GreenTG

Strange App - Page 17 (preview)

Sorry for the long silence about this series =) but now I finally found the strength and time, and most importantly the right thoughts, to continue it. To be honest, I’m thinking that maybe it’s already time to split this story into episodes/parts or something like that, because I really don’t want to finish it yet, and everything I did earlier was meant to let me expand the story later)

I don’t think the photo will be a big spoiler-spoiler, but for the followers, why not post at least a little.

I plan to finish the page by Thursday. As usual, it’s turning out pretty big, though not bigger than the previous ones ahah — I mean, it’s nothing compared to the very first ones.

And yeah, sometimes when there are no comments, it’s hard for me to understand your feedback, so sometimes I pay extra attention to the few comments I get. And judging by DeviantArt, not everyone liked the twist on page 15 and I see that not everyone likes Maxi’s new design, but I didn’t even plan to keep the character only in this form from the start, so on that part I can calm you down. And about the deeper tone — I don’t know, but personally I often get hooked by depth in TG works sometimes, even though yeah, it’s mostly “entertainment” content lol =D

P.S. By the way, I made an album here for this comic to make navigation easier.

I Want a Yacht Too!

Well. Tell me, you damn electric box, when the fuck is all this shit happening in this world finally gonna end? Though really, what could this useless hunk of metal tell me, besides another detergent ad or some dumb-ass TV show about rich carefree idiots… Screw the news. Not today, Mr. President. Today it’s just you and me, a bottle of dark, foamy Guinness. Oh yeah, baby!

(sip, sip, sip… burp, leans back in the chair)

God… I’m so fucking tired. All day this construction site, those stupid faces of my coworkers… And that dude on the screen looks exactly like our Patty, the vampire guy. I’m telling you, the same damn face! Though I still don’t get why the hell he got that nickname. What’s that crap called again?... Twilight? Huh, whatever, what’s next…

(clicking the remote)

On the screen again — those shiny idiots with their perfect white teeth. One of them just gave his girlfriend a yacht. A yacht! They’ve completely lost their fucking minds! You… you… God, what the hell am I even talking about? Here I am, sitting in my filthy chair that smells like sweat, cement, and cheap deodorant, arguing with the TV. Brilliant, Mike. Just brilliant.

(sip. another one. the bottle’s empty)

— I hate all of you so damn much, — I exhale, tossing the remote somewhere under the couch. — All those shiny bastards with white teeth and empty heads. He gave her a yacht! A fucking yacht! What the hell?! Hey, universe or whoever’s up there! I want a yacht too!

(sip. the last one. the bottle hits the floor with a dull thud. everything blurs)

— Well, there… drunk again… — I mumble, feeling my eyelids getting heavy. — Fuck you all…

The world melted, like warm beer from the fifth bottle of the night, and I didn’t even fight it, knowing that any second now I’d pass out right here, in my filthy chair, eyes staring blankly at the TV, where some idiots in tuxedos were drinking champagne on a deck.

(thud. IMPACT on my shoulder)

— AAH! — I scream, clutching my shoulder, feeling that sharp, burning pain — like my skin had just been zapped by electricity. But why the hell did I just yelp like some chick? And where the hell is my shirt… what the…

I open my eyes and instantly squint from the sunlight.

The sun? Where the hell is the ceiling of my apartment? Where’s that stinking couch? Why am I…

— Sorry! — a male voice calls out nearby, with a light southern accent. — Hey, May, are you okay?

May?..

I turn toward the voice and see a young guy standing over me in swim trunks. Tanned, damn it, fit and muscular — and I feel this weird, ticklish sensation inside my body as I look at him. Like everything inside me suddenly… got warm? Or, fuck, tightened somewhere deep in my stomach.

He leans closer, and the sunlight slides over his skin like it’s teasing me.

— May, are you sure you’re okay? — he asks, leaning in so close I can smell salt and something like coconut cream.

May. He said it again.

— Uh… yeah… I… I guess… — the words come out weirdly soft and kind of… gentle. That voice… it’s not mine. It’s too high, too clear.

I grab my throat instinctively and realize there’s no trace of stubble, and my neck feels… smaller. I look at my fingers — they’re thin, with pink nails. God, what the hell is this?

— Alright, I’ll go then, sorry again! — the guy pulls my attention back for a moment, and as I turn my head, I feel something slide over my shoulders and back — and I realize almost instantly. Hair! Long, damn it, soft, warm hair flowing down my skin. I jerk my head, trying to shake it off, but it only tickles my neck and gets in my eyes.

— What the… — I breathe out, but the voice again sounds like I’m trying to seduce someone with just a word. — What the fuck?

I try to sit up, dropping my hand to my leg — that flawless, smooth skin — when I suddenly freeze, because I see something that makes everything inside me clench tight, like all the air’s been sucked out.

My body. It… it’s not mine!

I gasp sharply, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out of my chest… chest. Wait— do I actually have breasts now?! Tits! Boobs! They’re real. I can feel them — the weight, even that damn fabric holding them up. Soft, alive, heavy — they bounce slightly with my breathing as I sit up too fast. I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. This can’t be real.

— Oh, fuck… — slips out of me as I look down, already knowing there’s not gonna be anything male down there.

But my eyes catch on my stomach. Instead of my beer belly, there’s now this flat, tanned stomach with a tiny silver belly piercing glinting in the sunlight. The skin’s smooth, warm, and lower down… a swimsuit — and under it…

(my hand reaches between my legs)

— Hey, May! — the same familiar voice calls again. — Don’t fall asleep there!

I turn around, yanking my hand back like a damn criminal caught in the act. It’s that same guy — now waving at me from the edge of the pool. His hair’s wet, water dripping down his neck, and that smile… fuck, that smile looks straight out of one of those dumb shows I was just cursing at — but damn, it suits him. White teeth, confidence oozing out of him.

— I’m not asleep… — I answer automatically, though my brain’s screaming: YOU ARE ASLEEP! THIS ISN’T REAL!

The words leave my mouth, and with them I feel my breasts slightly bounce, moving on their own like they’ve got a life of their own. I swallow hard and turn the other way — and then I see her. A girl sitting on a lounge chair, staring right at me. She’s looking at me like… Shit! That’s my reflection!

Long dark hair, messy and shining in the sunlight. A cute face, almost perfectly shaped, with big eyes and thin lips that naturally curve into a soft, almost silly smile. I raise my hand — she does the same. Tilt my head — feel my hair shift again — and she mirrors me exactly. That’s me. That’s really me…

— No… no-no-no… — I whisper, grabbing my head. — This is a dream. Just a fucking dream.

— What? — the guy steps closer. — You okay? You look kinda pale, May.

He sits down beside me, and I hear the soft splash of water against the pool’s edge — then feel his hand on my shoulder. Warm, steady. Too steady. Like he’s…

— I just… — I start, not even knowing what to say, and feel him lean a little closer. His breath brushes against my cheek. Dude, seriously… just calm me down and— God! What the hell are these thoughts?!

— Listen, if you want, we can go inside, — he says, sliding his arm around my shoulders, and I feel his hand move a bit lower than it probably should. — There’s shade, AC… By the way, did you decide on a name for her?

— A name?.. — I repeat automatically, not fully understanding what the hell he’s even talking about.

He smirked, running his finger along my arm — too casually, too easily — but that single touch sent goosebumps crawling over my skin.

— Well, the yacht, of course. You said you wanted to give it a “special” name, remember?

I jerk my head toward him, eyes wide in shock — and then freeze, realizing his face is closer to mine than any man’s ever been in my life, except maybe during some drunk night or a family hug. Though even then… it never felt this… intimate.

— Yeah? — he said with a smile, pulling me a little closer. I could hear my heartbeat — too fast, too loud. It thumped somewhere inside my chest. In this soft, unfamiliar chest, where my breasts trembled with every breath I took.

— Hey… you’re shaking, — he said quietly, his voice soft, almost caring.

— Just… the sun, — I managed to say, though the sun had nothing to do with it. Everything inside me screamed: Get off me! I’m not some girl! I’m a man! This is all fucked up! And you, you rich fucking prick — I hate you!

But my body wouldn’t listen. It was like it had its own will — craving warmth, that steady shoulder — and before I even realized it, my head had already rested against his chest.

He smelled like the sea, salt, his skin, and a faintly sweet lotion... And at that moment, everything suddenly felt too real. The sunlight. The breathing. The warmth.

He ran his hand gently through my hair, and I closed my eyes. Just for a second. Just to make all this madness stop spinning.

— It’s okay, I’m here, my girl, — he whispered.

And I… didn’t answer. I just pressed my face deeper into his shoulder, feeling something inside me tearing apart beneath the skin.

One part of me still screamed, begging to take it all back — this body, this voice, this fragile weakness that wasn’t mine.

And the other — stayed silent. Quiet, tired, and craving comfort. The part that just wanted someone to hold her like this.

Investor of Love

Text in attachment

What a weird dream... - Page 2

Page 1: https://www.patreon.com/posts/what-weird-dream-140777448

Dream. Dive. Live. - Episode 3 + side story

Episode 1: https://www.patreon.com/posts/dream-dive-live-139854059

Episode 2: https://www.patreon.com/posts/dream-dive-live-144589910

PDF, Word and Caps in PDF in attachment

You can buy all three episodes for separate purchase on DeviantArt

How to Become a Goddess?

“So, girls, the most important thing is — your inner goddess always knows what she deserves,” — purred the sugary, pompous voice of a blonde on the screen from the marathon “Become a Goddess in 21 Days.”

Joseph lazily threw one arm behind his head, the other still holding the remote. On his face — a ridiculous moisturizing mask, that sticky, cold crap — but damn, it felt good on his overly smooth cheeks. The T-shirt with the angry cartoon cat clung awkwardly to his... her... those impossible tits, which still made it hard to lie down properly.

He caught himself not looking away from the show, actually listening to that coach lady talking about “how to spark a man’s protective instinct with just a look.” And worst of all — part of his brain nodded along: yeah, might be worth a try...

— You serious? — came Selena’s cold, slightly mocking tone — his friend, or rather the one he'd switched bodies with a month ago. And judging by the sound of her voice, she'd been standing there watching for a while.

In that moment, Joseph’s heart clenched tight, and he jerked on the bed. His boobs jiggled slightly, but that didn’t matter now — panic washed over him.

— Selena?! — Joseph shot up from the couch, the moisturizing mask nearly sliding off his face. — How long have you... how long have you been standing there?!

Selena smirked, leaning against the doorframe. Her own — well, his — body, now her constant reflection in the mirror, looked so familiar and yet so fucking foreign.

— Long enough to see you soaking in that sacred feminine wisdom, — she nodded toward the screen, where the coach was still ranting about “sexual charisma.” — And to see your little eyes light up when she mentioned “manipulating guys with just a glance.” Oh, and I see you’re enjoying those masks too, huh, goddess?

Joseph felt his ears burn as his hands yanked the mask off his face in a panic, the sticky coolness grossly dragging against his skin. He tossed it onto the nightstand, turning away from Selena.

— It’s... It’s for the skin, you said so yourself, — he muttered, desperately trying not to look at her.

— Mhm, — she nodded, kicking off her boots, — Even though I told you ages ago it’s not necessary... you still—

— Selena, cut it out, damn it, I... — Joseph snapped, jumping off the bed, trying to steer the conversation anywhere else. But right at that moment, the TV blared:

“And collagen masks especially help awaken femininity, smoothing not just your skin — but your fears…”

Selena burst out laughing. At first just a chuckle, but then she completely lost it, bracing herself against the wall, gasping for air. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and a wicked grin froze on her lips.

— Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry — she managed between laughs, brushing hair out of her face. — “Smoothing your fears”? Seriously? So what, you're in here smoothing out your fears now? For real?! Oh, fuck... — she snorted again, unable to stop.

Joseph sighed, feeling the heat spread across his cheeks and breasts. He stood in the middle of the room, fully aware of how ridiculous this whole thing looked, but trying to keep a straight face.

— Just drop it, — he muttered, rolling his eyes. Then he suddenly exhaled and, as if grabbing onto a lifeline, added: — By the way, I’ve actually got news. About... the swap.

Selena immediately frowned, her playful expression replaced by a cautious one. She stepped closer, her heavy man-boots thudding dully against the floor, and for the first time all day, Joseph felt not just awkward, but... vulnerable. Her height, her current body — his former one — loomed over him, and he... he felt the weight of his tits under the T-shirt again, how the fabric clung awkwardly to his hips and hugged his waist. Fuck.

— What kind of news? — Selena asked seriously, her eyes locked on him.

— I found this guy, he deals with... unconventional stuff. He says there’s a way. A real one. — His voice trembled, but he kept going. — But... there’s a catch.

Selena narrowed her eyes, interest flickering through her gaze.

— A catch? — she echoed, stepping closer. — You’ve got me intrigued now. Come on, spill it. What kind of catch? Do we have to spend another month “awakening the inner goddess” every morning? Or... — she grinned wickedly. — Or maybe someone has to master the art of manipulating men with her eyes for it to work?

Joseph shot a sharp glance at the screen, where the coach was now demonstrating how to “move your hips right” to “magnetize attention.”

— Oh for fuck’s sake! — he breathed, frantically smashing the remote buttons, but the show, as if mocking him, kept going:

“Remember, girls, until you fully embrace your body and start radiating feminine energy, the universe will keep ignoring you!”

Joseph’s fingers trembled as he finally managed to shut off the TV, but a heavy silence fell over the room, soaked with unspoken shit and that dumb line about “feminine energy.”

Selena, pressing her hand to her lips, snorted again, though she was clearly trying to hold it back.

— So... the catch? — Selena dragged the word out, peering into his eyes, genuinely curious. — Don’t keep me hanging, or I’ll start thinking I’m stuck with your sausage for the rest of my life.

— Pfft, like I’m loving these two hypersensitive balloons! — Joseph snapped, curling his lip.

There was a brief pause, just a few seconds long, but they both felt it — like something tangible hanging in the air.

— Okay, so... the catch is, well... — Joseph hesitated, scratching the back of his head, his fingers sinking into the soft, way-too-silky hair. He winced, like he’d tasted lemon, but pushed on: — This guy says we can reverse it all... but only if we go through, let’s say... a specific ritual.

— A specific ritual? — Selena repeated slowly, savoring the words as she tilted her head. — You said that in a way that’s giving me goosebumps. What kind of ritual? Goats? Sacrifices? Or... — she gave him a look from head to toe, lingering on his breasts, — ...is it more of that “embrace your feminine essence” crap again?

— Selena, cut it out! — Joseph rolled his eyes, but his tits still gave a traitorous bounce as he sucked in a sharp breath. — It’s a lot more complicated than that.

Selena went quiet. The smirk still lingered on her lips, but her eyes dimmed, like a veil of sarcasm had briefly lifted and something tired slipped through — something she’d been hiding all this time.

— A lot more complicated… — she repeated, softer now, not as sharp. She sat down on the edge of the bed, fingers laced together, her gaze drifting around the room until it stopped on the TV, where the black screen still flickered faintly. — Talk.

