Fateful Force-Majeure (Patreon)

“Ugh... what... what was that?” — leaning against the cold molding of the mirror, Estelle thought, still keeping her eyes shut and wrinkling her beautiful little nose. The bright flash that had burst out a few seconds ago had long vanished, but the imprint it left on her retina was still pulsing like a burn.

— Um... — she began, then abruptly stopped, hearing her own voice.

It was... high. Soft. A bit husky, with a hint of erotic laziness — like a smoky-voiced cabaret diva after a long night. That sound, torn from her throat, shocked not just her ears, but her entire essence. It was... a woman’s voice.

‘What the fuck..?’ — shot through her head as she finally opened her eyes, trying to recognize something around her. But judging by the first signs, it was still the same bathroom in that strange hotel, the one Estelle — or, to be more precise, Max Brake, a killer, a nameless operative working from the shadows — had rented after a minor roadside fuck-up with a blown-out tire. He’d been on his way to another mission, to take out someone he’d forget about six months later. But even professionals have force-majeures.

And there it was. A tall, old house, nothing like a hotel, turned out to be the only shelter nearby, and Max, gritting his teeth, decided it was better than spending the night in the car. The house loomed like a frozen ghost of the past, with time-darkened shutters and Gothic touches on the façade. The sign — half-faded, reading Maison de Miroirs — looked more like the name of a bohemian salon than a hotel.

The woman who opened the door was just as strange as the house itself — with sleekly combed silver hair, a velvet robe, and eyes that seemed to see right through you. Her thin fingers curled around an antique key.

— Will the “Estelle” room do? — her voice echoed like a whisper in a tomb.

— Don’t care, — Max snapped. — One night.

He didn’t ask questions. Just walked in, feeling the creak of parquet under his boots and the door shutting behind him as he headed to wash up, stepping up to the sink.

...

And now Estelle — or the one who just moments ago had been Max Brake — opened her eyes, and the world tilted. Everything swam before her: the mirror’s contours, the dim pink lights, the plasterwork — it was all like a dream. But the sensations... they were painfully real.

First — the weight. Breasts. There was no denying it — she could feel them. They were heavy, pulling down, softly but with a humiliating kind of clarity. These round, weighty buds rested submissively on her ribs, wrapped in the sheer fabric of a short nightgown, making their presence unmistakable. Each breath tugged at the thin fabric, caressing her skin, sending a shiver through her — strange, shameful.

Next — the hair. It tickled her shoulders, neck, back. Heavy waves fell down, tangling, sticking to her damp skin, and with every shake of the head they felt alive, like someone was gently stroking her — his — nape.

Max... Estelle... tried to move, to step back, but the heels — those fucking clear heels — clacked against the tiles, breaking the fragile silence of the room. Her heel wobbled, her foot slid to the side, and she almost fell, grabbing the sink with both hands, feeling her breasts bounce with the motion.

She hadn’t seen her body yet, but she already knew for certain: this body belonged to a woman.

— What the fuck... — she whispered, finally catching sight of her reflection, where a woman with full plump lips, soft smooth skin with slightly pink cheeks, and long eyelashes was opening her mouth in tension and rage — as if that was her reflection. There was a mix of innocence and depravity in her features, like nature itself was mocking her, having embedded in that face the traits of all the women Max had ever used, discarded, or simply watched with cold detachment. In other words — the ones he’d always considered “dumb sluts.”

She squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds, as if hoping this was just a hallucination, a dream, or something else. But nothing changed. She could still feel the soft motion of her tits under the light fabric of the nightgown — heavy, obedient, swaying with every breath. They were breathing with her. No, stronger than her. As if they were in charge now, setting the rhythm for the whole body. Her nipples tightened under the fabric — sensitive, vulnerable, alien to everything she had ever been.

Max would’ve cursed, but his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. Instead of a rough growl, a quiet, barely audible moan escaped his throat — filled more with shame than anger. He tried to square his shoulders — automatically, like a man — and felt how that pose only made the swell of his breasts more obvious. And the nightgown... So short, and with such delicate, thin fabric, only added to the femininity — especially considering it didn’t even cover her ass, barely concealed by those uncomfortable panties.

