Private Kyle… Katie? - Episode 1 (Patreon)

Potentially I would like to continue, so episode 1 =)

I'll wait to see what you say

...

My name is Kyle Reynolds, and yesterday was the last day of my old life, where I was just an ordinary guy, basically nobody, but today, a day I even marked in red more than my own birthday, was supposed to become a turning point, because today, exactly at 11 a.m., I have an appointment to sign a contract with the U.S. Department of War. I could already picture myself standing in uniform, being called “Private Reynolds”, all that boring civilian bullshit left behind.

But. But...

“What. The. Fuck...” I whisper, gradually lowering my voice, because those high notes that came out of my mouth at first didn’t please me at all.

And if it were just the voice. If it were only the voice. But I can clearly see down there, on me, damn it, these...

(gulp)

…tits.

And not prosthetics or glued-on ones, but, fuck, real ones. I can feel how heavy they are, how they pull downward and sway with every breath, how the skin on them… sensitive. I literally feel it through my nipples, which have tightened now from the cold or from shock, hard to tell, but they look like this was never part of some joke or costume, but always… was.

“No… no, no, no…” I mutter, barely even noticing anymore how my voice slips again into that damn high pitch, and just from that something inside me tightens even more.

I stand in the middle of my room, and it’s, fuck, as ordinary as ever, my scattered clothes that I wanted to burn before leaving for service, the bed I hate, and all the other remnants of my civilian life that I was supposed to forget today like a bad dream…

I raise my hands and cup them with my palms. Fuck, they overflow my fingers. Heavy, warm, soft, yet firm. When I squeeze slightly, they bulge between my fingers, and my nipples rub against the skin of my palms, sending sharp, wet jolts straight down into my lower belly.

“Oh… fuck…” slips out of me in that same thin, girlish voice. I squeeze harder, kneading them, like I’m trying to convince myself this isn’t a dream. My chest sways, heavy flesh shifting in my hands. My nipples grow even harder, almost painfully sensitive.

“Enough…” I exhale sharply, letting go of them, and instantly regretting it.

The weight of my chest drops and swings down, painfully hitting my ribs, knocking a short, strained, and somehow too feminine breath out of me.

“Fuck…” I whisper, pressing them in with my wrist now, not out of curiosity anymore, but more like trying to hold these tits in place.

They’re heavy. Too heavy. Not like something “attached”, not like a joke or a costume. This is part of me. A part that pulls me down, shifts my center of gravity, makes my shoulders hunch without me even realizing it.

And my hands, I didn’t even notice it at first. Shit. Where… where are my muscles? What the fuck are these, twigs?

I close my eyes and clench my teeth.

Fuck…

And at that exact moment, it’s like I get hit over the head.

Jacob. Fucking Jacob and his pills.

“You…” I hiss through my teeth, snapping my eyes open. “You motherf—”

The memories crash over me in a wave.

The club. Thundering music. Smoky, booze-soaked air. Lights blasting into my eyes. I’m standing at the bar, already anticipating my new life, and Jacob, with that damn smirk, is shoving those pills at me: “Bro, this is some new shit! You gotta try it before you become Uncle Sam’s property.” I laughed and swallowed them without even asking what the hell it was. After all, the last day before a new life should be memorable, right?

“Fuck…” I exhale, squinting as I look at the mirror.

There’s a naked girl in it, wearing nothing but panties, with huge, heavy tits, with a short-cropped head of hair, with that strange, confused expression on her face… and, what’s the most fucked up part, I realize immediately, this isn’t just “some” girl.

It’s me. It’s my fucking face. I mean literally mine, like if I had been born a woman.

“Jacob, you bastard…” my voice comes out high again, almost whiny, and that alone twists something inside me into a tight knot. “What the fuck did you give me…”

I hear the sound at the front door.

Someone’s inserting a key.

Mr. Ferguson? Fuck, why the hell is he coming in without knocking again? That old goat—

The thought doesn’t even have time to finish, because at that exact moment it hits me like an electric shock: I’m standing in the middle of the room almost naked, with these damn tits, with this body, and if he walks in right now and sees… sees this, then what the fuck am I supposed to tell him and where am I supposed to go! He’ll kick me out immediately and won’t bother figuring out why some chick is here instead of Kyle, who was supposed to move out today.