Joseph swallowed, bracing himself, already knowing he was about to sound like some chick who'd listened to too many esoteric podcasts and was planning a trip to India to “find herself.” But what else could he do? This past month they’d tried pretty much everything to switch back, and still had no fucking clue why it happened in the first place.

— So... — he finally muttered, avoiding Selena’s eyes and rubbing his wrist — this guy... He’s not just some random scammer from a message board. He was recommended to me... by people who are seriously into occult shit. He says we can talk to... well, to God. Or something... like that.

Silence settled over the room. Selena, still sitting on the bed’s edge, leaned forward slightly, her fingers clenching tighter. Her face still held a trace of irony, but it seemed to weaken — like the exhaustion she’d been carrying was finally starting to show through.

— Hold on… — she said quietly, frowning. — Talk to God? Are you being serious right now? This isn’t just “wake the goddess within” crap anymore, this is… — She stopped, lips pressed together in thought.

Joseph nodded, feeling a tight knot rising in his throat.

— He said there’s a ritual. With a special substance... — Joseph hesitated, pulling a folded paper from his jeans pocket, slightly crumpled from how nervous he’d been. — It’s... well... it’s some kind of strong psychotropic. We take it, and if it works... we go there. To a place where you can actually... communicate. But if it doesn’t work — it’ll just be a trip. Or worse.

Selena let out a quiet snort, but this time, there was no anger in her voice.

— Psychotropic? You mean... drugs? — She raised an eyebrow, locking eyes with him. Her gaze held exhaustion, but also the tiniest flicker of hope — so faint it was almost invisible. — And after that... “talk to God”? Just like that?

Joseph shrugged, staring at the floor.

— I know how it sounds. But Selena… — He finally met her eyes, and his voice cracked. — What else are we supposed to do? We’ve already tried everything! Unless you’ve got something better?

Selena stayed silent for a few seconds, eyes down. In her mind flashed the moment she’d first woken up in Joseph’s body, the pure shock of it. How they talked after, how they kept trying to switch back again and again. How they even tried bashing their heads together as hard as they could the first time, how much that hurt — the days of walking around with a fucking lump on her — his — forehead, and the swap still didn’t vanish. How they fought, nearly tore each other to pieces... but then made up and even... had sex.

— That’s what I’m saying too, — whispered the soft female voice — her former voice — right by her ear, and she felt a gentle palm touch her stubbly cheek. It made something twist inside her — not from fear, but from that strange, warm feeling that had been getting disturbingly familiar lately.

Joseph snuggled closer, resting his head on her shoulder, his thin arms gently wrapping around her, and Selena suddenly realized just how fragile her old body had been.

— Let’s try it, Selena, — he murmured, almost in a whisper, burying his face in her T-shirt. — Because otherwise... I’m seriously going to turn into a goddess.

He laughed after that — quietly, but with a sincerity that didn’t fit the absurdity of the moment.

Selena let out a heavy breath. Her big hand came up and rested on the back of Joseph’s head, carefully, almost tenderly. Her fingers sank into the soft, silky hair, and again it threw her off balance.

— Christ, what a fucking mess, — she muttered, not moving her hand. — Stroking your head, knowing it’s my old body, and somehow I’m starting to get used to it...

— Getting used to it? — he chuckled, lifting his head slightly, his hair like silk sliding through her fingers. — You’re not the only one.

Selena snorted, letting her eyes run over him again. Thin wrists, those too-big eyes that were hers now, those curves under that ridiculous T-shirt, skin all smooth and shiny after that stupid face mask... It was all weird as hell — and yet, there was some twisted comfort in it.

— It’s horrible, obviously, but yeah, — she admitted, sliding her fingers along the back of his head, — You look so... cute, it makes me wanna punch myself.

Joseph snorted, gently slipping out of her hand and straightening up. He tugged the T-shirt down with practiced, if still clumsy, hands, but his boobs still gave a little bounce. His cheeks turned pink.

— Yeah, especially when your “cute” version is soaking up advice on how to manipulate men, — he rolled his eyes. — Anyway, fuck it… So, the ritual. Are we doing this?

Selena looked at him for a few silent seconds, then gave in:

— Let’s do it, fuck it… If there’s even a chance we talk to... God and he can undo this — I’m in. I’ll even trip on magic mushrooms if that’s what it takes.

Joseph let out a short laugh:

— Perfect… But first... — he stepped in closer, their faces nearly touching, his boobs gently pressing into her stomach. He looked up at her, and a sly half-smile curled on his lips. — I think we need to… seal the agreement.

Selena didn’t even have time to react before his lips touched hers. Quick, almost playful, but for a second she was wrapped in warmth. Those lips — so familiar, so hers — now felt completely different. Soft. Juicy. Nothing like before.

She laughed right through that fleeting kiss, lightly jabbing him in the side with her palm:

— You little bastard, — she muttered, not hiding her grin. — But fine... Deal’s sealed.

And a bit quieter now, looking him in the eye:

— Let’s try it, Joe. Either you turn into a goddess, or I get my ass back.

Damn, What a Mom

Jennifer Harrison seemed like the perfect woman.

Especially from the outside.

Especially from Bobby’s point of view, who often lingered near their house in the evenings, supposedly to play with her son Mark, but in reality just to catch another fleeting glimpse of Mrs. Harrison herself.

Tall, well-groomed, always reservedly elegant, she knew how to wear even simple clothes in a way that made them look provocatively alluring.

— Damn, Mark, your mom is hot, — Bobby once blurted out, and of course Mark only smirked.

— Chill, that’s my mom, — Mark muttered. — And don’t ever say shit like that in front of me again.

Bobby really did freeze every time Jennifer walked past in a tight skirt or in a robe tied just above her knees. He dreamed of being in her husband’s place. Just for one night. To pin her down in bed, to hold her close, while her gorgeous tits pressed firmly against his chest. He even fantasized about her robe sliding off her shoulders, about the soft fabric catching on her hips… and then his thought would snap apart in sweet tension.

And right now, he was lying on his couch, staring at the ceiling and once again picturing Jennifer drawing the curtains in her bedroom at night. In his mind, he stripped her layer by layer, until that familiar sweet tension swelled in his chest. The pressure was already building in his pants, and he was just about to slip his hand under the waistband, when suddenly everything around him jolted.

As if someone had flipped a switch: the ceiling melted away, the couch disappeared from under his back, his body seemed to lose all sense for a second. But it lasted only a moment. Bobby jerked, suddenly realizing that instead of lying down he was now sitting up, and as he moved, something heavy swayed on his chest.

— Wh… what the fuck?.. — he muttered, hearing his own words sound completely different from what he expected.

He instantly snapped his eyes open and saw not the ceiling of his room, but a large oval mirror in front of him. And in it — the reflection of that very woman he had just stripped in his fantasies.

Bobby swallowed hard, twitched his shoulders, and again felt the weight swaying right on his chest. He sharply dropped his gaze and nearly screamed.

A black lace bra stretched tight across full, heavy breasts. Black stockings hugging long legs. A thin strip of fabric at the hips, where the wide thigh muscles trembled, looking way too big from this angle, just like the breasts.

— No… no… this… this is bullshit, — he exhaled, feeling the bra strap dig into his skin painfully, confirming that this body was really his.

He raised his eyes again and froze. In the reflection stood Jennifer Harrison. Her hair tied up high, dressed in black lingerie, holding a jar of cosmetics in her hands. She stared back with wide-open eyes, her face mirroring his emotions completely.

"I… I’m in her body… God, is this Alt Shift? But… it was supposed to be over?! Why… why me?!"

His hands trembled. He instinctively squeezed his thighs together, and at once a strange, pulling sensation answered through the thin panties, as if a new, unfamiliar nervous system had been switched on down there. The mass body exchange — or, as people called it, mass hallucination — had happened a year ago, and he knew damn well how hard it had been for those who were forced to become someone else because of those laws that now had only grown more punitive.

— Shit… — he grabbed the edge of the vanity table, scattered with mascara, lipstick, perfume. — This isn’t a dream… this isn’t a dream!

And as if to crush him completely, a knock came from the door.

— Jenny? — a deep, confident male voice called, painfully familiar. It was Richard Harrison. Her husband.

Bobby froze, his heart hammering faster and faster. He pressed his hand to his chest and immediately felt the breasts rise heavily with each breath. The soft flesh sank slightly under his palm.

— I… uh… just a minute… — he forced out and clamped his mouth with his hand.

— Darling, — Richard continued from behind the door, — I’m already going to bed. Don’t be long.

Bobby’s head spun. He looked back at the mirror and saw Jennifer again, her cheeks flushed, her pupils wide. She looked like she had just stepped out of a love scene.

"I wanted her, not to become her! Fuck, I don’t want to go through all this hell because of this Alt Shift… No… But to be her, with her HUSBAND? Fuck, fuck, fuck…"

The doorknob rattled slightly.

— Jenny?

Bobby clutched the edge of the table, struggling not to betray his panic, realizing that if he gave himself away now, he was one hundred percent screwed.

Horny Cleaning Lady

Part 1

The silence in the shared bathroom—meant for hotel guests who opted for cheaper accommodations—was broken only by soft female breathing and the sound of birds singing outside the window.

– Mrs. Lee... – whispered the woman, gazing down at her body with a strange kind of excitement, her eyes fixated on her breasts, wrapped tightly in a white bra, already half visible beneath the unbuttoned yellow blouse.

She gently ran her fingers across the soft fabric, as if afraid to disturb the magic. Her new tits responded with a slight shiver. A ticklish warmth spread across her skin. She closed her eyes and giggled softly.

– Never thought this would actually work – she murmured—or rather, he murmured. Jeremy McNeil, now hiding inside the body of the slim Asian woman who just moments ago was handing him towels and swinging a mop bucket around. Soul transference—or whatever that weird spell was called—had definitely worked, even though it sounded like total crap. And here he was, in her body. After the panic and urge to run, he found himself standing there, still half-believing it wasn’t real.

But it was all too real—her long hair softly brushed against him, the fabric of the skirt draped over her legs, and those tits? He could feel them like nothing else. Completely new sensations Jeremy had never experienced in his life—and never even imagined he could. He figured he should go back to his room and undo everything, but some strange, twisted curiosity was growing stronger and stronger ever since he accidentally touched his new boobs—and his whole body reacted to it.

– Just gonna check… that’s all… – came Mrs. Lee’s voice, as her hand reached between her legs, where, as if following her brain’s command and in full anticipation, everything had already flooded with warmth. Jeremy’s fingers—now thin and delicate—slid across the fabric of the skirt, carefully lifting it. He froze for a moment, feeling the heat growing, his heart pounding faster. Mrs. Lee—whose body he’d taken—clearly hadn’t had this in a long time, making the craving even more intense. Jeremy slowly ran his fingers along the inside of her thigh, feeling her skin respond to the gentle touch. He parted his lips, letting out a soft moan, and reached for the edge of her panties, pulling them aside.

– Oh, Mrs. Lee, what the hell are you doing to me… – he murmured in her soft Asian accent, his voice trembling from the mix of surprise and pleasure. His fingers slipped deeper, and he arched his back instinctively, pressing against the cool windowsill. The yellow ruffled blouse had already slipped halfway off her shoulders, revealing one boob still half-covered by the white bra. Unable to resist, Jeremy tugged the fabric down, freeing the breast, and slid his other hand across it, feeling the nipple harden at his touch.

– This… this feels fucking amazing – he whispered, closing his eyes and letting the sensations wash over him. He brought his hand to his mouth, licking his fingers—still wet from the first exploration—and began to suck on them, savoring the strange but thrilling mix of tastes. His thoughts spun: ‘I’m Jeremy, I’m a guy, I shouldn’t be doing this, I… oh god, this is too much!’

The bathroom door suddenly creaked, and a figure appeared in the doorway—Mrs. Chen, the head of the cleaning staff, with a bucket in one hand and a mop in the other. Her eyebrows shot up, her eyes widening far too much when she saw her subordinate in such a… compromising pose.

– Lee! What the hell… what are you doing in here?! – shouted Mrs. Chen, her voice a mix of shock and curiosity. She set the bucket down with a loud thud but didn’t step back—clearly intrigued.

Jeremy froze, fingers still near his lips, skirt hiked up above the knees. His—her—cheeks flared red, but instead of pulling away, he unexpectedly giggled, still in Mrs. Lee’s accented voice.

– Oh, you must be my boss? I… uh… I’m checking… the cleaning quality! – he blurted out, trying to cover it up, but his voice shook with laughter. – The floor… it’s so slippery, so I decided to sit down and test it… personally.

Mrs. Chen clearly didn’t find the joke funny.

– Two extra shifts, out of turn! – she barked, glaring at “Lee” like she was something disgusting.

– Ayy… thank you, thank you! Yeah, I really do need more practice – Jeremy said with a bow, trying to cover up the boob still half hanging out of the bra. – The more shifts—the better the technique, right?

Part 2

– Are you out of your fucking mind? – hissed Chen, stepping closer. – What the hell’s wrong with your face? Why are you… licking your fingers?!

– It’s… an antibacterial test! – Jeremy blurted. – A new method! Lick it – and it’s clean!

– Lee, have you lost your damn mind? – Chen tapped the floor with the mop. – Get your ass back in uniform now or I’m filing a report! This ain’t no fucking brothel!

– I… I’m on my way! – Jeremy jumped up awkwardly, trying to yank the skirt down, but it stubbornly kept riding up. He got tangled in the bra straps, nearly fell over, and muttered something under his breath. – That was… fun… but time to go back…

But Mrs. Lee’s body clearly had its own agenda. The hot wave that had started low in the belly didn’t go away—instead, it only got stronger as Jeremy stumbled along, pulling the blouse back over her shoulders. He felt like his skin was on fire, and his heart was pounding like he’d just run a marathon. ‘This body is just… insatiable!’ he thought, trying to ignore the relentless signals it kept sending as he made his way toward his room.

Turning the corner, he pressed his back to the wall and tried to focus on breathing, pushing away his thoughts, zoning in on his real name as the goal, and began reciting the same words that had enabled the ritual. Mrs. Lee’s lips moved, forming strange, almost sing-song syllables Jeremy had memorized from that dusty book: – Sa-lai, ve-rai, tun-sari, kwei…

He tried to keep the rhythm, but Mrs. Lee’s body was rebelling. The heat in his lower belly surged so strong that he clenched his thighs without thinking, and his voice broke into a high-pitched gasp.

– Oh, come the fuck on… – he muttered, struggling to regain focus. – Sa-lai, ve-rai… – but he tripped again, because his fingers were already reaching for the hem of the skirt like they were pulled by a magnet. – No, no, stop, Jeremy, get it together! You’re a man, you… oh God, this body is just… ridiculous!

He faltered, feeling the words slipping away. His head spun with ritual fragments, body sensations, and the awkward scene with Mrs. Chen. His heart raced, and somewhere deep inside a little voice whispered: ‘Maybe… just one more time… check what that was in the bathroom?’

Jeremy shook his head hard, trying to drive the thought away.