— Okay... Stop... Easy... — the voice sounded far too erotic to even pass as commanding, even to herself, and Estelle felt it might’ve been better not to say anything at all — it made her feel even worse.

She stepped back from the mirror — and then froze at the sight of the letters scattered on the floor. Colorful, scented, some with dried flowers. Hearts, curls, calligraphy... One envelope was torn open, and a photo had fallen out. A man with a curled mustache, a dreamy smile, and a note scribbled on the back: “My goddess Estelle, I can’t wait to see your dance again...”

Max grabbed the photo. And instantly saw the date in the corner. June 5th, 1924.

— No... — she whispered, feeling a chill crawl down her spine. — Is this some kind of joke?

But the room said otherwise. The reflection even more so. The letters, the scent, even the damp, steam-fogged tiles under her heels — it was all too real. As real as her tits and the emptiness between her legs where her cock used to be. All of it was too damn obvious to deny.

Suddenly, a soft creak of the door.

Estelle turned sharply — her breasts bounced a moment later, making the nightgown slip further up her thigh. In the doorway stood the same woman. The hostess.

— So you’re awake now, ma chérie... — she tilted her head slightly, smiling like everything was going exactly as planned. — How does it feel? Or... perhaps I should ask differently. How does it feel to be Her?

Max — Estelle — clenched her fists, thin wrists trembling.

— What the hell did you do to me, you old witch?

The woman laughed. Softly, melodically, like someone gently stroking strings.

— I merely... — the hostess began softly, stepping closer, and the lamp behind her cast sinister shadows over her face — offered you a room. Estelle. You agreed. Which means... you knew exactly what you needed.

She spoke with such calm certainty, as if explaining the rules of a game Estelle had already been playing without even realizing it.

— The world is full of those who take. But you... like a beautiful cabaret dancer —

— she paused, tilting her head — now you give. Beauty. Desire. And as a woman... even life itself. Isn’t that more important than being a machine for killing, mon ange?

— You bitch... — Estelle breathed, fists trembling, nails digging into her palms. — Change it back. Give ME back!

— But you're already here. — The voice shifted. Deeper. Velvet. And no longer the hostess’s. Estelle blinked — and before her stood a man. Tall, broad, wearing nothing but a loose robe, revealing his muscular chest and the clear outline of an erection below. His hair was tousled, lips slightly parted, and his eyes burned with hunger.

— Ma belle Éstie... — he whispered, stepping closer. — You’re calling me again. I missed you. My goddess… my dancer…

— Where is she?.. — Estelle took a step back, bumping against the sink. — That old witch... Where is she?!

— What are you talking about, my love? — The man looked at her like something familiar, something his. He took a step forward and reached out. — There was no one here. Just you and me.

— No... — she hissed, but even her voice trembled with doubt. It didn’t sound like her anymore — it was high, breathy, tinged with fear and... something else.

— No, no, no... — the words repeated, but each time softer. Almost like moans. And she heard them. And understood.

Her shoulders tensed as he touched her arm. His skin was tanned, warm. He slid his hand up to her shoulder, along the collarbone — and chills ran down her spine. Her nipples tightened, sharply visible beneath the fabric of her shirt. Her tits reacted first — offended, hungry, like they’d been waiting all this time to be touched.

— Don’t touch me… — she hissed, but didn’t pull away. And didn’t look away. He was magnetic.

— You’re trembling... — he whispered, pressing closer. — It’s alright. I’m here, Ma belle.

Her breath turned ragged, her hands shook — not from fear, but from arousal. That much was clear. Even in her mind, where just moments ago everything screamed “This is a mistake. I’m Max. I’m not a woman,” — now there was a different voice. Soft. Sensual. Estelle. It told her what she wanted. That she wanted this man. Wanted to be loved.

— NO... — she cried out, and maybe it could’ve been noble — if not for the way her back arched, the moan that slipped through her lips. Her breasts heaved with her breath, her thighs clenched, and the nightgown seemed damper now, nearly stuck to her skin. And at the end of that “NO,” her head tilted just slightly toward the man, lips parting in silent expectation of a kiss.

In the background, from nowhere, came the soft, lingering laughter of the hotel’s hostess.