“Fuck-fuck-fuck…” I exhale, jerking sharply, and, almost tripping over my own feet, feeling how my tits immediately bounce painfully, slap against my ribs and pull me down, I rush toward the phone on the nightstand.

My fingers, thin, strangely nimble and at the same time far too sensitive, slide across the glass. For a second I even think about throwing the phone away, but on the third try I finally grab it, squeezing it way too hard, almost to the point of pain. I spin around on the spot and immediately feel my breasts swing heavily again, forcing me to instinctively hunch my shoulders.

The key in the door turns louder.

“SHIT…” I almost sob, and without thinking I bolt from the spot.

“Kyle?” Ferguson’s clearly puzzled voice sounds right away.

“ONE SECOND!” I yelp, and instantly realize how much it sounded not like “Kyle” at all, but like some scared little girl who just saw a spider. I bite my lip immediately, but it’s already too late.

My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it wants to burst out through these heavy tits. I spin around sharply and run to the bathroom, bare feet slapping against the linoleum while my breasts bounce heavily with every step, slapping against my ribs, knocking the breath out of me and making me move awkwardly, as if I’m learning to walk all over again.

I burst into the bathroom, nearly knocking the door off its hinges, slam it shut behind me and immediately lock it with trembling fingers.

“Kyle?” comes the voice, now muffled but still way too close. “Did you bring someone over?”

“I’M ALONE!” I shout back, and again that voice, too high, too soft, and from that everything inside me clenches so hard I feel like I’m about to throw up.

Silence.

“…What’s with the voice?” now with clear suspicion.

I freeze.

I literally freeze, pressing my back against the cold door, feeling a shiver run down my spine while this heavy chest slowly rises and falls, its skin sticking to the skin beneath it, and the sensation makes me shudder because it feels too real, too… built into my body, as if it’s supposed to be this way.

“Kyle?” Ferguson’s voice grows louder. He has clearly stepped closer to the apartment door. “Open up, kid. I heard a woman’s voice. Did you bring a whore into my place on your last day? I warned you — no girls!”

Girls. Yeah, right. No girls. I didn’t bring any. Fuck… Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“It’s… it’s not what you think!” I blurt out, trying to make my voice lower and rougher, but it only comes out as a strange, broken parody.

Pause from outside.

“Then open the door.”

“I… I can’t!”

“Why can’t you?” now harsher. “Kyle, you have a contract today. Why are you even still here? And… what the hell is all this mess, huh?”

I stay silent. Instead I search for Jacob’s contact in the phone. My fingers are shaking so badly I miss the screen twice, and only on the third try do I hit it. I press the phone to my ear while almost pushing my back into the door, as if it’s the only thing keeping me from total disaster.

Ringing.

Outside, Ferguson doesn’t leave.

I hear him shifting from foot to foot, muttering something under his breath, and it even sounds like he’s stepping closer, and from that everything inside me goes cold.

“Kyle, I’m going to use my key if you don’t…” he starts.

A click in my ear. He picked up, and I hear heavy breathing.

“Mmm…” a sleepy, hoarse voice. “Yeah..?”

“Jacob, what the hell did you give me?!” I whisper, trying to keep Ferguson from hearing, and at the same time forcing as much threat into my voice as I can.

“…Huh?” he answers with clear but still mild irritation, breathing heavily into the receiver. “Who is this anyway…”

“It’s Kyle, you idiot!” I hiss, trying to speak quieter because Ferguson is obviously listening right outside the door, and I’m pressing my back so hard against the cold wooden door that my shoulder blades ache. “I woke up and I… I’m not me! I have… I have—”

I look down at myself, at these breasts that are pushing forward, heavy and hot, and the words get stuck in my throat.

“…Are you serious?” he replies after a short pause, with obvious annoyance. “Look, if you’re one of those chicks I fucked once, just forget about it, okay? Honestly, my head is splitting right now, I’m not in the mood—”

“JACOB, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!” I snap in a whisper, and that whisper comes out breaking, high-pitched, almost hysterical, making me twist up inside. “It’s me, Kyle! Reynolds! We were drinking together yesterday, you gave me that fucking pill!”