– Sa-lai, ve-rai, tun-sari, kwei-vari… – Jeremy whispered hurriedly, squeezing his eyes shut as the heat wave crashed over him again, wiping out his concentration. The ritual words slipped off his lips, his tongue tangled, and his nipples were so hard it felt like they could cut glass. – Mari, hei… Dari…

His finger, as if acting on its own, rose and slid over a nipple! It was almost unconscious, like the body had taken control. His knees buckled, and he leaned back against the wall, heart hammering. All he had to do now was say the ritual’s final goal—his name.

– Dari… Jere… – Jeremy mumbled, but at the last moment, just as the ritual began to pulse in the air and faint sparks swirled around Mrs. Lee’s body, his mind clouded. The heat wrapping his body overwhelmed him, and the carefully rehearsed words of the ritual tangled with the swirl of thoughts in his head. Instead of the crucial “Jeremy McNeil,” what escaped his lips was: – …Mrs. Lee! What are you doing to me…

The air shimmered brighter, the sparks spun into a vortex, and Jeremy felt something inside him snap irreversibly. The ritual was complete—but instead of returning to his own body, he felt his consciousness rooting even deeper into Mrs. Lee’s form. The heat that had disoriented him before now grew even more intense, and thoughts of “Jeremy” began to feel… distant. He blinked, feeling long lashes brush his cheeks, and instinctively adjusted the sliding blouse.

– Uhh… what… – he muttered, but Mrs. Lee’s voice now sounded more confused than panicked. He tried to remember the exact words of the ritual, but they were gone—and all that spun through his mind now was: ‘I have to get back to work! God, I acted like a fool just now! I can’t be touching myself! God, Mrs. Chen saw all of that! I need to work!’

Part 3

– I need to work! – he repeated out loud, slapping his cheeks. The cheeks—soft, warm, slightly flushed—instantly turned even redder. – Uhh… what the hell did I just say?!

Jeremy slapped his cheek again, but instead of clarity, all he felt was his palm hitting a plump cheek with a warm, almost cozy sound.

– No, this shit’s not funny anymore.

He tried to remember his name. His real one. Male. But the harder he focused, the more his thoughts slipped into… tomorrow’s to-do list. Close the shift. Take out the trash. Change the linens on the third floor. And—don’t forget Mrs. Chen’s green tea with two ice cubes, just how she likes it.

– NO! I shouldn’t be thinking about this! – He pressed both palms to his face, feeling his skin burning, his thoughts getting tangled up more and more with… her habits. – I’m Li! Li Zhang Mei! Forty-two years old, employee number 8473, three years without a single late shift, favorite tea—chrysanthemum, no sugar!

Jeremy—or rather, almost Mrs. Li by now—gasped, realizing he’d just effortlessly spilled out information he’d never known before. And the body… it was throbbing. Her thighs trembled, her nipples once again pushing against the fabric of the bra, and something down below buzzed with unresolved tension.

She shook her head, pulled a strand of long dark hair from her face, and whispered:

– No-no-no, I’ll fix this! I’m gonna fix this right now!

She turned around and almost ran down the hallway, but as soon as she turned the corner, she saw a guy—around 22—who looked strangely familiar, even though just recently, she had been him. But now, now it already felt so far away. She couldn’t even remember her—his—name.

– Hey! – she shouted, waving her arms. – Li! You’re Li! Wait!

The guy turned around, and a smirk crept over his face. He raised an eyebrow slightly and looked her—her!—up and down, lingering especially on her boobs, still not fully covered by the yellow blouse.

– Nah, you’re Li now! I’m outta this shit, haha!

– Hey, wait! That’s my body! – she shouted, but the guy just grinned wider and waved at her like she was some annoying old lady.

– God, what a fucking prick… – Li muttered, feeling everything inside her boiling—not from anger, but from a kind of tickling, burning frustration.

She leaned against the wall and covered her face with her hands, but her body wasn’t ready to forgive that unfinished business. It pulsed, it squirmed, like it was saying: “You were so close! Come on, just go back into the bathroom and…”

– No! Enough! I need to figure out this body-swapping shit, not… whatever this is! – she exhaled, pushing herself off the wall sharply. – And anyway, I’m Li! Employee of the Month, damn it. And I… I’m not sticking my fingers in my panties in the middle of a hallway!

It all came out so naturally she didn’t even notice—too much had happened in those few minutes and her brain couldn’t process it all, especially with all the new memories and the total loss of the old ones. She needed to pull herself together. Regain control.

She took two determined steps… and immediately turned back, ducking into the first cleaning closet she saw, slamming the door shut and locking it. She glanced at the mirror—there she was: Li, cheeks flushed, tits lifted, eyes sparkling. She bit her lip.

– Just… a little bit. Just to… unwind – she whispered, lifting her skirt.

And then, from behind the door, came the familiar voice of Mrs. Chen:

– Li! Are you sniffing the chemicals in there again?! You better haul your ass—the third-floor hallway ain’t gonna mop itself!

– Y-yes, on it! – Li shouted back, hastily adjusting her clothes, though her legs felt like jelly.

She opened the door, stepped back into the hallway—and immediately tripped over a bucket.

– Son of a… – she muttered, tossing the rag aside. – Okay, Li… maybe on lunch break?

And as the scent of lemon cleaner trailed behind her, along with Mrs. Chen’s grumbling, she disappeared down the hall toward the third floor—uncertain of what to do next, surrendering to the rhythm, and somehow knowing deep down that this was her job now, and that body she’d almost had… still stubbornly kept humming its own tune.

A small announcement about the schedule

Hi everyone. I’ve been thinking for a long time about how to combine stories and comics. I tried different ways, but in the end I realized that either I switch fully to comics and post twice a week, or I keep only the stories like before and post every day. Or — which is the most likely — I post both: one comic once a week, and stories 3–4 days a week.

While I still have a stock of stories written earlier, I’ll try to post and do everything the same as before, every day. But once they start running out, I’ll probably switch to this schedule. If you have any thoughts or want to say something about it, feel free to write.

The drafted schedule for now looks like this:

— Mon: a story for $3–6
— Tue: either nothing or a story for $3–6
— Wed: a long story for $12
— Thu: either a comic or a story for $3–6
— Fri: either nothing or a story for $6
— Sat: same as before, we keep the longest story for $12
— Sun: either a comic or a story for $3

P.S. And well, there is a certain chance that in my country they might soon block the whole damn internet and it won’t be possible to go online even with a VPN, and then I may just disappear from the radar, will have to go work at a factory =D and propably you will be left without my contribution to your naughty minds haha. But I think if something like that happens, I’ll at least try to find a way to write something here, so it won’t be totally unexpected.

Dream. Dive. Live. - Episode 3 (preview)

Hey everyone! At first I thought I’d post the third episode right after the second one, but while working on it I realized it’s better not to rush and to make episode 3 properly :) I only finished the images today. There will also be a small post-story after the “credits,” and I’m curious to hear what you think about this format.

And for now, here are the main characters of episode 3 — or rather their “drafts” =)

This will definitely be a 24-thousand-character episode made of 10 parts. I’m planning to publish the third episode on Saturday, March 6.

P.S. After the third image, I left those Arissa sketches that I also liked but didn’t use as a base.

The Last Sermon

Charlie Shimon had owned this grocery store for a long time. His great-grandfather laid the first stone of what used to be called a general store, back when there was nothing here but dust and a saloon. Since then, everything in this town had revolved around that shop. And now — it was just your average little Corner Market in a rundown town in southern Idaho, where everyone knew each other's name, and rumors spread faster than beer discounts.

Today didn’t seem like it’d bring trouble. Behind the counter, bored out of his mind, stood Danny Hobbs — tall, freckled kid with messy baseball caps always crooked on his head. He was popping gum and scanning old Mary Lauder’s groceries.

And that’s when the door burst open with the dull jingle of the bell, like a thunderclap out of clear skies. Danny looked up — and nearly choked on his gum when Melissa showed up in the aisle. Well, no, hold up. He reminded himself real quick that deep inside, it was still Pastor Harold Vincent. Only no one would buy that story now, looking at her — at him — at that new reflection.

Long, jet-black hair with wild green and turquoise streaks, a nose piercing, burgundy lips. The clothes… if you could even call that clothes. A lace bra that showed off way more than it covered, her small, perky tits bouncing with every step. A top barely hanging off her shoulders, tattoos, exposed stomach… And those weed-print pants. Hell, even Harold felt embarrassed by it, though mostly by himself.

I’m still a pastor, Melissa reminded herself, trying to get used to the new name that came with this body. But if it were only the body — that even moved differently — no, too much had changed. Along with the girl’s body, he got stuck with some street punk’s slang, and even worse — from another chick in this whole swap mess — he caught her filthy craving to dress like a damn tease, like every piece of clothing had to scream he was easy and ready for sin.

Of course, everyone in their little town found out about it right away — when Pastor Harold Vincent suddenly turned into a cocky girl with piercings and tattoos, talking with someone else's slang, dressed like a slut — and at first, they tried to pretend it was normal, even held one service. But no one would ever forget that nightmare of a day: the priest's robe riding up her hips, the bra peeking from underneath, slang words slipping out, random hip swinging, and that damn habit of talking like she was hyping up a party, not preaching the holy word — and within a week, they kicked him out of the church. Or better say, her, left alone with that body, that damn slang, and the humiliation.

– Yo, Danny-banny, – slipped out of her mouth, and she bit her lip right away, trying to force her tongue back to something proper, reasonable. – I mean… uh… greetings, my son… why you lookin’ like that? Eyes poppin’ outta your head.

Mary Lauder turned around right away. The years had taken their toll, and even though everyone around here already knew Melissa’s story, Mary, with her old age and fading memory, instantly started ranting like she was seeing her for the first time:

– What in God’s name… what a filthy little slut! What do you think you’re doin’, young lady?! – Mary screamed, her face turning pale from pure outrage, her thin fingers trembling as they clenched the bag of dried apples. She couldn’t see the person she used to confess her own dirty sins to — sins so heavy, the way this girl looked now would seem like a pure heavenly angel next to Mary’s filthy little secrets. – I’ll tell your parents everything! Repent while you still got the chance!

Melissa swallowed hard. Her throat felt dry, though really, it wasn’t just her throat — she felt dry inside ever since they shoved her into this… body. Out of habit, she tried to take a calm breath, but instead of the usual pastor’s composure, a dumb, cocky giggle slipped out on its own.

– Mary, come on, chill… – it started, but her mouth took over, the words rolling off her tongue like it was on autopilot: – I’m just… y’know… chillin’, okay? No need to freak, granny… God’s got your back, yo!

She didn’t even notice how she struck a pose, like she was in some rap video, crossing her fingers over her tits — middle fingers clenched, the others sticking out. Melissa bit her lip, tasting the cherry sweetness of that bold lipstick, remembering how she’d eagerly smeared it on this morning in front of the mirror, powerless against that filthy impulse. How her fingers slid over her lips, how her gaze froze on the reflection — skinny, provocative, with that perky little rack that still managed to stick out even in the lace bra. And how she — he — Pastor Harold Vincent, grabbed his — no, her hips and spun around, torn between spitting with shame or… yeah, or keep spinning, feeling how that tattoo on her stomach just begged for eyes to slide lower. Damn it, along with the body came not only the flesh but this disgusting craving to look… bright and slutty.

– What the hell’s all this noise, goddammit?! – Charlie Shimon’s voice boomed from the entrance, and the bell jingled again like a fucking curse.

He stepped inside, pushing the doors open like he was tearing through the air. Under the worn baseball cap, his graying hair peeked out, his wrinkled face heavy with the kind of stare that made the whole shop feel like it shrunk. But when he saw Melissa, his eyes widened for a second like he just swallowed a lemon.

– Harold… – he started, but instantly choked on the word, his eyes darting from the nose piercing to the perky Tits, from the Tits down to the weed-printed pants clinging to her hips, then lower to the exposed stomach with that tattoo. – …Melissa.

She already knew this moment. That look. They all looked at her the same way — shock, disgust, and… that damn horny tension none of them would ever admit to.

– Uh… yeah… well… – she started, trying to line up a proper sentence, but her tongue instantly slipped into that slick street slang. – Chill, Charlie. Just swung by… grab some snacks, shoot the shit, all that.

Mary Lauder loudly dumped her bag of dried apples onto the counter, muttering:

– The world’s goin’ straight to hell… and pastors… actin’ like… damn sluts…

Charlie rolled his eyes but didn’t say a word. Just waved his hand, and Mary, still grumbling, stomped toward the exit.

The shop fell quiet. Only Danny was left — and he couldn’t take his eyes off her Tits, staring like he was wound up, hypnotized — and Melissa herself, hands stuffed in the pockets of her pants, her tense Breasts visibly trembling under the lace.

She felt everything tighten inside — shame, anger, and… that pulling wave of desire that wasn’t even hers, but damn it, it never went away, especially when they looked at her like that. Hungry, lustful, like she was fucking food.

Danny, unable to stay silent any longer, cleared his throat awkwardly, his face burning red:

– Uh… you… you look hot… Like… seriously… damn…

Melissa let out a heavy sigh, narrowing her eyes like a cat, locking her fingers behind her back, her Tits pushing forward on their own — like her body was dictating the pose, and even if she wanted to, there was no stopping it. She couldn’t lie to herself — she liked hearing those words, and at the same time, she couldn’t accept them.

– Listen, Danny… yeah… I know the drip’s fire, but you starin’ so damn hard, and I’d tell ya sex’s kinda a sin… but looks like God Himself’s throwin’ me these trials… – She barely squeezed the words out, trying to sound serious, wanting to drop something righteous, to lead the poor lost kid down the holy path, maybe even help herself, but instead, her mouth shot out something else — lazy, smooth, teasing: – So… if you ever wanna… let this sinner teach you a lil’ somethin’… I’m right here… chill, aight?

Danny went pale, his eyes wide, and Melissa turned away, cursing herself, that damn slang, and this damn body that felt so fucking sweet with every little move…

From Stress Peak to Knees Weak

Disclaimer: All individuals depicted are fictional adults (18+), and all acts are presented as consensual

From Stress Peak to Knees Weak - Additional images

Disclaimer: All individuals depicted are fictional adults (18+), and all acts are presented as consensual

Dream. Dive. Live. - Episode 2

Episode 1: https://www.patreon.com/posts/dream-dive-live-139854059

Episode 3: https://www.patreon.com/posts/dream-dive-live-144968179

PDF, Word and Caps in PDF in attachment

Plenty of Fish (bonus images)

A small bonus for my paid supporters and for anyone who likes these comics and wants to support me

Plenty of Fish

Can’t remember when exactly, but I once saw an animation on YouTube with this idea and ever since, I wanted to make a comic about it.
Guess the moment has finally arrived! =D

This Wonderful New Life

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Second Chance

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Loving Wife

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Burned Out to Hell

Dedicated to everyone tired of work =)

Emmet's Greek Adventure

Part 1

The warm Mediterranean breeze gently played with Amber's loose blonde hair, twisting it like the unruly threads of fate, which had spun completely out of control over the past few days.

— Damn it… — she muttered through clenched teeth, wincing slightly as she leaned against the nearest rope. — My leg again…

Her heavy breasts, which seemed to weigh over a ton, immediately pulled her skin and the soft fabric of her dress tight, reminding her of their presence like it was something one could ever forget.

