Russian girls (Patreon)

‘Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Of course. I totally believe this is real,’ Filipp kept repeating to himself, leaning his elbow against the edge of the sink and feeling with startling clarity as his two soft, warm, strangely heavy tits draped over his arm, their weight shifting a little with every movement of his body. The fingers of his other hand clumsily pushed a lock of long hair behind his ear, the strands feeling just as unfamiliar against his neck, cheek, and bare shoulder; some slipped right back, brushed teasingly over his skin, and fell onto his breasts, making Filipp look at his reflection again.

“Right. Perfect,” the girl in the mirror said in an unexpectedly soft voice, a little hoarse from sleep, and Filipp fell silent. Then, literally a second later, he burst out laughing, first briefly, almost soundlessly, then in earnest, throwing his head back and immediately grimacing at another utterly ridiculous sensation: his tits swung heavily with his body, his hair fell into his face, and the mirror showed him a laughing girl with dark hair, about twenty five, mascara smudged beneath her eyes, looking as though she understood perfectly well how absurd the whole thing was.

“Well, of course,” he finally gasped, wiping away the tears that laughter had brought to his eyes. “So now I’m... some Christina or something. Or who? What a dream.”

Of course, he didn’t believe any of this could be real, even after years of jerking off to utterly idiotic fantasies about waking up a woman one day, feeling for himself every sensual detail he could usually only fantasize about, and being forced to live in a new body for at least a while.

“Oh. Well, okay. Since I’m here and this fucked up dream feels so real, why not have a little fun... ahem. God,” he added, covering his mouth, “and what a tiny little birdlike voice.”

He looked in the mirror again, this time more carefully, and slowly straightened up, as if he were going to inspect not himself but an especially well made costume. His narrow shoulders rose with an inhale, his tits settled heavily lower, his long hair slid over his back and collarbones, and his slender waist flared into noticeably wider hips in a way that felt utterly unfamiliar. Filipp turned in front of the mirror, first one way, then the other, still grinning and waiting to spot some ridiculous detail that would give the dream away for good.

“God, what an imagination I’ve got...” he muttered, running his palms down his sides and stopping at his hips. “I even made the body exactly like this. Nice job, Filipp. Boy, did I make a wish. Haha.”

Only then did his gaze happen to drop to the edge of the sink, where an unfamiliar phone in a pink, cracked case lay beside a cheap makeup bag. The screen suddenly lit up with a new message, and the sender’s name appeared in large letters at the top: Vadim.

Filipp stared at the name for a few seconds, then snorted and reached for the phone, still treating what was happening as just another detail in an overly elaborate dream. At that movement, his tits swayed softly again, one of his long locks stuck to his lips, and he had to blow it irritably aside before he could unlock the screen. The phone didn’t ask for a password.

The message was short: “Lera, where are you? Seryoga’s already called. And don’t start up again, you’ve got two clients today.” The smile stayed on Filipp’s face for another two seconds, then grew noticeably less certain. He read the message again, looked up at his own reflection, and said quietly, “Ah. So not Christina. Lera. Fine, dream, keep surprising me.”

He was about to put the phone away, but the screen immediately lit up again, playing some old Russian tune he didn’t know, one about some accountant.

“Um... Helloooo,” Filipp drawled cheerfully, holding the phone to his ear and glancing at his reflection again, as if the funniest thing of all would be hearing this ridiculous girlish voice from the outside too.

“What? Lera, are you drunk or something?” an unfamiliar man immediately barked in Russian through the receiver. “Where the hell are you wandering around? Vadik’s been looking for you since morning, Seryoga’s already mad as a dog, and you pick up the phone and start meowing.”

Filipp froze for a second, then smiled despite himself and pressed the phone a little more tightly to his ear. The movement itself turned out to be unexpectedly awkward: his hair got under his hand, his slender arm quickly grew tired holding the phone, and the moment he shifted his weight to the other leg, his hips swayed to the side on their own, making his reflection settle into a completely natural pose for this girl, one he’d never consciously struck in his life.

“Wait,” he said, still more amused than frightened. “You speak Russian? Am I Russian?”