Outside, Ferguson is already rattling the handle.

“Kyle, I’m counting to three!”

Meanwhile on the phone, after a long second that feels like forever, a muffled chuckle comes through, first quiet, as if he’s still not fully awake, then louder, annoyed and hoarse, like a guy who really doesn’t give a shit about anyone else’s problems right now.

“Aaah…” he drawls, and I can practically hear him wincing. “Kyle? Seriously? Fuck… Yeah. I didn’t even notice you were calling from his phone…”

“From my phone, you moron!” I hiss, squeezing it so hard my fingers hurt and my thin nails dig painfully into my palm. “What did you give me?! What the fuck was that shit?!”

From outside:

“One…” Ferguson starts, clearly not joking anymore.

I swallow, feeling my throat go dry while my heart starts pounding even faster, as if it’s trying to punch its way out through my ribcage from the inside. At the same time these very breasts rise and fall heavily, catching at the air, and with every movement I feel their weight, their presence, their fucking reality more and more.

“Jacob, answer me, goddamn it…” I say quieter now, almost through my teeth.

“You don’t have to…” he yawns straight into the receiver, and that sound pisses me off more than anything. “Seriously, girl, it’s not funny. Tell Kyle this is the dumbest joke—”

“I AM KYLE, YOU FUCKING DEGENERATE!” I snap, no longer holding back, and in the same second I realize I’m yelling in this female voice so loudly that Ferguson definitely won’t believe I’m alone anymore.

From outside:

“TWO!” Ferguson shouts, and the door handle jerks harder.

I can literally feel time tightening.

“Jacob…” I breathe out, quieter now, almost hoarse, pressing the phone so hard against my ear that it digs into my cheek. “Listen to me carefully. I woke up. In my apartment. And I…” my gaze drops down again to my chest, which is rising heavily, my nipples brushing the cool bathroom air and sending a sharp, irritating jolt through my body.

And just as I want to continue, I hear short beeps instead.

That asshole hung up!

“THREE!”

The handle jerks hard, the door slams into me, pushing me forward, and I barely keep my footing, throwing out a hand and bracing my palm against the cold tile, feeling my fingers slide over the smooth surface, while my other hand grips the phone like my life depends on it.

“…fuck!” I exhale, and feel the chill flood the small space along with Ferguson’s heavy gaze, and I can literally see his eyes bulging.

“What the fuck…” he rasps, staring straight at me. “You… who the hell are you? Where’s Kyle?!”

And right then time seems to drop away, stretching out, turning thick, not from any outside effect but from how my brain is desperately trying in a split second to come up with any version of what’s happening that won’t sound like complete nonsense. At the same time I’m standing in front of him almost naked, wearing only panties, with these heavy breasts that right now, as if on purpose, are rising faster and more noticeably, betraying every wave of panic.

“I…” I open my mouth, but the words won’t come, because how the fuck do you even explain this? “I… this is Kyle’s apartment… right?”

Kyle’s apartment? What the fuck was that? Brain, are you doing this on purpose?

Ferguson looks at me like I’m not even a person, but some kind of mistake. What the hell is he thinking right now? Fuck. No. I don’t even want to think about his thoughts, considering how every month he reminded me he doesn’t tolerate hookers. What the fuck, Kyle? Why the hell am I even worrying about whether he thinks I’m a hooker or not, huh?! Aaaah!

“This is my apartment, girl…” he continues, taking a step inside, and his gaze, heavy and piercing, literally slides over me from top to bottom, lingering on my breasts, on my stomach, on my panties. ‘Girl’, damn it! In that moment I feel for the first time so clearly how I look right now, how exposed this body is, how impossible it is to hide it while standing in the middle of this narrow bathroom where there’s nowhere even to step back.

“I…” I try again, instinctively starting to cover my chest and then yanking my hand away, only to bring it back.

Ferguson squints, drilling me with a long stare, or rather my wrist, or rather… shit, he’s staring at these… at my tits. And he does it with an expression like it’s my fault they’re there. Like I can just put them away somewhere right now.