— Oh God… — Amber exhaled with a crooked smile. — This is getting ridiculous.

— I wouldn’t say it’s ridiculous, koukla mou… — came a soft, slightly husky male voice from behind, carrying that distinct Greek accent that sent a chill down her spine.

Amber turned around. A tall, tanned guy in a white linen shirt, slightly unbuttoned at the chest, stood there with his arms crossed, squinting at the setting sun. His dark eyes slid down her figure, lingering at the neckline of her dress.

— On the contrary… it’s beautiful. The way you stand there, how the wind plays with your hair… You look like a scene from a movie, omorfi. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were an actress.

She pressed her lips together. It would've been easier if he just threw some vulgar comment her way. Instead, a lump of shame, fear, confusion, and agonizing hopelessness instantly rose inside her and got stuck somewhere near her throat. It choked her breath, but she managed to squeeze out an awkward half-smile, the corners of her lips trembling painfully.

— Thanks… — her voice sounded too soft, too… feminine. And that pissed her off more than anything else.

She turned around, hurrying to take another step, but the sharp pain from the damn pebble that had gotten between her heel and flip-flop reminded her it was still there. She stumbled, but immediately felt a strong male hand stopping her from even attempting to fall.

— Careful… — he said softly, keeping his hand on her waist.

She slowly turned back to him. His face was way too close. Her cheeks instantly flushed red, but the voice of reason—more precisely, the voice of Emmet—screamed inside her head, reminding her how utterly wrong all this was. She shoved him away sharply, pulling back like she'd touched a hot iron.

Part 2

— Don’t touch me! — she snapped, yanking herself out of his hands so sharply that her wind-tousled hair whipped across her cheeks.

The guy stepped back, raising his palms in a peace gesture.

— Sorry, it’s just… you almost fell, thea mou.

She took a deep breath, her Breasts, noticeably and painfully for her, stretching the neckline of the dress and tightening the straps over her shoulders. How much she already hated these moments. In just three days, it felt like she had learned these stupid Greek words faster than she got used to the sound of her new voice. Koukla mou. Thea mou. Omorfi. All of it like yet another constant reminder of what she had become.

— I won’t forgive you, just go wherever you were going before I… — she hesitated. Before I what? immediately popped into her head. Before I start crying? Before I break down? Before I start screaming like some hysterical chick who loves silicone, expensive brands, and attention? The word chick and attention came up by themselves, and they terrified her all over again. And that was only one of the parts she had discovered inside herself during these days. It was like there was nothing left of Emmet Johnson, the 25-year-old young but insanely ambitious employee, a career-driven guy aiming for a management position at Bennett & Co, where he had already made connections with someone who knew the owner's son, who, how lucky, just happened to be vacationing here in Greece at the same time.

Fucking gypsy witch! Amber thought, brushing her hand over her Boobs, trying to get rid of an invisible tickle that made her itch, and immediately regretted it as those two rebellious curves bounced slightly, catching the Greek guy’s eyes. His pupils dilated, and he absentmindedly licked his lips. And inside her — an icy lump, anger, and… something else. Something disgusting, like shame mixed with guilt. She quickly turned away and limped toward the nearest bench, feeling the pull of the dress tight around her thigh.

— Em… Emmet? — came a voice behind her, familiar, with a nervous chuckle, like he couldn’t believe he had just called her that.

Part 3

Amber turned around. Standing in front of her was Zack, her best friend since college. The same guy who insisted on this trip. The one who saw her—back when she was still a man—in ripped jeans and a T-shirt, grumbling about the local heat, walking up to that damn old woman standing in the square with a sign: “Σου λέω την αλήθεια – I tell you who you truly are.” Who the hell knew she meant “truly” that literally.

— Jesus… you look like… — he hesitated, glanced around, and stepped closer. — You look like you just walked off the cover of Vogue. And at the same time — like you wanna kill somebody. Did you find her?

Amber raised her eyes. She shook her head.

— Nowhere. No one’s seen her. No one’s heard of her. It’s like she vanished into thin air. I asked the shopkeepers, the hotel manager… That witch just disappeared.

Zack raised his brows, surprised, but then his eyes went even wider.

— Christian Dior? What kind of shopkeepers were you talking to? — Zack squinted slightly, glancing down at her feet. — You fucking hated all that fashion crap!

— I know! — Amber almost screamed, throwing her hands up as if shielding herself. — Those stores were on the way, for fuck’s sake, and I walked in… First I asked about the old lady, and then this girl told me how beautiful I looked and… — she swallowed, realizing what she was saying, her eyes darting down. Her huge cleavage blocked the view, but her thoughts immediately spiraled off to something else, starting with the sandals. — Zack… I think I… I blew almost all my cash on this useless shit!

She couldn’t hold back a short laugh, loaded with nervous hysteria. A wave of heat flared up in her chest.

— Wait… all of it? — Zack frowned and straightened, stepping closer. — You’re telling me you seriously dropped almost three grand on a summer dress, sandals, and a fucking handbag?

Amber brushed her hair off her face — smooth, graceful, and it made her feel sick. The movement came off way too natural. Like her body already knew exactly what to do to look feminine.

Part 4

— It wasn’t just that, — she whispered. — There’s also cream, lipstick, some masks… and I don’t even know why! I walked in just to ask — and then I was already standing in line at the checkout. That salesgirl, the way she looked at me… I just wanted to show her that I…

— Show her what? — Zack cut in sharply.

She looked up at him, her eyes already gathering a hint of moisture at the corners.

— …that I really am like that, — Amber finally forced out, swallowing the lump in her throat. — That I’m not just some random broke loser walking in… That I’m not… — she hesitated, the words tasted toxic, — not some poor nobody, but… fuck, no, I can’t, I don’t even want to say it!

— Like you’re… actually one of them? — Zack’s voice sliced through the air like a rusty knife scraping glass. — Like some rich, glamorous chick buying hundred-dollar cream so she can “glow” even at night?

Amber clenched her teeth, her cheeks flushed again — not from embarrassment, from anger. Or… no. That was embarrassment, wasn’t it? God, how did everything get so damn complicated? She shook her head slightly. But the words came out on their own.

— Kinda… yeah, — she finally blurted out, struggling to swallow and deciding to switch the topic. — You… you find anything?

She wanted to sound firm, like Emmet would’ve sounded. To show she still had control of the situation, that this was just some ridiculous accident, and when she got her body back, Emmet — like he promised — would be dragging Zack up the corporate ladder right along with him. There was still a chance, the owner’s son would be here for a few more days, they already knew where he was staying, they even had a plan to meet him… if only it weren’t for that damn witch.

Zack exhaled loudly, scratched the back of his head… and stared straight at her Breasts without even blinking. It wasn’t just a glance — it was a goddamn car crash happening live. He didn’t even bother to pretend he was looking anywhere else.

— There’s still a chance, the owner’s son will be here for a few more days, — Amber muttered, feeling the skin on her Breasts get sensitive under that stare. — We already know where he’s staying, we had a plan to meet him, if it wasn’t for that fucking witch…

— Uh-huh… — Zack mumbled, still staring like his eyes suddenly became magnetically attached.

Part 5

— Zack, for fuck’s sake! — she snapped, covering the neckline of her dress with her hand. — You’re staring like some teenager in a locker room, damn it!

— I… uh… — Zack blinked, tearing his eyes away from the sight that had been driving him into some weird internal mess for the past three days. — Sorry, Em. It’s just… — he exhaled heavily, scratching the back of his head. — Well… the dress is fucking gorgeous, yeah…

Amber bit her lip. From irritation, or embarrassment, or that strange shiver that had been hitting her more and more often lately when she got compliments like that. Especially from men.

— Gorgeous, yeah… two grand worth — she snorted, glancing off to the side.

Zack pressed his lips together, stood in silence for a moment, and finally leaned against the railing next to her.

— Look, — he started quietly. — Since things are… well, like this… maybe you should use it?

— Use what? — Amber turned to him, the corners of her lips twisting into a crooked half-smile. — Are you fucking serious? My new Boob size as a ticket to some VIP party?

— No! Well… — he rubbed his forehead. — Maybe yeah. Look, Em. You… you yourself said that meeting Justin Brown could’ve been a breakthrough. In business. For your career. And now, as crazy as it sounds, you’re basically the perfect candidate to get on his radar.

— Wha… wha… what? — she frowned, putting on her best confused face, as if she had no clue what he was talking about, like that thought hadn’t already been swirling in her head from the very first day she felt the weight of these giant sandbags on her chest. And, gotta admit, she pulled it off perfectly. After all, the talent for bullshit came to Amber as part of Emmet’s legacy.

Zack stared at her for a moment, paused, then turned toward the sea, adjusting the belt on his pants. He didn’t say a word.

The silence dragged on, only the sound of waves crashing somewhere below the stone fence. Amber stayed quiet, like she was afraid that if she opened her mouth, she’d betray herself and her thoughts… and if she didn’t, she’d look weak.

— Listen, — Zack suddenly spoke, still not turning around. — You do get that you don’t even have proper documents, right? And… I looked into fake ones, yeah, they can be done here, but you blew all your cash on clothes and you’re acting more and more… — he turned his gaze back to Amber. — …I don’t think there’s another option left. You need to seduce Justin.

Part 6

Amber jerked sharply, like someone had whipped her across the back. She stared at Zack, and in her eyes flickered everything at once — confusion, horror, rage. Her fingers clenched into fists on their own, thin, manicured fingers that looked ridiculous in this moment of anger.

— Are you out of your fucking mind? — her voice trembled, but not from fear — from that same shiver that ran through her body every damn time she had to seriously face what she’d become. — You’re telling me to… sleep with some rich bastard just so… so…

— I didn’t say “sleep with,” — Zack interrupted, raising his hands. — I said — use it. Charm him. Stay close. Plus, you’ve got real problems with your documents and everything else. And come on, you’ve always said career comes first and all methods are fair.

— I’m a man, Zack! Have you completely lost your mind!?

Amber nearly screamed. Too loud, too emotional, too… feminine. She instantly realized it from the weird glance of a passing couple — the woman snorted, the man’s eyes locked on her cleavage, slowing his step for a second. It felt like a slap across the face.

Zack, for some reason, couldn’t hold it in and burst out laughing — quiet, restrained, but his shoulders were shaking from barely suppressed laughter.

— Sorry… — he choked out, wiping the corners of his eyes. — It’s just… that sounded so… — he froze, meeting her eyes, — …so fucking girly. Did you hear yourself?

— Say one more word and I’ll throw you off this fucking promenade — Amber hissed.

— Alright, alright, I’m done — he raised his hands, though his face still carried that damn smug expression. — Just… think about it.

Amber didn’t say anything. She only stared at the sunset, that blazing strip of fire drowning in the sea. The wind messed up her hair again. Her fingers slid up to her neck on their own, adjusting the thin strap of her dress. She could feel how soft her skin was — sensitive, like some Greek goddess. Yeah, of course she’d been thinking about it, but now it had been spoken out loud, and it ripped apart whatever was left of her pride.

— I’ll just… think about it — she whispered, once again pissed off at her own voice and tone, though deep down she knew it wasn’t the voice that pissed her off — it was the fact she had already made up her mind.

Draw Beautiful

— Mmm… umumum… — the girl hummed softly to herself, dragging a thin brush with a milky stroke across the raw shadows, squinting so the light from the window hit the canvas just right.

The cigarette dangled between her lips, smoke curling up to short chestnut strands, and the dark dress on thin straps did exactly what it was made for: tightened the waist, hugged the hips, pushed the tits upward, to the brush, to the canvas, to the gaze. One strap slid off her shoulder, exposing warm skin that shivered from the draft. On the easel the painting already had clear outlines: a damp Parisian rooftop and a yellow rectangle of a window, inside of which the silhouette of a girl staring out could be seen. The same kind of window, through which — if it were open — some random neighbor could see her right now.

— Colette? — a voice pinged from the messenger on the laptop. — Are you even listening? — Sophie Durand’s voice came from the headphones, her stubborn gallerist from Marais.

— I hear you, — she replied, moving her brush toward the jar of thinner. — But call me Antoine when we’re talking business.

— How many years can we argue about papers, — Sophie sighed. — You passed the ID check, all your documents say “Colette Moreau,” and in the contracts it says “she.” I have to sell “her,” not argue with “him.”

Colette, Antoine, smirked with one corner of her lips, never letting go of the cigarette. The second she straightened, her tits swayed, the dress slipping just enough to show a bit of nipple. She inhaled at the sight, then set the brush aside, tugged the dress higher and fixed the strap back on her shoulder.

— Nobody’s buying “her,” Sophie. The last three months — zero. Even your Loïc didn’t come back.

— Loïc would’ve come back if you hadn’t scared him off. You don’t leave the house without that baggy hoodie and hood. You could’ve at least prepared for the meeting with him. I know damn well you dress perfectly normal at home. You’re so cute in your red dress! — Sophie fell in love with her own thought aloud. — I just don’t get why you can’t always look like that?

— Because it’s not “always,” — she answered, exhaling smoke and narrowing her eyes. — This is the apartment. This is the canvas. This is me on the canvas. Out there — it’s shop windows and eyes. Out there I’m just a poster.

— A successful woman is always, or almost always, a “Poster,” darling — Sophie sang. — And the brighter, the better.

— You’ve got posters in your shop windows, — she exhaled, shifting the cigarette to the corner of her lips. — I’ve got these things on my tits. Are they supposed to sell too?

The strap slipped again. She pulled it up, and her tits gave a heavy little bounce, as if they had a breath of their own. The brush trembled in her fingers.

— They are, — Sophie confirmed without blinking. — And your voice. And your story. Loïc will be at “La Verrière” tomorrow. I arranged it, Colette, don’t blow this chance.

Antoine, Colette, took a drag and exhaled into the ceiling. For a second the gray cloud painted another rooftop, another window.

— You don’t understand, — she said slowly. — I can’t just walk out there in a red dress. That’s not “putting it on,” that’s admitting.

— Admitting what? — Sophie snorted. — That you’re beautiful? That you’ve got tits, a waist, and an ass that could make any collector sign a check?

Her eyes dropped to her tits again, pressed forward, pushed by the straps. Breathing suddenly felt tight.

— That it’s not me, — she finally answered. — It’s the body. That it’s the body that sells. But I’m the artist. They should value the paintings, not me. Besides, I don’t like men. I like admiring myself, and that’s why I walk around at home like this. It’s like I’m seeing a muse in the mirror, not myself. Do you get it?

On the other end of the line Sophie paused, a lighter clicked.

— I understand perfectly, — she exhaled with smoke. — But, Colette… or Antoine, whichever you prefer — you just spoke the magic yourself. ‘Muse.’ And isn’t that exactly what buyers want to see? They don’t want Antoine with a brush. They want a woman painting herself, and that’s where your value is.

Colette burst out laughing, harsh and short.

— Value? You’re suggesting I sell not the paintings, but what’s under the dress?

— And why not? — Sophie didn’t blink. — Paris is full of female artists who paint with their tits, stamp with their asses, put on performances where paint runs down their skin. And they sell. By the way, you could do it too — with your name, it would be very expressive and… — she added with a slight nasal tone, quieter — profitable.

