Commander Brans's Field Notes (Patreon)

The tropical forest's unbelievable humidity, a constant companion to the Delta special forces, especially over the past few days, seemed even heavier now. Moisture hung in the air, settled on body armor, trickled down helmets, and collected, almost deep enough to form a little lake, in the warm hollow between the breasts of the very woman Sergeant Hale had been carrying in his arms through the jungle for a good hour now.

It was uncomfortable for both of them to move like this. For him, because of his weapon, webbing, and the unfamiliar weight; for her, because the short pink dress was utterly unsuited to the jungle or to being carried like this. The thin straps dug into her damp shoulders, the soaked fabric clung to her body, and with every one of his steps her heavy breasts shifted noticeably beneath the snug bodice, their weight tugging at it and making her grit her teeth in irritation. Worse still was the way she lay in his arms: one dirty glove supported her back, the other gripped her bare thighs firmly, and because of the humiliating position her arm had to rest on Hale's shoulder, almost encircling his neck. Whenever the sergeant took a wider step or climbed over another root, her body slid softly in his arms, her hips swayed a little, her dress crept higher, and she instinctively pressed herself harder against his body armor, her cheek feeling the hard fabric of his gear.

"Therrre..." Grimacing at the sound of her own drawn-out voice, she pointed sharply somewhere between the wet tree trunks. "To the right. Behind that tree..."

There was no answer. The sergeant kept walking as if he hadn't heard her at all, and only a few seconds later did she realize why. Hale wasn't looking where she was pointing. His gaze had dropped lower, straight to the snug pink bodice, where her breasts were visibly moving with every step. He had even tilted his head a little, apparently forgetting completely that he was carrying his own commanding officer, not some random girl.

She slowly shifted her gaze from his face to herself, then back again, and pouted in disbelief.

"Heeeyle..." she drawled, almost plaintively, pushing out her lower lip, then sharply twitching her brows in anger when she heard her own tone and tried to recover her commanding air. "Where the hell are you looking, Sergeant?"

Hale quickly raised his eyes, feeling heat flood his cheeks.

"Keeping an eye on our route, sir," he answered too quickly, then stared demonstratively straight ahead.

"Yeah, sure, fuck, the route..." She snorted angrily, but it didn't sound commanding: it came out quiet, almost petulant, and her lips formed themselves into that displeased, plump pout again. That irritated her more than Hale's stare had. She jerked in his arms, trying to compose herself more sternly, though all she managed to do was make her breasts shift heavily inside the tight bodice. His hand beneath her thigh had to slide lower, a little closer to her ass, just to keep her from slipping.

The commander went perfectly still, feeling that shift even through the wet fabric of her dress, and stared at Hale for several seconds with an expression that made it seem as if he, personally, were to blame, rather than the ancient artifact that Brans, commander of the Delta squad, had foolishly picked up from a stone pedestal in the ruins just an hour ago. Back then he had body armor, an assault rifle, weighed a solid hundred and ninety pounds, and had a very real cock that had been part of him all his life, one whose length he had always been proud of. Now...

"Move your hand higher, Sergeant," she grated, nodding at the palm beneath her thigh, but the cursed voice stretched out the last word almost tenderly: "Plee-e-ease..."

Brans closed her eyes and rested her forehead against Hale's shoulder for a second. It happened on its own, as if in answer to the impulse that had risen inside her after that drawn-out "please," a word she hadn't wanted to say at all but had still let slip, giving in to the sensible thought, fleeting as it was, that she shouldn't be so hard on the man who'd already been carrying her through this cursed thicket for a whole hour.

"Shit!" Brans cursed with her face still buried in his shoulder and struck him with her little fist. The attempt was pathetic: instead of the usual heavy punch, there was only a short, soft thud, which Hale seemed barely to feel. She felt it, though, as her whole new body swayed at the motion, a thin strap tightened, and her breasts settled heavily against the edge of his gear. Brans slowly lifted her head. "And don't you fucking dare smile."

"I'm not smiling, sir."

"You're smiling right now."

"No, sir."

"Hale..."

His name came out drawn-out again, almost like a purr. Brans angrily bit her lower lip, but the worst part came after: somewhere inside her, that warm, utterly misplaced satisfaction rolled through her again because the sergeant had obediently moved his hand higher and was holding her more carefully now. For one moment she even wanted to settle her head more comfortably against his shoulder, and that thought alone made her straighten up as sharply as her position in his arms allowed.

"How far to the base?" she asked curtly.

Hale looked ahead.

"Forty minutes, if we don't have to go around the swamp."

Brans, who had never complained about anything in her life, slowly closed her eyes.

"Forty? Foooorty minutes like this?"

She heard herself, opened her eyes, and looked at the sergeant with genuine hatred, as though he had made her say it, and in that voice too.

"Not a word."

"Yes, sir."

And yet, in spite of her irritation, she gradually grew quiet in his arms. Forty minutes. Then the base. The med bay. The radio operator. The others. Then the inevitable explanation for why the mission commander had returned from the jungle not in body armor but in a short pink dress and high heels, why Sergeant Hale had carried him, her, damn it all, in his arms, and what exactly Brans intended to report to the brass.

'Found an artifact, touched it, turned into a woman' sounded so idiotic that she let out an almost silent snort.

And what then? What if they couldn't undo it? The barracks? Her papers? Her uniform? The showers? How could she live if every movement felt different now, if her breasts got in the way even when she was just trying to lie still, if her hips took up more space in someone else's arms, and if her voice turned an order into some sweet, drawn-out whine?..

The thought went further, where Brans had absolutely no intention of letting it go: if she had to live like this, what would happen with women? And why were men suddenly appearing in her thoughts instead? At first they were faceless, then, for some reason, there were broad shoulders, arms, stubble, the smell of sweat and cologne, and the utterly shameful thought of what it might feel like to end up in the arms of one of those strong "boys," no longer as Commander Brans but as this soft, petite blonde. She didn't even notice herself slowly running her tongue over her lower lip.

Brans jolted as sharply as if she'd been electrocuted. 'What the fuck?' flashed through her mind, but she said nothing aloud. She didn't even feel like swearing anymore. She only furrowed her brow, as if that could still restore some kind of order to what was happening, and then, without thinking about the movement at all, pressed her little nose deeper into Hale's shoulder and nestled her soft body against him. The sergeant slowed his step for a second, but wisely said nothing. Brans said nothing either.