“Don’t fuck with my head,” he says dully, taking another step forward, and I automatically step back, my lower back hitting the edge of the sink, the cold porcelain biting into my skin and making me flinch. “Where. Is. Kyle.”

I swallow, feeling my throat tighten, my tongue suddenly чужой, uncooperative, because the truth sounds insane, and lying… I don’t even know where to start.

“I… I…” I begin, and immediately stumble, because my brain frantically runs through options and finds none that don’t sound idiotic. “He… stepped out.”

Fuck. Seriously?

Ferguson looks at me like I just said the sky is green.

“Stepped out?” he repeats slowly. “Leaving… you?”

He emphasizes that last word in a way that makes it sound like I’m not a person, but a problem to be solved.

“I’m his sister!” I blurt, like I’ve just been asked a million-dollar question and finally found the answer, and at the same time I feel this horrible, crushing shame rising inside me, making me want to sink straight through the bathroom floor.

Ferguson raises an eyebrow. Slowly. Very slowly. Like he’s giving me a chance to realize what kind of bullshit I just said.

“A sister…” he repeats, crossing his arms over his chest. “Kyle never had a sister.”

I open my mouth.

Close it.

Fuck.

“Cousin!” I add instantly, way too fast, way too desperate. “No, stepsister,” I blurt out even faster, too quick, too sharp, and that makes him squint even harder. “On… on his father’s side. We didn’t keep in touch.”

“Hm…” he mutters, leaning closer to my face. Shit, I used to be taller than him, did I shrink that much? “Well… you do look alike.”

He says it uncertainly, but still, it feels like he’s buying it.

I stand there, pressed into the sink, and for the first time catch myself trying not to move at all, and out of the corner of my eye I see myself in the mirror. Yeah, Kyle, good job. At least you came up with something halfway decent this morning. In the mirror it’s still me, even if…

“What’s your name?” he suddenly asks.

“I— Ka… I mean…” I turn my head away, feeling my brain panic and stall. A name. Just a name. Any fucking name.

“…Katie,” I finally breathe out, almost at random.

Fuck. Katie? Seriously?

“I mean Kate. Actually, Catherine!” I add, but it feels like I’m just making it worse.

Ferguson squints, looking from me to my chest.

“Catherine, huh…” he drags out, the skepticism in his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And you just… showed up here this morning, in your underwear, no вещей, nothing?”

I swallow.

Fuck. Logic. He’s right.

“I…” I start, feeling my mind stall again. “Mr. Ferguson, maybe I… can I get dressed?”

Ferguson doesn’t answer right away. He’s standing too close, and his gaze slides over me again, lingering where it shouldn’t, and something inside me tightens uncomfortably. I instinctively press my arm a bit tighter against my chest, like that could hide anything.

“Get dressed?” he repeats. “Into fishnets and some see-through top?”

I freeze for a second, not immediately understanding what he even means.

“No…” I exhale, and my voice comes out too soft again, too… not mine. “Into normal clothes. I have, uh… I mean, he has clothes here. Different ones.”

Ferguson watches me for a few more seconds, like he’s trying to piece this together, empty apartment, me in men’s underwear, locked in the bathroom, with a face that, fuck, really does resemble Kyle’s, and none of it adds up.

“You’ve got five minutes,” he finally says, stepping back. “Then you come out, and we talk properly. Got it?”

I nod too quickly.

“Yeah… yeah, of course.”

He lingers for another second, his gaze catching on me again, and I can almost physically feel it, like my skin tightens under it, then he turns away and mutters,

“Shouldn’t have cut your hair.”

I hear him walking through the apartment. Stopping somewhere, judging by the heavy sigh. Then the steps move farther away.

Why the hell is he taking so long, you old bastard? Just leave already! And what the hell was that about… hair?

Another step. I tense again, but for nothing. The sound moves farther away.

I hear the front door open.

Click.

I stand still for a few more seconds, not moving at all, like if I shift even a little, everything will snap back, and he’ll be there again, in the doorway, with that look.