Colette froze. Something inside jerked — from disgust, or from some strange, painful curiosity, she couldn’t tell.

— You think I should… — she didn’t finish, but her hands slid to the neckline of the dress, tugging at the fabric that was barely holding her breasts in place. — Smear the canvas with my tits?

In the headphones Sophie chuckled:

— Why not? Sounds vulgar, but in reality it would look like provocation. Paris loves that. They’d put you in Beaux-Arts not for technique, but for audacity. Besides, in your financial situation, especially if Loïc bails again, you’ll be left with an empty fridge and a pile of canvases.

Colette squeezed her eyes shut. The smoke stung, but it was better than looking straight at her breasts, which reminded her of themselves with every heavy wave of breath.

— So, — she said slowly, — you’re suggesting I take off the dress, pour paint, and… roll around on the canvas?

— If it’s beautiful — why not? — Sophie’s voice rang with excitement. — But start simpler. Dip the brush in red and draw a line with your breasts. One move — and you’ve got a performance. Then invite a photographer. Believe me, galleries will jump on it.

Colette clenched her teeth. The cigarette in her fingers had burned down to the filter, and without noticing she scorched the tip of her skin.

— Merde… — she swore, flicking ash. — You forget one thing. I’m a man.

— You’re an artist, — Sophie Durand cut her off, and in the headphones the leather of her chair creaked softly. — Man, woman… three years ago the world reshuffled the deck, remember? Three percent became new people. You went through identification, Antoine Moreau, got documents as Colette Moreau. Buyers want a story, and you have one. Use it.

— The story — yes. The body — no, — she said, and felt the strap sliding down again, as if testing her resolve. She didn’t fix it. Smoke scratched her throat. In the hair grown long over these years there lingered a faint trace of turpentine.

— Your body is a story too, — Sophie smiled with her voice. — And it speaks louder than any press release. Tomorrow at “La Verrière” Loïc Berger will be there. If you want him to hear you — give him a screaming note.

— I’m not a poster, — she said, though she knew it sounded like a slogan on a poster. — And not a performance.

— And I say: start with a line. Right now. Put the laptop closer to the canvas, I’ll help you frame the shot.

She smiled with the empty corner of her mouth, without moving the cigarette. Her eyes shifted to the window, the light falling right where the yellow rectangle of a window glowed on the canvas. If it were open… the thought burned sharper than the smoke. Some neighbor, for example Camille Leroy from the attic opposite, would see. Camille had once left a note in her mailbox: “Your rooftops make me believe in rain.” She had crumpled it and thrown it away, but the phrase never left. Yet at that moment hunger reminded her of itself, tightening her stomach with a sharp spasm. She winced at the pain, but it passed quickly.

— Sophie, — she said at last, slowly. — If I do this, will you drop all that sweet-talk crap? No more “darling” and “beautiful,” only numbers, dates, percentages. And I swear, if this doesn’t sell, then…

— It will sell. I guarantee it’ll be a success. And then, as you ask, only numbers, dates, percentages, — Sophie chimed, pleased. — Camera, please.

She hesitated a little, gathering her thoughts. Then she set the laptop on a stool, pushed it closer to the easel. Inside something jolted, not from fear but from some strange mischief she hated. Hated because she was feeling it now. As if a child had sneaked up and flicked a switch inside her. The body answered with a roll of the shoulder, the strap slid lower, and a breast, heavy, warm, found the air on its own.

— Fine. Just one line, — she said, almost whispering so the rush of blood wouldn’t drown her voice.

— Cadmium red, — Sophie prompted. — And a little linseed, so it stretches.

She pulled the cigarette from her lips, put it out in a tiny white cup with a cobalt pattern.

Colette, Antoine, inhaled, opened the tube’s cap. The smell hit sharp, like a red traffic light. With the tip of the brush she mixed the paint with oil, and instead of bringing the brush to the canvas, as her hands begged her to, she set it aside.

— One line, — she repeated, like a vow, and laid her left palm on the top edge of the easel to steady herself. With her right she yanked the dress down.

The fabric gave way eagerly, as if it had been waiting. The weight of her breast spoke at once through the pull in her right palm, like someone had dropped an apple into it and said: hold it, don’t drop it. She hated the feeling and couldn’t ignore it. With a free motion she scooped up the thick red paint on the palette with her nipple. The cold of it answered with a sharp gasp from the body and a wave of heat in her stomach. For a second she squeezed her eyes shut: ‘This isn’t me. This is a tool.’ She told herself and didn’t believe a single word.

— Breathe in, — Sophie whispered. — And draw.

She drew. The body leaned forward, wrist on the canvas, breast like a heavy pendulum slid, leaving behind a thick arc. The red line came out on the first try — continuous, steady, with two short splashes where the skin caught the canvas texture. She straightened, and the paint on her skin stretched coolly, gathering at the nipple into a dark crimson drop.

— Damn, — she exhaled, not knowing if it was from shame or relief. — Well… looks like some crap came out of it.

— Not crap, a performance. I filmed the video, now a couple more photos, — Sophie said, not hiding the excited note in her voice, whether from mischief or from the thought of future fees. — Wait. Don’t move. That’s the shot. Look at the painting intently, like you’re thinking something over.

On the screen the camera caught her chestnut strands, the red stain on her nipple, the dark blue dress that had slipped lower than decent, and in her hands the right breast. She felt her back break out in goosebumps from the draft through the window.

— Done! — Sophie declared, and Colette let out a sharp breath, yanking the dress higher, as if trying to hide not just her breast, but that strange rush inside. She didn’t care if the dress got stained. Her eyes were fixed on the arc. Something angry circled in her head, but just then her stomach growled again.

‘God. This is ridiculous, — she thought, smirking crookedly. — A whole life learning to hold a brush, and it turns out the real thing is holding a tit.’

Three Wishes

— Hey! What the hell?! Why do I have tits and what’s with this stupid outfit?! — Steve shouted, throwing his arms out as the coastal waves of the Pacific splashed around his thighs, lifting the skirt and exposing white panties.

— What the hell, Miyuki?! — yelled a voice from behind the camera. — Now we have to reshoot everything!

Steve—now Miyuki—turned toward the source of the shout in shock. On the sand, under the sun, a black camera gleamed, and next to it a short Japanese guy in a baseball cap was angrily flailing his arms.

— What the fuck? Fuck off! — Steve yelled in a surprisingly high, melodic voice that was nothing like the voice of the fat trucker he’d been for the past few years.

He flinched at the sound. That voice… it couldn’t be his. It was… light, juicy, with that almost sing-song tone that brought to mind anime girls and Japanese pop stars.

He looked down again and the panic returned. This was definitely not a dream—his breasts were shaking too realistically under the wet, clinging white blouse. And the sensation of water droplets, fabric, and even...

— What? God, no-no-no! — Steve screamed, plunging his hands between his legs under the water and feeling only a smooth surface, with soft, curved shapes that absolutely shouldn’t have been there.

Heat flushed through his whole body. He jerked upright, water splashing everywhere, and the skirt, caught by the rush, flipped all the way up, revealing exactly what he feared most: the white panties were hugging a new… nonexistent reality. Everything that had defined him as a man was gone. Not even a trace remained. Just smooth, firm, alien sensitivity that made his knees buckle.

— What the… fuck, what kind of madness is this?! — he whispered, grabbing his tits with both hands.

They were… warm, soft, firm. Under the thin wet fabric of the snow-white blouse, his nipples were almost showing, slightly darkened from the cold and the arousal. His fingers instinctively squeezed the curves — and his body jerked. A tender, pulsing wave shot down his spine.

— Miyuki, goddammit! — came the voice from the shore again. — I said: pose for the cover! Camera’s rolling, we’re redoing the take!

Steve spun around sharply. He wanted to scream, spit, run. But then suddenly, a realization hit him like Thor’s hammer.

— The genie... — he whispered, remembering what had happened three weeks ago in a roadside bar.

That guy had seemed shady from the start, but the booze made Steve not care. For whatever reason, the guy had talked him into saying those three wishes.

‘I want the beach, somewhere chill. A good body — not like now with the gut and the back. And with a Japanese chick, a hot model type, one that’s always horny, not like those… you know what I mean!’

Steve smacked his forehead with his palm. It all lined up. The beach? Sure. Only now you’re knee-deep in water, in a cosplay skirt, wearing a snow-white blouse with your nipples poking out like goddamn beacons.

The body? Of course. The body was in amazing shape.

— With a Japanese girl? Yeah… A Japanese girl. Miyuki was a Japanese adult model.

— That was… goddamn GENIE! — he exhaled. — He took it all… literally…

— Miyuki, stop spacing out! Camera’s rolling, now playfully tug on your collar! — the director shouted again. — Give me a look like you just got caught! You’re on the beach, a schoolgirl after class, teasing for the camera!

Steve gasped for air, sharply inhaling the salty breeze, feeling the wet fabric clinging to his body, once again becoming fully aware of the soft trembling of his tits, pressed tightly by the soaked blouse. The panic, mixed with sudden arousal, tightened everything inside, his knees buckled, and he nearly dropped into the water.

And that’s when he saw it.

On the shore, behind the camera, beyond the shouting of the irritated Japanese guy in the baseball cap, there were… men. Not just passersby. No. These were assistants, cameramen, some pretty boy with a mic around his neck and a tan on his face. They were all staring. One was smiling. Another slowly licked his lips. Someone gave a low chuckle, and Steve—now Miyuki—felt a wave of something wash through her body… He didn’t know what it was… burning shame? strange curiosity? But the body was definitely reacting—and not just the body.

— Why are they… looking at me like that? — he whispered, the words coming out like a purr, half flirt, half confusion, as he shifted his hip and placed a hand on his waist.

He locked eyes with one of the men. Looked about thirty, short hair, thick eyebrows. And the moment their eyes met, Steve… Miyuki… bit her lower lip—and the movement came out so naturally, like she’d done it a thousand times before.

And only after a few seconds did Miyuki realize she’d been frozen in that pose, lip under teeth, for way too long.

‘What the fuck… am I doing?..’ flashed through her mind. But her body kept going on its own. The hip was still pushed forward slightly, back arched, hand flirtatiously resting on the waistband. Her gaze still clung to the man by the camera, and a strange tingling sensation curled deep in her stomach.

Steve tried to straighten up, but the second he twitched, the Japanese guy on the beach yelled:

— Yes! That’s it! Hold it! Camera’s got it! Miyuki, now slowly turn, show your ass, and… surprised expression! Like you just saw your sensei on the beach! Go!

— I’m n… I’m not… — she mumbled, about to stop posing, when she caught a glimpse of that guy again, and a thought flashed through her mind: "I want him to want me" — and Miyuki felt a wave of heat rise up, washing through her down to her toes.

She straightened up, but didn’t run. Instead… she slowly turned, lifting her skirt just a bit, deliberately, feeling the fabric of her panties tighten over her curves. The camera clicked, and someone on the shore gasped.

She gave that very look of sudden surprise: wide eyes, mouth half open, though inside she was trembling with unconscious delight and a strange new craving—to be seen, to be wanted.

‘God, why am I doing this…’ slipped through her mind, but her tongue was already slowly licking her lips, her hip swaying in sync with the rhythm of the waves.

They were filming her. They wanted her. And worst of all—she fucking loved it.

I Have Proof

TRANSCRIPT OF COURT HEARING

Case No. 2025-MAG-1738

State of New York Court

Civil Case: Maria Smirnova vs. Greta Marlowe

Presiding Judge: The Honorable Judge Milton Kay

Judge Kay: All rise. The Court of the State of New York is now in session. The hearing in the case of Maria Smirnova versus the defendant Greta Marlowe is hereby opened.

Judge Kay: Mrs. Smirnova, you claim to be the victim of a magical crime. Please state your position for the record.

Maria (with a heavy Russian accent): Yes, Your Honor. I... I not is Maria Smirnova. I—man. I be before Jonathan Blake, state senator. This... this witch (points at Greta Marlowe, who's leaning back in her seat, examining her fingernail) put curse on me. She change not only my body, but... (hesitates) reality itself!

(Rustling in the courtroom. A few muffled chuckles. Judge Kay silences the room with a stern glance.)

Defense Attorney: Objection, Your Honor! Everyone knows rewriting reality is fundamentally impossible!

Maria: IS POSSIBLE! I live this nightmare! I know! (Maria twitches and immediately winces, cursing her breasts as they jiggle from the sudden movement)

Defense Attorney (mocking): Your Honor, the plaintiff is clearly emotionally unstable. We demand a psychiatric evaluation.

Judge Kay: (bangs gavel) Enough! The Court will determine the necessity of any evaluation. Mrs. Smirnova, continue your statement.

Maria: (breathes deeply, voice trembling) Your Honor... I... I be Jonathan Blake. I be fifty-three years old. I be state senator of New York. I run campaign against illegal immigration... against magic practices. I fight much for purity of society.

(Pause; Maria grips the armrests, clearly irritated by the way her breasts gently bounce with every movement)

Maria: (hastily) I live in U.S. all life. But... (hesitates, her already pale face flushing red) Now... now I—is immigrant woman from Russia. In new reality I like come here ten years ago. Work as maid... in house of my former aide!

(Noise in the courtroom; someone snorts quietly with laughter)

Judge Kay: Order in the court! (stern look) Continue, Mrs. Smirnova.

Maria: (swallows hard) This witch... Greta Marlowe... she curse me! Not only body of mine become different... (Maria casts a desperate glance at her delicate hands, manicured nails, and a ring on her left ring finger) — but everything around is changed! Jonathan Blake not exist! No one remember! Now all know only Maria Smirnova, poor immigrant woman from Moscow...

Defense Attorney: (interrupting, with mockery) Your Honor, the plaintiff seems to be indulging in some kind of housewife fantasy fiction. Gender-shifting from male to female requires immense magical power, accessible only to the most elite spellcasters with years of preparation—let alone rewriting reality. (Greta smirks, brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and gazes out the window.) Your Honor, I move that this farce be ended and a mandatory psychiatric evaluation be scheduled.

Judge Kay: (bangs gavel) That will be discussed later. For now, I want to hear the remainder of the plaintiff's statement. Mrs. Smirnova, proceed.

Maria: (swallows, voice shaky) I... I live in this body already three months. I work... clean houses. I wear this... (with a trembling hand, touches her tight blouse in disgust) uniform. (in despair) These... these shapes! They get in way! Every move... (she winces, feeling her tits subtly jiggle under the thin fabric)

(Someone snorts with laughter. Judge Kay scans the courtroom with a heavy glare.)

Maria: (with trembling hands, brushes the hair out of her face) I am thirty years old on papers... I am married... (her face twists) Before he be my driver! Now... I be “married” to him! But... but I not live with him. We live separate because... (voice breaks)... Not matter... But I must work maid. Every day clean floors, wash windows... Endure looks... Just to have money to live alone.

Greta: (lazily, with a light smile) — Oh, what a touching story. Well then, maybe now you understand that fighting for your right just to exist — is not so easy as it look from big chairs, da?

