory, everything about him wordlessly warning people—don’t come near, don’t mess with him. Everyone in the city had a nickname for him, but nobody dared say it to his face.

Suddenly, he noticed a hunched old lady dragging a cart full of wrapped items just up ahead. As usual, he didn’t have the patience to wait for her to clear the way. He deliberately passed close, bumping her cart with his foot so that the bundles scattered onto the ground.

—"Hey, watch where you’re going, hag,"—he snapped, not even looking at her.

The old woman, steadying herself, fixed him with a gaze, an eerie glint of almost hypnotic power flashing in her eyes. Her quiet voice, barely audible behind Jordan, sounded like a rumble:

—"Rude... You’ll get what’s coming to you."

Jordan just scoffed without turning back. Her words drifted off behind him, as did the old woman herself, quickly forgotten like a passing shadow.

...

A few minutes later, he arrived at the spot. The guys were already there, smoking cheap cigarettes and laughing about something. Jordan got straight to business, starting a discussion on the new plans. But soon, an odd feeling crept over him. Something strange prickled his skin, raising goosebumps.

—"Something up?"—Dan, one of his closest guys, asked.

—"Nah, it’s fine, just..."—Jordan fell silent. A lump formed in his throat, and his body tingled, like the sensation of static electricity.

He felt something changing—not outside, but inside, as if his organs were twisting, morphing. His stubble slowly vanished, tickling his face as it receded. Looking down at his hands, he stared in horror as his rough, strong fingers grew longer and thinner, with nails that seemed to extend and coat themselves in polish.

—"What the..."—he hissed, struggling to contain his panic.

Dan gaped at him, his mouth slightly open.

—"Joe, uh... your... uh, legs... stockings?"

Jordan looked down and saw, to his shock, that instead of his old jeans and boots, he was now sporting tall, black fishnet stockings and heels. His hips had softened, becoming rounder, and he felt the snug embrace of a tight black skirt hugging his thighs. His chest suddenly swelled, as if filling with air, creating a new, heavy weight, just as long hair brushed the back of his neck.

—"What the hell’s happening?!"—he hissed, but his voice, shrill and high, was no longer his own. It was soft, disturbingly pleasant. Dan, wide-eyed with shock, took a step back.

—"Joe... you’re... you’re turning into..."—Dan struggled to finish, his gaze glued to Jordan’s now curvy, feminine hips.

Jordan stumbled toward the grimy mirror on the door of the abandoned building they used for their meetings, clumsily wobbling in heels, his backside and chest jiggling as he moved, desperately hoping this was just a nightmare. But the reflection staring back at him was almost entirely transformed—a girl, wide-eyed, with full lips and shiny blonde hair framing her face. His insides turned icy.

Then his back arched, his hips tilting back slightly, as if he were slipping into a seductive pose. His hands slid over his own thighs to rest on his knees, locking him into a bizarre, helpless posture. He turned his head to look at Dan, tried to say something, to call for help, but instead of his usual rough, commanding tone, a soft squeak escaped. His lips pursed into a ridiculous duck-face pout.

—"Hey, Joe, you planning to put on a show?"—Dan smirked, but Jordan wasn’t laughing. He couldn’t move—his body, now entirely foreign to him, had settled into a final pose, almost as if presenting itself. His legs spread slightly, one knee bending into a teasing, flirty position.

He felt his skin turn cold, almost like it was hardening. His entire body seemed to be covered in a strange, tight film, as if he were being wrapped in thick paper. His hands froze on his knees, his hips locked in a backward arch, and his wide-eyed, horrified stare held still. Just a second ago, he could still move his eyes, but now... nothing. They wouldn’t budge. Only his pupils moved, catching the faintest motion around him.

Jordan felt as though everything was shrinking, compressing into a single flat layer. It was as if every cell in his body was thinning, like he was being flattened, turned into something weightless, a shallow sketch on a surface. The sensation was terrifying and unimaginable, as if he were being stretched and pressed into the wall, losing his physical form. He no longer felt weight or depth. Now, he existed only as a single layer—he was flat, like paper, unable to pull himself away from the cold metal door.

Panic overwhelmed him. He tried to scream, but his mouth refused to obey. His lips stayed frozen in the absurd duck-face pout, motionless, helpless. He was now only an image, a decorative figure on an abandoned door, posed in a way that he himself would have mocked. With his frozen gaze, he saw Dan and the other guys raise their brows, looking at his "image," as if it was just a random painting on the door, as if nothing unusual had happened.

Dan, grinning slightly, stepped closer to the image, slowly running a finger over the wall as if caressing the hip of the “painted girl.” Jordan could feel each touch—painfully, clearly. It was as if cold, rough fingers were gliding over his own skin, bared and hypersensitive. He tried to resist, to scream, to fight—but his body remained flat, unmoving, a thin layer of paint on the rusty metal door.

He watched his crew look at him, appraisingly, with unhidden amusement, as if he were some strange, new element on the building, something they could mess around with. None of them remembered Jordan anymore, their fierce leader—only the ridiculous image of a girl posed provocatively in a short skirt and stockings. To them, she was nothing more than a funny picture on a wall.

"Well, hot stuff, feeling flirty, huh?" Dan murmured, brushing his fingertips over Jordan’s painted lips. Jordan, now permanently trapped in this powerless image, felt his insides twist with shame and a strange, humiliating excitement that pulsed through his flat form. The feelings were surreal but unbearably real—every touch electrified him, making him scream silently inside, unable to release even a sound.

Another guy, Pete, grinned and slapped the painted hip, leaving a dirty handprint. Jordan felt his insides race as though his heart pounded in a body that was now flat and terribly sensitive. It felt like his hip was burning from that touch. Disgust mingled with a painful thrill he couldn’t resist.

"Whoever drew this chick knew what they were doing!" someone laughed.

Jordan tried to shout, but it was useless—he was now just the hot girl painted on the door of an abandoned building, forced to watch the familiar faces of his old crew stroll past him day after day, each one stopping to slap or stroke the frozen, flat lips locked in that absurd pout. He heard them, saw them, and felt every touch, but there was nothing he could do.