“I want her body to grow over mine until there’s nothing left of him.” (Patreon)

The sentence leaves your mouth before you can soften it.

“I want her body to grow over mine until there’s nothing left of him.”

The heart on the choker flares hot. In the mirror one still image: auburn hair with blunt bangs, freckles across the nose and chest, a silver stud in the nostril, a white ribbed tank, three little star tattoos climbing the upper arm. The glass holds her there like a target. Then the heat drops out of the pendant and into your throat.

It starts under the chain. Skin prickles, then softens. The faint stubble along your jaw stops catching the light. Your cheekbones ease. Freckles stipple in across the bridge of your nose, then your cheeks, then the tops of your shoulders, each one a tiny warm pinprick. Your lips fill while you watch, pinker, the cupid’s bow settling into the shape from the glass. A small point of pressure blooms in your left nostril and cools into metal. You touch it. A stud. Already there.

Your hair is the next thing that will not stay yours. Brown strands thicken at the roots and spill. Bangs push forward over your forehead, heavy and straight. The rest lengthens past your collarbones, then your nipples, then the middle of your back, wavy, auburn, smelling faintly of something sweet you didn’t own this morning. It brushes the new freckles on your chest every time you breathe. You keep tucking it behind one ear and it keeps falling back into your eyes.

The chest is slower, and worse, and better. A deep ache gathers under each nipple, not pain exactly, more like the tissue is being asked to make room. You cup yourself out of habit and feel the handful change under your palms. Soft weight swells into them, warm, heavy, the skin tightening as it stretches. Your nipples fatten and darken against your fingers. By the time the ache crests you need both hands and they still overflow. They sit high and full, freckled across the tops, sensitive enough that the brush of your own hair makes your stomach drop. When you let go they bounce once and settle, tugging at your shoulders in a way your old chest never did. You press them together just to feel the give. A soft sound leaves you, higher than it should be.

Your waist pulls in while your hips push out. The bones don’t crack so much as sigh. Muscle along your stomach smooths. Your ass rounds behind you in slow pulses, each one a warm swell that makes you shift your weight. You turn sideways. The mirror shows the curve: full, soft, the kind that moves when you do. You reach back and squeeze. Your fingers sink in. The flesh is yours and not, plush and warm, and the squeeze travels straight down between your legs.

Down there the change is the one you keep looking away from and then can’t. Your cock throbs once, hard, then softens as it draws inward. The shaft shortens against your palm. Your balls pull up and thin out. What replaces them is slick and new, a cleft opening under the shrinking length, hot, swollen, already wet enough that your fingers come away shining. The last of him tucks and seals. You slide two fingers along the new lips and your knees almost go. Everything is closer to the surface. A brush over the little peak at the top makes your new tits tighten and your ass clench at the same time. You do it again because you can.

The clothes arrive the way the freckles did. The white ribbed tank is just on you, thin straps, neckline low enough that the inner curves of your breasts show, the fabric stretched and clinging. Your old jeans are gone. In their place the soft press of something that fits the new hips. Three small star tattoos itch into place up your left arm and then stop itching. You look like the picture. You look like you have looked like the picture for a while.

The choker is still there. Rose-gold chain, little heart, sitting in the hollow of a throat that is narrower than it was an hour ago. You lean toward the mirror. Freckles. Bangs. The stud. The heavy, sensitive weight on your chest. You turn and the ass follows a half-second late. You palm one breast through the tank and the nipple stiffens under the ribbing, and the wet between your legs answers like it was waiting for the order.

Nothing of the old silhouette is left in the glass. The pendant cools. The wish is finished.

You are still touching. The new body likes being touched