(Nervous whispering sweeps through the courtroom. Maria clenches her fists so tightly her nails dig into her palms painfully.)

Maria Smirnova: (voice cracking) I not ask be migrant woman! I not ask be woman! I want get my life back!

Greta: (mocking) — Poor thing... And how many women every day not ask be maids, wives or immigrants? And still — they live.

Judge Kay: (bangs gavel) — Enough! This is not a circus. (pause) Mrs. Smirnova, you claim the defendant's actions changed your entire life. How exactly do you connect her to what happened?

Maria: (trembling) I... I see her that day... when be rally. I speak out against magic... (winces as her breasts pull tight against the blouse from a deep breath) And she stand in crowd. I remember! Her eyes... her smile...

Greta: (interrupting with a mocking tone) — Oh, now you say I "stared intensely" and "whispered something", yes? Maybe I even boil spell in cauldron right there in square?

(Laughter in the courtroom; someone quietly snorts.)

Maria Smirnova: (desperate) She put something on me! I wake up next morning... (shudders) in this body... In that apartment! With passport for “Maria Smirnova”! In bathrobe! With cleaning schedule! I... I try find anyone who remember Jonathan Blake! (her chin trembles) No one remember...

Judge Kay: (sternly) Your statement is on record. Continue.

Maria Smirnova: (quietly) I three months live in humiliation... In this body... (rolls her shoulders, clearly feeling how heavily her tits respond to even small movements) In this clothes... in heels... In stares of men...

Greta: (playfully) And yet once you were fighting for "traditional values", right? Now you get chance to live them! In pretty dress, with sweet smile — what a perfect role model, da?

(The courtroom bursts into laughter; Judge Kay slams the gavel down with a crash.)

Judge Kay: (loudly) Final warning! Anyone disrupting order will be removed!

(Maria shrinks into her seat, breathing heavily, barely holding back tears, feeling the sticky fabric of her blouse clinging to the hot skin under her boobs, and at the same time cursing herself for acting like a woman.)

Judge Kay: (in a softer tone) Mrs. Smirnova, you will have a chance to present your evidence. This court does not judge based on emotion alone.

(Maria nods, clutching the edge of the table like it might anchor her in this twisted reality.)

Judge Kay: (after a short pause) All right. For the record, I now request the defendant’s information. Miss Marlowe, your full name, place of employment and occupation?

Defense Attorney: (rising) With your permission, Your Honor. My client, Greta Marlowe, is a U.S. citizen, third-rank mage, employed by “MagTech Systems” — a company specializing in the safe application of domestic magic in both commercial and private sectors. Greta Marlowe holds the position of energy-efficiency consultant and deals exclusively with enchantments designed to improve the performance of household devices. Her work is licensed, and she possesses no knowledge, much less legal authority, for altering human form or — let alone — rewriting reality.

(Greta lazily adjusts a thin silvery chain on her neck, swinging her leg in open heels with casual grace, like the hearing has nothing to do with her at all.)

Judge Kay: (addressing the defendant) — Miss Marlowe, do you confirm the information provided by your attorney?

Greta: (sleepily smiling) — I do, Your Honor. I just work in energy optimization. To mess with reality — is like try fix spaceship with hammer. Even if I want — I not have such skills.

Judge Kay: (nods) — Noted. Now, Mrs. Smirnova, you mentioned evidence. Please present it to the court.

(Maria rises abruptly, nearly losing her balance in heels. Her knees shake, and her breasts rise and fall heavily under the thin fabric of her blouse, making her internally recoil from the disgusting feeling of being trapped in this delicate body.)

Maria Smirnova: (haltingly) — Yes, Your Honor... I have this phone... my old phone with photo, data and...

(Greta shifts her gaze to Maria, narrowing her eyes — a flicker of tension briefly crosses them before it’s replaced by lazy indifference. She smirks, tilting her head.)

Defense Attorney: (quickly standing) — Your Honor, may I point out that any data on a phone can easily be faked. Especially photos and video content.

(Maria, swallowing nervously, fumbles through her purse with trembling hands. Her slender fingers with perfectly manicured nails awkwardly grasp a worn black smartphone. At last, she pulls it out, clutching it like a lifeline.)

Maria Smirnova: (on a breath) — Here... my phone... real phone of Jonathan Blake. It have pictures... my documents... everything.

Judge Kay: (nods) — Hand the device to court tech for display.

(The bailiff gently accepts the phone from Maria’s hands. Maria shivers, feeling the uncomfortable pull of her boobs beneath the blouse with each movement. She catches Greta’s contemptuous stare — the witch laughs silently.)

(The technician quickly connects the device to the courtroom screen. A soft hum from the equipment. The large screen flickers — a gallery opens, full-screen image, first photo: Jonathan Blake, smiling in an expensive suit in front of the Senate building.)

(A rustle in the courtroom. Judge Kay leans in, scrutinizing.)

Technician: (after a moment, loudly) — Your Honor, the device does indeed contain data under the name Jonathan Blake. There are photos, messages, documents.

(Maria grips the chair’s armrests in relief. Finally! Finally, proof!)

(And then...)

(The image on screen shimmers slightly... like ripples on water. The photo blinks — and vanishes. Replaced by a cheap selfie of a cute brunette in a pink sweater. Silly faces in a kitchen background. Then — photos of cleaned rooms, a cleaning schedule, receipts in the name of Maria Smirnova.)

(Maria leaps to her feet in horror.)

Maria Smirnova: (voice breaking) — NO! That not there before! There were other photos! There were documents!

(But the courtroom watches the screen with complete indifference, like this is exactly how it’s supposed to be. No one else sees the change.)

(Greta bursts into clear, ringing laughter. Pure, genuine, almost joyful.)

Greta: (through laughter) — Ah, sweet Maria... You have such rich, busy life!

(Judge Kay bangs the gavel, shouting over the noise.)

Judge Kay: — Order! Order in the courtroom!

(Maria stands clinging to the edge of the table, looking down, breathing hard, her tits rising violently under the thin blouse. She wants to scream, to shake them, make them see! But the room is silent, the judge indifferent, and the cute pink phone on the tech’s desk — the one she thought was her only chance — now just another anchor in this fucked-up life.)

(Her body trembles, her knees give out and she crashes back into her seat, clenching her fists, realizing it’s useless to fight, terrified of what Greta might do to her now for daring to challenge her.)

Low Self-Esteem – Big Ass

— Well... what do you think? — Jessica's voice, now high and nervously feminine, trembled like a string. She stood frozen in the bathroom, facing the mirror, phone held up by her face, posing for a selfie. The camera caught every shiny curve of her black leggings, which clung too tightly, squeezing her big ass. The off-shoulder top kept riding up with every breath, and her smooth, slightly damp-from-nerves skin glowed under the lights.

A sigh came from the other end of the line.

— Jess... — Maddy was trying not to burst out laughing. — You look like… damn, like you just stepped out of some ultra-glossy lingerie brand's ad campaign. This is insane.

— It’s not funny... — Jessica whispered, squeezing her knees together. She sat on the edge of the bathtub, feeling the leggings dig into her ass crack, sparking another wave of humiliating discomfort and the urge to take them off. But she couldn’t. No. Instead, she jerked her head sharply and said, — I think I... look fat.

If Jessica had heard this a few days ago from a girl who looked as stunning as she did now, she would’ve laughed in her face and tossed out a few biting lines about how “brainless Instagram dolls” should stop fishing for compliments.

A few days ago, she had been Josh. Tall, bony, slightly hunched, with a practiced sneer of disdain. Josh loved tearing into girls who flaunted their looks. He was the kind to shred them apart on forums, to leave sarcastic comments under glossy photos on social media: “Silicone and filters don’t make a personality.” His domain — the philosophy department at the local college, where he believed intellect trumped everything. Well, at least until a run-in with micro-ramia spores flipped his — or rather, her — life upside down a couple weeks back.

Now Jessica both understood and resented Maddy for laughing — because to her, none of this was a joke. This wasn’t just “girly drama in front of a mirror” — it was torture. She was genuinely freaking out about all of it.

— Ha-ha! Oh my God, Jess, stop, — Maddy snorted, nearly choking on her laughter. — Your ass looks like a damn Insta-model’s! Fat? Are you serious?!

— Jessica nearly dropped the phone. She shut her eyes tight. Something burned inside. It wasn’t just shame — it was unbearable. She understood what Maddy meant and why she laughed, she used to be the same. But right now, she really needed support, and she thought Jessica — the friend who was now her best friend in this new, bizarre reality — would have her back. But no, instead, there was that laugh. Even though Jessica had tried so hard. She had spent ages picking out the outfit. Spinning in front of the mirror, finding the right angle.

— I’m serious, — she breathed out, quietly, almost childlike. — You don’t get it, Mads. I... Maybe I should get boobs?

There was a pause on the other end. Long, awkward. Jessica could hear Maddy sniff, holding back another laugh, but eventually she just exhaled:

— Oh god... Jess, stop talking crap. You've already got tits like a porn star! Have you even seen yourself from the back? I’d shoot myself if I had that body and no one to talk about it with!

— You don’t understand... — Jessica stared at her reflection. Her wavy hair had fallen naturally over her shoulders, tickling her collarbones. She gently adjusted the top, tugging it down a bit, but instantly felt the fabric ride up again, exposing her stomach. — It’s... just... I look so ugly, Mads! Maybe I should get my lips done?! Or, like, longer nails?

A new wave of facepalm flared up in Jessica’s head. 'What the fuck is wrong with you? What the hell are you saying?!' — Josh’s voice, internal, dark and full of scorn, pierced through the pink bubblegum of her new thoughts. He was still in there, and that only made everything worse. Because she remembered all her old thoughts — or rather, Josh’s thoughts. How he looked at girls who looked like her now, with disgust, like through a shop window for dumb, painted-up dolls. How he sneered internally: “Nothing but likes and silicone. Airheads in leggings.” And now she was that airhead. And the most humiliating part was — she needed it now.

Prince peasant story

Sorry, guys. I hope those who wanted to read the story have already managed to do so. Honestly, I have no idea what wasn’t acceptable this time. Share your thoughts in the comments, especially if you’ve read it — maybe you, like Patreon, also saw some kind of violation? And if you did, what exactly was it, and in which part? Because Patreon definitely won’t tell me, as usual, why the story was removed at this time :)

From Gym Badass to Beach Bimbo

When did I first go to the gym? Seriously? Kid, I was going there back when you were still crawling under the table, and your mom…

— Terry, cool it, — muttered Ray, my bench-press partner, seeing my face and kinda reading my thoughts.

I just snorted and went back to the dumbbells. Honestly, this whole generation of “iPhone champions” pissed me off. They stand there snapping selfies in the mirror like the muscles will grow by themselves from that. I lifted a 55-pound dumbbell, without extra show, just to let the boys see what real work looks like.

— Hey, Chris! — I yelled to that skinny newbie. — Watch how it’s done. Not like you, spinning around the rack thinking the muscles will crawl to you on their own one day, — I barked as I finished the lift. The metal clanged, I set the dumbbell on the floor and wiped my palm on my shirt. — Watch closely, Chris, this is how you lift when you’re not scared of work.

He mumbled something and looked away, and that actually amused me. I grinned. That’s how it should be. Let him be scared.

Noise rose in the gym — Morgan was arguing with the coach again. Those two clash every day like it’s gonna change the world. I walked past them, slapping my own shoulder, and caught my reflection in the mirror: thick neck, wide shoulders, a statue-like build. All earned fair and square, no whining.

And then something hit me weirdly, like a bar loaded with heavy plates shot right through me. Right in front of my eyes, above the rack, the air itself seemed to tear sideways. My chest tightened, like someone flipped me inside out. I tried to grab the bar, but my hand and fingers suddenly felt weaker… or smaller? The world twisted, filling everything around with white, bright, blinding flash.

When my vision came back, I realized I wasn’t in the gym anymore. It was like I’d been pinned on my back to something both hard and… oh God, like what the hell is this?! What the… what’s even going on?

— OMG! AAAAA! — I screamed like some freaked-out girl… girl? No, it was like the scream of some dumb bitch! Like, I’m not usually like that, right? It… it came out by itself, and at that same moment I flung my arms around because the whole body was… not the body. Like, not mine!

I jerked, and two soft round shapes bounced on my chest so much that I forgot how to breathe for a second.

— What… whaaaat??! — burst out of me as I shot up on my elbows.

And then everything around slammed into me at once.

Such hot, hot sun. Such white, white sand. A narrow lounge chair under my back. And my legs — like, God, they were so thin it felt like if a little breeze blew they’d just fly off into the ocean! I even sobbed a bit, looking at those long, tanned little sticks that were now my legs, and those feet sunk into the soft sand like I’d always been lying here, some kind of beach princess.

— Oh my gooood… like… what did they do to me?! — I breathed out, feeling my stomach pull in all by itself, so flat it felt like they dried me out completely.

I wiggled that neat, tiny foot and a shiver ran over my skin. Everything was just too… fragile. I lifted my arm, so thin-thin, light-light and small-small, like it wasn’t even mine, even though it was. And when I looked down again at that tiny bikini that barely held my new “curves”, I almost whimpered:

— This is like… totally crazy… like… what is this Deluxe Barbie body?..

Damn, why the hell am I even talking like this too?! But I didn’t have time to think about it, because from the right I heard a little giggle.

— Bibi, girl, what are you mumbling over there?

I jerked so sharply the lounge chair under me even creaked. I turned my head and instantly saw her: a girl in a huge straw hat, with shiny legs, a thin chain with a heart resting on them, and suuuper long nails. She was chewing on her lemonade straw, looking at me like I was doing something cute and silly.

— Uhh… me?.. — I squeaked, feeling something unpleasant click in my stomach. — Like… I’m not Bibi at all! I’m Terry! I… I’m a man!

She blinked once, twice. Then burst out laughing so hard her sunglasses almost slid off.

— Oh-my-gooood, baby, you’re like ultra today! — she slapped my thigh and I gasped, because even that light touch kinda hurt me. — Terry! Sure! And who am I then? Brad Pitt?

Her friend on the left giggled too and adjusted the bright orange towel she was lying on.

— Bibi, honey, if you keep joking like that people will actually think we’re crazy, — she said. — Or they already did… not sure.

I swallowed, looking at both of them. They were so… relaxed, so “in their vibe”, like the whole beach was their personal TikTok stage. And me… I was sitting in a body that felt made of thin tubes and soft curves, a body that wouldn’t survive even an empty dumbbell.

— Girls… — I squeezed my eyes shut. — I’m not joking! I like… woke up… not here! I was at the gym! I was pressing iron! Like really pressing-pressing! And then bam, and now I’m here, and my arms are so skinny, and my legs are like, damn… twigs!

I lifted those little arms up and tried to clench my fists, but immediately let out a loud gasp because my long nails didn’t even let me make a fist at all. At that moment the redhead burst out laughing.

The redhead burst out laughing so loudly that even the seagulls above shot up into the air:

— Twigs! Oh my God, girls, did you hear that? She called her little arms “twigs”! That is simply iconic!

The blonde in the hat almost dropped her lemonade, choking on laughter:

— Jesus, Bibi, you totally made our morning! What do you mean “pressed iron”? The only thing you ever lift is a coconut, and even then with both hands so you don’t spill it!