There was silence on the other end.

“Lera,” the man said slowly, his voice now completely different, “it’s Mishka. What do you mean, ‘Am I Russian?’ Have you been eating some pills again? You spent the night at the Volga, right?”

Filipp’s smile didn’t disappear right away. He automatically examined the bathroom more closely: cracked tile by the bathtub, a cloudy mirror, cheap yellow soap in a plastic dish, a towel with faded blue flowers. Then he looked at the phone, thick and strangely heavy, with its tiny monochrome screen, and only now, for some reason, noticed that he wasn’t holding a smartphone at all. He slowly lowered the handset, and as he moved, his long hair slid forward over his shoulder, his tits dragged his upper body down with their unmistakable weight, and all at once this impossible physical realism stopped feeling like an amusing bit of dream scenery.

“Wait,” he said cautiously, bringing the phone back to his ear, “what year is it?”

“Have you gone completely fucking crazy?” Mishka asked after a short pause. “Ninety eight. August twenty first. Ler, you’re actually starting to scare me.”

Filipp slowly lowered the phone from his ear and stared at his reflection. For some reason, it was the date that sounded more convincing than anything else. He stood still for a few more seconds, feeling his tits tug slightly under their own weight, his long hair tickle his bare back, and the tile chill his bare feet unpleasantly. Then he gave a nervous laugh, but this time the girl in the mirror barely smiled.

“Ninety eight,” he repeated quietly and brought the receiver back to his ear. “Mish... who am I, anyway?”

“Lera, seriously? Cut the crap!” Mishka snapped irritably. “You’re Valeriya Sokolova. Twenty five. From Tver. You work as a whore, ahem, sorry, you entertain clients. And if you’re about to start singing that you don’t remember anything, just know this: I’m taking that debt back anyway. Or your kidney, got it?”

Filipp didn’t answer. For a while he just stood with the phone to his ear, looking at the mirror as if he hoped the girl there would at least laugh with him now and everything would finally break apart into the incoherent pieces of an ordinary dream. But nothing fell apart. On the contrary, the longer he stayed silent, the more clearly he felt the weight of his own body: his heavy tits, the skin tugging a little with every breath, the soft pressure of his thighs against each other, his long hair spread over his back and chest. And especially the absence of the thing that had always seemed so natural he’d never even noticed it was there. Filipp instinctively pressed his legs closer together and froze at once, feeling that absence even more clearly.

“Wait... what debt?”

“Your fucking debt, what do you think?” Mishka answered tiredly, as though explaining the obvious to someone who’d decided to play dumb again. “You owe Seryoga seven grand. Plus the hotel, plus the fine from the day before yesterday. And don’t play the saint, Ler, you know all about it. Vadik will come get you in an hour, get dressed properly and come downstairs.” He paused for a second, then added more quietly, “And for God’s sake, clean yourself up. Yesterday you looked like you’d been dragged along the asphalt.”

The busy signal came through the receiver along with the rising panic of Filipp, or Lera now.

She swallowed.

The phone was still pressed to her ear, even though all it had been doing for a while was giving short beeps, and for some reason her free hand had settled on her lower belly. Her fingers slowly pressed into the smooth skin, as if she might find some explanation beneath it, a mistake, a seam, anything.

Nothing. Only a soft belly, a slender waist above her palm, and an unfamiliar emptiness between her tightly pressed thighs, now almost provocatively vivid precisely because she had started thinking about it.

“Seven... thousand dollars,” Lera repeated quietly, finally pulling the phone away from her ear. “A whore. Ninety eight. Tver. Great. Just fucking great.”

Her gaze slowly shifted to the mirror. Then down to her breasts. Then to the small, slender hand holding the phone.

All of this was real. Too real for a dream.

And it seemed that Filipp’s wish, once phrased on a particularly idiotic evening almost as a joke, ‘I want to wake up as a broad at least once and have no way to wriggle out of it,’ had come true with a kind of literal, malicious precision.

A foreign country, big tits, debts, a whore... It certainly wasn’t the worst set of circumstances his imagination had led him into, but on the other hand, only half an hour had passed since he woke up.