Then I slowly breathe out, feeling the heavy breasts rise and fall once more, reminding me of their presence, but right now it’s like I’m answering them, “No, I don’t have time for you right now…”

“Phew…” I whisper under my breath, lifting a hand to the back of my head. “…hair…”

My fingers slide over my short, almost prickly, familiar buzzcut.

I take a deep breath.

“Fuck you…” I mutter quietly, not even sure anymore who I mean, Jacob, Ferguson, or this whole situation, and slowly step away from the door, still not fully believing he actually left, that that short, humiliating, almost exposing conversation is over and bought me at least a few minutes.

I take a step toward the sink, and immediately catch how my body moves differently, a bit more careful, with some strange adjustment for the weight in front, for the balance, for these… fucking tits, which sway heavily again, making me instinctively tense my shoulders.

“Fuck…” I breathe through my teeth and, unable to stop myself, glance down again, and there they are.

Tits.

Nope. They’re still right there, damn them. Still just as heavy and real.

I turn away sharply and brace my palms on the edge of the sink, feeling the cold porcelain under my fingers, and how the heavy mass on my chest sags at that very moment, pulling me forward, then slaps against itself with a quiet, wet smack and settles, swaying heavily in time with my shaky breathing.

No. Don’t pay attention to it, Kyle. This is all temporary. This… this is just a side effect and tomorrow. No, tonight, it will all pass.

Fuck.

The contract… the Army! I’m supposed to be there in half an hour!

I lift my head and look in the mirror.

God. Is this really me?

Not just “looks similar.” Not “as if.” Not some random girl I’m looking at from the outside.

This is, fuck, me. With my eyes, with that familiar crease between my brows when I’m angry, with the same shape of lips… only now all of it is arranged on a face that is softer, finer, as if someone took me and ran me through some filter, stripping away all the roughness, all the hardness, leaving something… different.

And the body.

I slowly straighten up, and the movement immediately answers back. My breasts shift heavily again, pulling downward, and I almost automatically push my shoulders forward, as if trying to compensate for the weight.

“The contract…” I breathe out, and the word sounds somehow ridiculous in this setting, in this bathroom, with this body.

I check the time on my phone.

10:37.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…” I whisper, and at that moment something inside me clicks sharply.

Because I realize I won’t get another chance. I fought for this spot for a whole year, and if they offer me anything later, it definitely won’t be in the unit I wanted. And to not fuck all of this up, I have to go. No, damn it, I have to run. Right now.

I straighten up sharply, feeling the inner panic turn into something else.

“No,” I say to myself, looking straight into my reflection’s eyes. “No, fuck that. I’m not going anywhere like this.”

I stare at myself for another second, as if hoping the reflection will blink, distort, fall apart, but of course it doesn’t.

Fuck that Jacob.

I drop my gaze to the hand holding the phone.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice my breasts sway again from the movement, but somehow I barely register it. Instead, I only now realize that all the hair on my body has disappeared, and that somehow looks even stranger than everything else.

Probably my brain decided right then to shift focus to something more “realistic,” because otherwise it would just burn out trying to process this body, this voice, and the fact that in twenty-something minutes I’m supposed to be standing in front of people who will decide my fate, instead of standing here, fuck, in the bathroom in panties with breasts that shouldn’t even exist.

I exhale sharply and clench my fingers into tight little fists.

“Pull yourself together,” I quietly tell myself, and I even hear how strange it sounds coming from this mouth, but I still cling to it like the last thread. “Just… pull yourself together… Katie.”

I add the last part with a stupid grin on my face, and from the sound of it, from this ridiculous, almost mocking attempt to cheer myself up with the new name, a nervous little laugh escapes me for a second. The sound of it makes me laugh even harder. I snort louder, and immediately feel how the laugh shakes my whole body, making my breasts bounce heavily, which only amuses me more.

It felt like a whirlpool or… hysteria?

The laugh bursts out on its own, sharp, ragged, almost hysterical, and the more I try to stop it, the harder it rolls over me, echoing in my chest with heavy, dull thuds that set my breasts moving again, forcing me to automatically hunch my shoulders and breathe out through my teeth.

“Ha… ha…” I exhale, but it doesn’t sound like laughter at all, more like something is about to overwhelm me completely.