— I don’t lift coconuts! — I squealed… well, squealed… it came out way too high and way too girly. — I lift a barbell with plates! I’m Terry! Strong! Massive! Muscles! A mountain! A monster! I—

I tried to show a “flexed biceps”, like I’d done a hundred times in the locker room, and bent my arm automatically, but there… there was just nothing to bend. A thin-thin little arm curved so delicately, and only a cute shadow shifted a bit over the skin. No muscle. No volume. Just smooth golden skin and a tiny wrist.

— A-a-a-a!!! — I squealed again, shaking that fragile arm. — Where’s my biceps?! Where is it?! It should be right here! It used to be huge! Like a watermelon! Like two watermelons!!

The redhead, gasping for air from laughing, poked my arm with her finger:

— Baby, if even one watermelon were on that arm, it would fall right off.

— No! No-no-no. Like no, I’m like not your baby, I… oh my god, what is this?! I’m like even talking like… like…

I bit my lip, because my brain itself was trying to choose the word, and it was so horrible I was scared to even whisper it.

The blonde in the hat snorted:

— Like who, Bibi? Like you? You always talk like that. You’re literally the walking “cute dumb girl” vibe. That’s your thing, honey.

— NO! — I shook my hands, and my new “curves” bounced again, making me squeak. — I’m not a cute dumb girl! I… I…

I don’t know how it even happened, I like didn’t understand a thing, but they… those stupid tears tore out on their own, without asking, like just to show everyone around what I’d become — a fragile, hysterical, trembling Bibi — and it was the most humiliating thing ever!

The tears just poured out like a river. I even sobbed out loud, and that sound… like… if Terry ever heard that from anyone, he’d say: “Don’t be a wimp, slug.” And now it just burst out of me.

The blonde and the redhead froze.

— Oh-oh-oh, honey, — the blonde rushed to me right away and wrapped her arm around my shoulders. — Don’t cry! Please don’t cry, you’ll smudge your sunscreen!

The redhead panicked too, leaning forward:

— Bibi, honey… hey… what’s wrong?.. We were just joking… Please don’t cry…

And I covered my face with my palms, these tiny, tiny little palms, and sobbed into them, feeling how the little bikini stretched over my Breasts, how my stomach trembled with every breath.

— I… I… don’t want… to be… this!! — I blurted through the sobs. — I don’t want to be skinny! I don’t want this sand! And this bikini! And this name!! And this… this… emptiness instead of muscles! I’m Terry!.. I… I…

But in that moment someone nearby kinda shouted that he wasn’t himself too, and then another did, and I… I stood there like a scared little girl in another girl’s arms and felt the ground slipping out from under my feet.

Strange app - page 16 (Early Access)

A bit of an identity crisis… and lots of boobs =D

The Peasant Prince

1

— Your Highness, I... — the captain of the guard’s voice trembled as he caught the prince’s side glance. Kalendor was already pulling up his hood, but that didn’t stop the man. — Allow at least two of us to follow you at a distance. After all, this is a border town, and it’s not as safe as the capital. It’s full of mercenaries, spies, and...

Kalendor, having thrown on his hood, suddenly turned around and took a few steps toward the captain — so sharply that even the wooden floorboards seemed to suppress their natural urge to creak, as if realizing that doing so now would cost them their lives.

— One more word, Loran, — he said in an icy tone, — and you’ll be standing in the square of Fleurmar, locked in an iron cage, covered in honey, until the flies turn you into a bedtime legend for children.

The captain turned pale.

— But, Your Highness...

— I said — no one. If I see even a single look from under a helmet, even a shadow of your shadow — you and your men will march barefoot over the castle coals.

He stepped closer, grabbed Loran by the collar, and, leaning in even nearer, added in almost a whisper:

— Am I making myself clear?

The captain, though a full two heads taller than the prince, recoiled like a boy caught stealing. His large hands trembled involuntarily, and his eyes darted aside, avoiding the prince’s gaze.

— Y-yes... Your Highness, — he rasped out hoarsely, feeling his throat go dry.

He knew — he knew damn well — that it was better not to argue with the crown prince, even if it meant disobeying a direct order from the king. Between two evils, it was wiser to choose the less painful one. Prison or... Kalendor’s wrath? For any courtier, the choice was obvious.

Prison, at least, left a chance to live. The prince’s wrath was a special kind of hellish torment that any self-respecting lord of the underworld would gladly adopt as his own.

Loran lowered his head even further, trying not to breathe too loudly while Kalendor released his grip on the armor’s collar and, without another word, stepped back. For several seconds, silence hung in the room — so deep that even the torch on the wall seemed afraid to crackle.

— This conversation never happened, — the prince finally said, straightening his cloak and stepping toward the door. — But I can remember it, if you prove slow to understand.

— Yes, Your Highness, — Loran exhaled almost soundlessly, keeping his eyes down, hearing the door creak — then slam shut. And with that slam, the room seemed to come back to life: the torch flame dared to flicker again, a faint draft slipped along the beams, returning life to that part of the room which had just frozen in fear.

Loran slowly raised his head and exhaled heavily — hoarsely — like a man who had just been allowed to live.

He stood still, listening to the fading footsteps, then whispered to himself:

— Madman... I hope his father rules for a long time yet. I’m afraid to imagine what’ll happen if he ever takes power.

He realized his hands were still shaking and awkwardly clasped them behind his back, trying to calm the nervous tremor and not think about how, at that very moment, he wished with all his heart that the prince would never return — even if that wish could cost him his head.

2

Meanwhile, outside, it was a bright sunny day — one of those days people say: "as if God Himself is washing in gold." The air was clean and clear, and the sky was so deep you wanted to drown in it. Fleurmar was alive with its noisy, careless rhythm: the creak of wagon wheels, traders shouting, children laughing, and the smell of fresh bread mixing with the scent of tar and horse sweat.

— Hey! Stop! Stop, I said! — someone’s voice yelled, breaking through the buzz of the busy street.

From an alley burst a fat peasant with a twisted face, waving his arms as he tried to catch up with a cart loaded high with sacks of grain. The horse had already broken into a run, the wheels clattering loudly over the cobblestones, and the man, breathing heavily, was trying in vain to chase it down.

— Dirty thief, may you sink in a swamp! — he bellowed, but the cart was already disappearing around the corner. — Stole my flour, that bastard!

The crowd in the market roared with laughter. A few boys, tossing apple cores, shouted after him:

— Run, old man, maybe you’ll catch it! — yelled a kid with a dirty carrot in his hand, and the crowd burst out laughing again.

But the laughter was cut short when the same “old man” was hit with a dull thud by a man in a hood. The peasant’s body spun like a sack of flour and crashed to the cobblestones, raising a cloud of dust.

— Watch where the hell you’re going, you blind fool! — he roared, spitting and pushing himself up on his elbows. — You city brat, I’ll rip your guts out and wrap them around a wagon axle, you hear me?!

— Look at this! Elmar Kvoss, the lousy miller, putting on a show! — shouted one of the boys, which only made the old man angrier. He was about to unleash all his fury — for the stolen flour, for being called a “lousy miller,” and for this whole damn life — on the hooded stranger. It seemed a fight was inevitable.

The hooded man had clearly heard it and had already stopped. He slowly turned his head toward Elmar, who was just about to open his mouth for another outburst — but never managed to.

The man’s gaze under the hood merely slid across him. But even that was enough. Elmar froze as if an icy blade had been thrust down his throat.

He didn’t know who this man was, but those eyes… those eyes didn’t belong to any mortal. There was no mercy in them, no anger, no life — only the cold, bottomless awareness of something far greater. Elmar felt sweat bead on his skin, and his legs began to back away on their own.

— U-uh… forgive me, sir, — he muttered, swallowing hard. — I didn’t recognize… you must be of noble blood…

But the man had already turned away, as if Elmar didn’t exist at all. The crowd, it seemed, hadn’t even noticed what happened, still laughing at the “old man” while the figure in the dark cloak confidently made its way toward the edge of town.

Prince Kalendor Verden walked without slowing his pace. A hum of tension throbbed in his chest — anticipation that the incident had only fueled even more. He could feel the pendant hidden beneath his clothes vibrating faintly, like a living thing, impatient, ready to awaken.

3

The old barn at the edge of town didn’t look like anything special. The red paint on its boards had long since peeled off, exposing gray wood underneath, and the doors hung on a single hinge. Wind slipped through the cracks, and on especially stormy days it would fill the place with a haunting whistle — just like now, only this time, the sound breaking through from inside was not the wind, but loud, nasal, and all the more insane laughter.

He stood in the middle of the old barn, arm outstretched, and the pendant in his fingers shone so brightly that for a moment the wooden walls seemed to come alive — silver reflections ran across them, and shadows began to dance.

Kalendor smiled.

— Well then, — he said quietly, with that particular triumph with which mages pronounce a demon’s name, — let’s see what your life was worth, old Archmage Kaleus.

"If this thing really works, I’ll hand Father the wine cup myself and finally get what’s rightfully mine..." Kalendor thought, grinning. "Ah, what a pity, Father... what a pity that you’ll be killed by your best friend... or maybe by that bitch who whispers into your ear a little too often."

He pulled the stone closer to his face, almost touching it, and the blue light pulsing inside reflected in his pupils — calm as still water before a storm.

— Hm... — a smirk touched Kalendor’s lips. — But before I try you on someone worthy... I should make sure you actually work. Let’s start, so to speak, with the filth. With those stupid peasants.

He put the pendant around his neck — the motion sharp and impatient. The stone pressed coldly against his skin, as if some invisible creature beneath it had just drawn a breath.

Kalendor straightened, feeling the air around him grow heavier. A short, confident chuckle escaped his lips. He ran his finger along the glowing edge of the artifact and spoke the words he’d read in Archmage Kaleus’s journal:

— Rivath mor’elan, sanguis et forma…

At first, nothing happened. Then the light from the pendant poured outward — thick and mist-like, spreading around him. It wrapped around the prince, slid over his shoulders, his breasts, his arms… and suddenly a sharp pop hit his ears, like a lightning strike.

— What the... — he didn’t finish, because suddenly his chest tightened painfully.

The barn trembled. Dust rose from the ceiling, swirling in a spiral, and the walls creaked as if the old wood suddenly remembered it had once been alive. Kalendor tried to take a step, but his legs felt trapped in thick, viscous mud, impossible to move even an inch.

The light from the stone spread — then surged upward, into him. His whole body felt as though thousands of thin threads had seized it, stretching, twisting. He cried out in shock, but couldn’t hear it — only the roaring in his ears, growing louder and louder.

4

For a moment it felt like his very bones had turned soft — as if they were made of wax, reshaped each second by the invisible hands of some unseen sculptor.

He felt his waist tightening, as though unseen straps were pulling tighter and tighter. His shoulders narrowed, his ribcage sank, and then suddenly there came that pressure in his chest — heavy, strange, alien. It was as if something soft was growing beneath his skin, swelling heavier and heavier with each heartbeat. Horrified, he looked down and saw the fabric of his shirt rising, pushing outward.

— What... what is this?.. — he gasped, choking on air, feeling his lips grow softer, fuller, as though losing their sharp lines, turning into... something different.

His hands moved instinctively to his chest — his fingers grabbed at the fabric of his shirt, which stretched tight to the limit, outlining two heavy, round shapes that were swelling right before his eyes, growing larger beneath his palms, like dough in the hands of a marzipan baker. Kalendor gasped — and the sound that came out was far too high, though he didn’t even notice, consumed entirely by horror. The skin beneath his hands was hot, sensitive, and those... those swelling curves pulsed with his heartbeat, forcing him to jerk back in shock.

But retreat was impossible. His hips suddenly widened with a crack, as if the bones themselves had split apart, reshaping into graceful, feminine curves. His pelvis grew wider, heavier, and Kalendor felt his balance shift, his legs trembling from the sudden change in his center of gravity. Then came another wave of sensation in his groin — a burning, wrenching pull, as if someone inside had grabbed his cock and shoved it back into his body.

— No! No-no-no! This isn’t real! This... Ugh! — he hissed, cutting himself off as a brown corset materialized around his waist, tightening brutally with thick straps, accentuating the narrow waist and forcing his breasts up even higher. The fabric bit into his skin, arching his back into an unnatural pose until he collapsed to his knees.

As if mocking him, the very fabric of his trousers came alive before his eyes — growing thinner, softer, smoother — until it gave way entirely, turning into flowing, delicate fabric. Kalendor froze, unable to believe what was happening: the heavy cloth of his male breeches literally melted down his legs, reshaping into the folds of a skirt that wrapped around them like a warm wave.

He tried to open his mouth, but in that moment reality itself shuddered — like a mirror cracking from a blow. The barn walls flickered, the dust in the air swirled into a vortex, and then everything stopped.

The sound in his ears vanished. The air inside the barn once again filled with the smell of dust, hay, and freshly milled grain. Kalendor remained on his knees, breathing hard — as deep as he could manage, given that damned corset, which seemed to dig into his ribs on purpose with every breath, emphasizing the weight of his heavy breasts rising and falling with each one.

5

Kneeling, Kalendor slowly lowered his gaze — and froze, as if a bottomless pit had opened before him.

The white blouse with a deep neckline, pulled tight by a corset, jutted forward in two heavy, round curves that trembled in his hands — still gripping them, as if trying to tear them off his body. His fingers slid across the fabric but found no seam, no clasp — only smooth, warm skin beneath the thin cloth. The pendant — the blue stone on its rough cord — pulsed mockingly in the hollow between his breasts.

— This... can’t be real… — Kalendor rasped, and at the sound of his own voice, something inside him twisted. It was different. Much higher, softer — that girlish tone used by maidens dreaming of princes and still believing in fairy tales. His words ended with a faint, delicate chime, like a silver bell striking crystal.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Kalendor — if one could still call this girl that — took a deep breath, trying to grasp even a shred of the cold composure that once made captains bow their heads before him.

"Calm down..." the thought slipped through his mind. "It’s just... an unintended result."

He tried to recall every word the old Archmage Kaleus had spoken that night, when he lay bound on the laboratory floor, dying — his eyes still burning with that fanatical gleam.

— The spell doesn’t change form... it alters the fabric of perception itself, boy. Everything matters. Even the place where... kh-heh... khah...

The mage hadn’t finished, choking on blood, while Kalendor stood over him, smiling, tracing a finger along the dagger’s hilt.

— You’re just trying to scare me, old man. But your life’s already over — accept it.

— You won’t even understand what you’ll become... — Kaleus had whispered just before the blade pierced his heart. Kalendor no longer needed him. The foolish old man had already explained how the artifact worked. The only important thing now was that it required twelve hours before it could be used again.

Kalendor exhaled, pressing a hand to his stomach, squeezed tight by the corset. His fingers felt lighter, his skin thinner, softer — even breathing didn’t feel the same as before. The corset wouldn’t let his breasts expand fully, and every breath turned into a short, strained gasp.

"The artifact worked," flashed through his mind, "just... not the way I expected. But the power’s there."

He opened his eyes. Light filtered through the cracks in the roof, falling across the straw in golden stripes. In that glow, the skin on his hands seemed almost transparent — too thin, too... fragile. Kalendor clenched his teeth.

— This... is a trial. That’s all it is, — he said under his breath, but the sound of his own voice sent a chill down his spine. — Maybe I shouldn’t have killed that old bastard so quickly...

6

He rose slowly from his knees, feeling the skirt slide softly along his legs and settle around his ankles. The fabric rustled gently, obediently following each movement, but the prince could feel its weight — instinctively paying attention not to drag the hem through the dirt.

Taking a step, he immediately stumbled over a small stone underfoot, hidden from view by the swell of his neckline — which at that moment jiggled noticeably on his breasts, sending a pulling ripple through his back. He kicked the skirt aside irritably and, breathing heavily, looked around.

The barn was the same: dust, beams, hay — but... something had changed. Something subtle yet tangible. From outside came the noises of the Fleurmar outskirts: barking dogs, the clang of a hammer, and the hum of voices — soft female ones and rough male ones alike. Kalendor approached the door, but just as his fingers touched the old latch, a sharp creak sounded behind him.

— Teresa! — came a gruff, angry male voice, one that struck Kalendor as far too familiar — as if he’d heard it his whole life.

He froze, not even having time to make sense of anything.

— Teresa, are you messing around in the barn again? I’ve been looking for you all over the yard!

He turned around. Standing in the doorway was the same peasant Kalendor had knocked down earlier — Elmar — his face red from anger and fatigue. But now... his eyes looked at Kalendor with such warmth that the prince suddenly felt a strange tightness somewhere beneath his breasts.

— Father?.. — he breathed out, the word slipping from his lips on its own.

— Of course, I’m your father, who else, you silly girl, — Elmar replied with a weary smile. — What, touching your pendant again? How many times have I told you — stop daydreaming, or you’ll forget where you left the grain sacks again.

"What? Father? Silly girl?!"

Kalendor flared inside, wanting to retort — but the words stuck. He felt the muscles of his face stretch into a shy smile all by themselves. As if he wasn’t the one controlling them.

— I... I was just... — the words came out softly, obediently, as though someone was dictating them from within. But as soon as Kalendor realized that, he forced his will to take over, trying to bring back his usual sternness — furrowing his brows and lifting his chin, the way he did in the throne room when he could silence opponents with a single look.

But the result turned out... strange. His cheeks twitched slightly, his lips curved despite him — and instead of cold authority, his expression turned into that of a confused young woman, embarrassed by her own excuse. Kalendor, of course, didn’t notice that; all he saw was the old man’s unfamiliar reaction. Elmar just sighed, waved a hand, and turned away.

— All right, don’t look at me like that. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, — he muttered, setting down a bucket of grain. His rough, sunburnt, flour-dusted hand rubbed his cheek nervously, as if uneasy from this sudden “girlish offense.” — You’ve always been sensitive like that, ever since you were a child...

Kalendor almost laughed — but the sound caught in his throat, pushed aside by something else. Warmth? Shame? He felt his cheeks suddenly burn.

"Since childhood?!" he hissed inwardly. "What the hell are you talking about, old man?! Do you even realize you’ve just signed your own death sentence?!"

7

Kalendor took a confident step forward, frowning. His back straightened, his chin lifted proudly. Everything in him — or so he thought at that moment — radiated that familiar authority, the kind that could make even the captains of the guard lose their words.

He already opened his mouth to scold the old man, to silence him and make him listen — but Elmar didn’t even glance his way.

— You won’t believe it, Teresa, — he started irritably, not noticing her menacing posture, — someone stole the flour, right off the wagon! In broad daylight, on a crowded street! — He waved his hand, tools clattering noisily. — And then some passerby knocked me flat on the ground, I swear! I thought he’d break my bones, he was... terrifying. Like a demon straight from hell, by God...

"Demon! Ha! Thanks for the compliment, old man," Kalendor thought, planting his small fists on his waist and grinning with that same wicked smirk that once made knights tremble and courtiers go pale. He even lifted his chin a little higher, furrowed his brows — everything exactly as it should be. The corset, of course, made it hard to breathe, and those heavy breasts only felt heavier, but for the sake of proper presence, he could endure it.

But Elmar, lifting his head from the sacks, froze for a second... and then chuckled warmly.

— Oh, Tereska, you’re such a funny one — acting all brave again, huh, my little fox? — he said, and the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. — You know, I look at you and see your mother all over again. She was the same way when something bad happened. Would stand just like that, all proud and serious, like some queen from Marzipania, ready to scold me — and then she’d be the first to run over, feed me, and hold me close...

Kalendor froze. His wicked grin slowly melted away, like ice dissolving in his hands.

"Feed him? Hold him close? What the hell is he talking about?!"

He wanted to snap back, to cut the fool down with all the royal contempt he could muster — but his tongue felt coated in tar. Somewhere deep inside, something clicked — and along with the irritation came a strange, warm feeling. Not anger, not pride... but care?

— Well... what are you standing there for, my little fox? — Elmar went on more softly now, smiling so simply that Kalendor suddenly wanted to look away. — I’m not mad. Just tired. Lost all the flour — my own fault for not watching. Not the end of the world, but... it’s going to be hard now, without it.

Kalendor opened his mouth, ready to say something cutting, something like: “Your own damn fault, stupid peasant — learn to keep watch!” But the words stuck somewhere in his chest — and instead, what came out was:

— I... I’ll help you, Father. Everything will be fine!

He said it automatically, without even realizing what he’d said. Those words... they just slipped out.

— That’s my girl! — Elmar clapped his hand on his knee with satisfaction. — Aye, everything’ll be fine. Your mother would’ve been proud!

8

Something inside Kalendor snapped.

"Mother?! Proud?! That’s the last damn thing I needed! I’m the heir to the throne, not some peasant girl!"

He turned sharply away so that neither anger nor confusion would show on his face. His breasts moved softly with the motion, and that gentle bounce threw him off balance even more than Elmar’s words.

"No. I can’t stay here. I just need to endure these twelve hours. Calmly. No more of this ‘girl’ and ‘father’ nonsense. When I get my body back, I’ll have this peasant executed! But for now... for now..."

— I... I’ll step outside for a bit, — he said, staring at the floor, just to avoid meeting the old man’s eyes.

— Step outside? — Elmar echoed, surprised and with a hint of sadness. — I thought you... wanted to help?

Kalendor froze.

Help? The word struck inside his head like the great bell of the Marzipania capital’s tower, echoing painfully through his chest. It splashed over him like a cold wave of humiliation at the very thought that he — Kalendor Verden, crown prince of Marzipania — should help some peasant.

And yet, somewhere deep beneath that outrage, he felt something else — shame. Shame for thinking exactly the way Kalendor always did.

He opened his mouth again, ready to reply sharply — but once again, what came out wasn’t quite what he wanted... or thought he wanted.

— I’ll help later... I just... need some air, — his voice trembled, sounding almost apologetic. And in that same moment, he noticed the pendant flash faintly as he spoke.

Elmar frowned, looking at him with tired concern.

— Teresa, are you sure you’re all right? — he asked, stepping closer and reaching out a hand as if to touch her shoulder. — You’re pale, girl. Like a bedsheet. You sick or something?

Kalendor recoiled almost violently. His body reacted before his mind — a shiver, a quick chill crawling over his skin, and a stupid, uncontrollable feeling of vulnerability.

— I’m fine! — he burst out sharply, almost shouting. — Don’t come near me!

Elmar froze, blinking in confusion, then let out a rough, short chuckle.

— Ah, that’s you all over... always in your own head. Just like your mother. All right, go then — but stop by Elina’s place, tell her we’ll bring the flour by evening. She’s been grumbling for three days already.

Kalendor nodded automatically — not even realizing right away that he’d done it with a soft, almost submissive tilt of his head. When he stepped out the door, the creak of the hinges sounded louder than usual, and the air outside felt colder, even though the same summer heat filled the day.

He drew in a deep breath — but the corset once again pressed hard into his ribs, not letting him breathe freely. He had to stop, grabbing the barn wall for support.

9

“Damn. Can't even breathe! How do these women live in those... fabric armors?... I need to get away from this place!” thought Kalendor, and immediately he clenched the pendant with his hand. “Goddamn trinket! So this is all your doing... Or is it the dying curse of the old mage? Fuck it.”

Kalendor squeezed the pendant harder, feeling the blue stone under his fingers as if it were breathing in time with his heart.

— In any case... — he hissed, pressing it to his chest. — I'll wait out these twelve hours. And then... I'll burn that old man and... this whole district... to hell.

But his voice sounded uncertain. Not like a terrible threat — which in reality was very frightening — but like an unsure grumble from a girl trying to sound menacing while her cheeks were already burning with embarrassment.

And at that moment a sharp smack lower on her back made her flinch so violently that the hem of her skirt flew up, and her heavy breasts under the corset rocked forward dangerously.

— Oh! — escaped from her, ringing out as if she were not a prince but actually a plain girl, while a wave of heat ran through her thighs, making them clench involuntarily.

Kalendor... Teresa turned with a face as if she were about to bite off the head of the one who dared, but that expression changed immediately when she saw him — Rodrik. A tall, ungainly fellow with tousled light-brown hair, in a gray shirt half-tucked into his trousers, and that same eternal mischief in his eyes that always annoyed Teresa… and for some reason warmed her breasts.

— Rodrik! — she breathed out, equal parts outraged and bewildered that she even knew his name. — Have you completely lost your mind?!

He grinned, scratched the back of his head and snorted:

— Why'd you jump like that? You always say your skin's as thick as a mill sack.

— I'll show you a sack! — Teresa squinted angrily, but even she heard her voice tremble on the last words. — Try it again, and I… I—

— And you'll what? — Rodrik stepped closer, his shadow falling across her face, and Teresa, feeling her heart pounding too fast under the corset, took a step back.

— I… — the words tangled. She wanted to say “I am Prince Kalendor Verden, heir to the throne of Marzipania! You'll die, you filthy animal!”, but she couldn't... or didn't want to say that. She didn't want to hurt him and at the same time she was offended that her pride was wounded. She raised her eyes to him, looking from an unfamiliar angle from below, and uttered the most logical thing that came to her to show offense while not frightening the boy away: — …my father is nearby.

10

Rodrik burst out laughing so loud that even the birds on the barn roof took off in fright.

— Oh, Teresa, — he said, still laughing and stepping back a little, — that’s a good one. You’re threatening me... with your father!

He stepped closer again, and now no more than a couple of handspans separated them. The shadow of his figure fell directly across her breasts, making the white fabric of her blouse look even thinner, and something beneath the corset tightened uneasily.

— Rodrik, I’m serious, — she tried to say in a stern, low tone, but what came out was soft, almost pleading.

— Yeah, I can see that, — he smirked, tilting his head slightly. — So serious, your cheeks went red.

Teresa turned her gaze away sharply. Cheeks? She quickly touched her face — her skin was indeed burning, as if she’d been caught doing something indecent.

— It’s from the sun! — she blurted out. — It’s just... hot.

— Sure it is, — he drawled, still smiling. — Hot because I’m standing close, huh?

— Rodrik! — she breathed out, more from embarrassment than anger.

— What, me? — He stepped even closer, leaned in, and whispered: — Or maybe it’s not just the heat?

She stepped back, but her back immediately pressed against the barn’s wooden wall. Her heart pounded so hard she was afraid he’d hear it. Her breasts rose heavily under the corset, and every uneven brush of fabric against her skin reminded her of what she’d become.

— Step back, — she whispered, but it didn’t sound threatening at all.

— And if I don’t? — he said quietly, almost playfully, but for the first time there was something else in his voice — soft, uncertain, as if even he didn’t know why he was doing this.

She lifted her eyes, and in that moment the whole world seemed to shrink to a single gaze.

Rodrik’s blue, slightly furrowed eyes looked straight into hers, and that look made Teresa’s breath catch. Her chest felt tight, as if the corset had pulled tighter, and waves of trembling warmth ran across her skin. Her heart wasn’t just racing — it was pounding blood into her ears, her fingertips, her lips, which had suddenly gone dry and parted slightly on their own.

"What... what’s happening to me?..” — flashed through her mind, but the thought drowned in the beating of her heart, as her gaze slipped to Rodrik’s slightly parted lips, with their rough edges and a small red blemish near the corner.

She saw him breathe. Saw the faint quiver of his lips, like laughter he was barely holding back — and somehow that only made her pulse race harder. He tilted his head just a little, and his warm breath brushed her cheek, making her nipples stiffen. Teresa shuddered, and everything inside her — from her knees to her throat — filled with something tender that threatened to spill out any second.

His face came closer.

11

Another moment, and their breaths mingled. She caught his scent — a trace of flour, a touch of sunlight, and that simple warmth she had never known at court.

Rodrik’s lips moved slightly, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t. Teresa didn’t look away. Her fingers tightened around the hem of her skirt, her legs felt heavy as lead, and her whole body froze in anticipation. She knew she had never felt anything like this before.

Another heartbeat — and their lips were almost touching. She could feel his breath, and—

— Teresa! — the loud, booming voice struck the air like a hammer.

Both of them flinched, as if waking from a dream. The barn door flew open with a dull thud, letting in a ray of sunlight — and Elmar stepped out from within.

— Teresa! What are you doing in there, girl? — he thundered, frowning. — Rodrik? And what the hell are you standing over her for like some scarecrow?

Air rushed back into her lungs, wrapping her whole body in a scorching wave of shame. Teresa jerked away, stumbling on her skirt, pressing her hands to her breasts as if trying to hold in her wildly pounding heart.

— I... I wasn’t doing anything! — she blurted out, too fast, too bright. Her voice trembled.

Rodrik stepped back, coughed, and ran a hand through his hair.

— We... I was just... — he mumbled, eyes down.

— Just what? — Elmar frowned, then sighed and waved a hand. — Ah, you young fools... Teresa, I knew it’d be something like this. Go to Elina, stop wasting time.

— Y-yes, of course, Father! — she stammered, and without looking at Rodrik, she almost ran away from the barn — anywhere, just to get out of there.

Teresa stopped behind the corner, pressing her palm to her breast. Her heart was still hammering, as if trying to break free. She stood there, gasping, feeling a bead of sweat slide down her neck, her knees trembling as if she’d just escaped a battle.

"What the hell was that?!" — flashed through her head. — "I... I almost let him... touch me! I, Kalendor Verden! What the fuck?!"

The very thought made her shiver, as if doused in cold water. But along with that came something else — something warm, tender, fleeting — yet unwilling to fade. The kind of feeling that burns into memory forever and later becomes a story told to grandchildren.

She closed her eyes, fists tightening.

— No, — she whispered barely audibly. — No, I’m not her. I’m Kalendor. A prince. A prince! A PRINCE!

But even she could hear how foolish that sounded. And her mind kept circling back — again and again — to that fleeting instant when their lips were so close. And her heart beat on, whispering that she had to hurry to Elina... so she could come back home later — to her father... to Rodrik.

Strange App - page 16 (preview)

Not today for sure. If everything goes well, the next page will probably be this Sunday =)