My breasts sway heavily with every breath, with every push of air, only adding fuel to the fire.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, ha-ha,” I say out loud now, still laughing, straightening up sharply and looking in the mirror with a smile as I address my reflection. “Kaaaatie! No. No-no-no! Kaaaatrrrine, right?!”

I stand in front of the mirror, still shaking from this stupid, hysterical laughter, staring at my reflection, at Katie, Kate, Katherine, fuck, whatever. My breasts bounce heavily in time with every “ha,” my nipples sticking out hard, while my short-cropped hair stands up in a prickly buzz cut, making me look like some army chick after a bad haircut.

“Kaaaatie…” I repeat out loud, stretching the syllables, and the laughter escapes again, but quieter now, turning into heavy, broken breathing. “No, fuck, no… I’m not Katherine. I… I’m fucking soldier Katherine!” I force out through the laughter, and my voice comes out high and cracking, like a girl who just got slapped and now doesn’t know whether to cry or keep laughing.

The laughter cuts off by itself, sharply, as if someone flipped a switch inside my head.

I freeze, still staring at the reflection, and suddenly realize that behind the laughter there is only emptiness. Not relief. Not acceptance. Just overload.

“I… soldier…” I repeat quieter now, and it sounds dull, uncertain.

My gaze drops to my chest. It keeps rising and falling with my breathing, heavy, real, still there.

I clench my teeth.

“Fuck it,” I finally say, calmer now, almost angry. “Fuck it.”

A knock on the door.

Short, with knuckles, as if it is no longer Ferguson trying to barge in with fresh suspicion, but reality itself, tired of waiting for me to laugh myself into a nervous breakdown, has decided to remind me that time has not stopped, and that in the world outside this cramped white box there are still clocks, contracts, people, decisions, and consequences that have not gone anywhere just because a heavy pair of tits grew on me overnight and I now have a pussy between my legs.

10

I jerk so sharply that my elbow hits the metal towel holder, it clanks, and that sound sends a cold shiver down my spine.

"Catherine?" Ferguson’s muffled voice comes from outside, and there’s something so absurd about it that for a second I almost break into nervous laughter again. "You alive in there?"

I freeze, staring into the room and somewhere beyond it, toward the front door that isn’t in my line of sight but that I can clearly picture.

Damn.

He called me Catherine.

He fucking remembered.

"Yeah," I answer, and even I can hear how it comes out too fast, too thin, like I really am some girl locked in the bathroom for God knows what reason. "Everything’s fine."

"Doesn’t sound like it," he grumbles through the door. "You’re either yelling or laughing like a lunatic. I don’t need that shit in my apartment, got it? If someone dumped you here, that’s not my problem."

His words cut deeper than they should, because for a second I almost forget that he doesn’t know who I am. To him I really am just some half-dressed girl, suddenly found in his tenant’s bathroom, and everything he sees right now is only that: tits, panties, short hair, panic, lies. Not Kyle. Not the guy who paid rent on time for half a year, carried boxes, put up with his nagging, and was supposed to, damn it, start a new life today. Just a problem in the bathroom, who the fuck… got dumped and hurt?!

"I’m not dressed yet," I say, trying to steady my voice. "Give me… a minute."

"You already had five," he cuts in, but then, to my surprise, doesn’t argue further. Instead, more muffled now as he walks away, he adds, "And if you stole anything from Kyle, you better put it back right now."

I grit my teeth.

"Go fuck yourself," I whisper almost soundlessly, stepping into the room and at the same time cursing everything in existence, starting with Jacob and ending with this stupid fucking udder that is now part of my body.

The room greets me with the same mess, but now it looks… different. Like these aren’t my things anymore, but someone else’s props.

"Okay… no! What the hell are these stupid thoughts, Kyle…" I mutter, moving toward the wardrobe.

Get dressed. Grab documents, money, clothes. Then I’ll go to Jacob and punch his face in.

Yeah. That’s what I’ll do. And Ferguson can go fuck himself… and what the hell was with the way he was staring? If this were a real girl, that could’ve passed as harassment!

Old bastard.

But first. First, I need to get dressed.