The First Time (Patreon)

There I was, a man who had spent the last three years without a relationship and who, in all my thirty-seven years, had probably spent no more than a year in relationships altogether, and now an almost naked girl was standing right in front of me. My girlfriend, by the way. Twenty-five years old, with long dark hair, slender little arms, narrow shoulders, and an absolutely incredible pair of tits that hung almost to her belly button under their own weight. The only thing she still had on was a pair of black thongs with thin little strings tied at the sides. She stood in the middle of my bedroom, frowning and staring at me as though I were responsible for everything that had happened to her. Although, come to think of it, I probably was.

"Well?" she finally demanded. "Seen enough?"

I swallowed hard and immediately looked away, like some embarrassed schoolboy instead of a successful grown man with a good job, his own apartment in a Chicago suburb, and a pretty decent income.

Michael Harris, nice to meet you, by the way, I'm a senior systems architect at an insurance company, make a hundred and forty thousand dollars a year, and until recently considered myself someone who was pretty damn hard to embarrass. But right now, I had absolutely no idea where to look or what to say to a woman who, just eight months ago, had been a forty-eight-year-old man named Richard Wallace, and who had ended up with those enormous tits and this entire life because of me. Probably. It's just that everything had lined up so perfectly that it seemed almost impossible to believe.

Back then, late one Saturday night, I'd stumbled across a website offering people the chance to describe their most unusual fantasy in detail. No promises, no explanations, just a big text box and a Submit button. Slightly drunk and absolutely convinced I was typing into the void, I'd spelled out every last detail. I wanted to date a girl who used to be a real man. Not some guy dressed up as a woman, but a grown, successful, domineering bastard who was used to ordering people around. I wanted him to now look like a delicate twenty-five-year-old beauty with a completely disproportionate figure and enormous tits hanging down to her belly button, have some ridiculous name, work a job humiliatingly beneath his former status, and have absolutely everyone around him see him exclusively as a stupid woman, which was exactly what she'd become because she'd actually gotten dumber. And most importantly, I wanted her to be crazy about me. Not just find me attractive or consider me a suitable boyfriend, but literally fall head over heels in love with me, completely against her own will.

I even remember specifying that his personality should stay exactly the same. No sudden transformation into some obedient little bimbo. Let him get angry, swear, argue, and remember perfectly well who he used to be. At the time, I thought that would only make the whole thing more interesting.

Then I clicked Submit, closed the tab, and promptly forgot all about it. Until three months ago, when I walked into the Pretty Kitty beauty salon in Naperville to buy a gift certificate for my sister. Behind the reception desk sat an incredibly curvy brunette with a sour expression and a name tag that read "Bambi." She was talking on the phone, irritably tapping her long nails against the countertop while trying to explain to some customer that she couldn't process a refund on her own. When I approached, she raised her eyes, looked at me, and suddenly stopped talking in the middle of a sentence.

"Mike," her voice brought me back to reality. "Are you even listening to me?"

I looked at Bambi again. She was still standing in the middle of my bedroom, but now she'd crossed her arms beneath her enormous boobs, pushing them upward, while her face twisted into an annoyed grimace, as if even that simple movement made her uncomfortable.

"I'm listening," I answered.

"They're fucking ugly, I know," Bambi muttered, lowering her eyes to her tits. "I shouldn't have come over. I could've stayed home, watched some stupid TV show, and saved myself the embarrassment."

"Bambi, they're not ugly. You're beautiful."

"Oh my God, Michael." She rolled her eyes, trying once again to look completely unfazed, but immediately blushed. It seemed like practically anything I said made her blush these days, even the most innocent compliments, and it pissed her off beyond belief. Especially because she knew perfectly well how ridiculous she looked.

"I'm forty-eight years old, Michael. Forty-fucking-eight. I spent twenty-seven years in intelligence, ran the CIA's Operations Directorate for the last six, reported directly to the Director, and gave orders to people who could organize a coup in some African shithole. You think I can't tell when someone's lying to me? Although, yeah, lately I really haven't been seeing everything as clearly as I used to."

She fell silent, angrily pursing her lips, and tried to tuck her hair behind her ear. Her long nails caught in a strand, forcing her to try again, after which Bambi cursed in irritation. I noticed that she'd been trying to stand straight the entire time, almost like a soldier, but her narrow shoulders were gradually sagging, and her hands kept returning to her breasts, as though she still couldn't get used to their sheer weight.

"You piss me off," she finally declared, looking me straight in the eyes. "Especially when you just stand there like a fucking idiot."

It was obvious that even moving was difficult for her, but she took a step toward me and came almost right up against me, only to sway awkwardly on the final step and grab my forearm, and I, for reasons I couldn't even explain, immediately caught her and scooped her up into my arms, which wasn't exactly difficult considering she weighed maybe fifty-five kilograms, no more. Bambi let out a frightened little squeak, wrapped her arms around my neck, and immediately got angry with herself for making that sound.

"Harris, what the fuck?! Put me down!"

"You almost fell."

"I wasn't falling! I lost my balance, those are two completely different things! And who the fuck gave you permission to carry me around?!"

I was about to argue, but then I noticed she wasn't even trying to break free. She just kept frowning, blushing, and looking up at me with such outrage that you'd think I'd committed some particularly insulting breach of the chain of command. Her long hair tickled my arm, and she was surprisingly light.

My cock, already hard from everything that was happening, pressed against her ass.

Bambi suddenly fell silent. I felt her body tense in my arms, while her fingers, tipped with long black nails, dug even harder into my shoulder.

"Michael," she said in a suspiciously quiet voice. "I understand perfectly well what's happening right now."

"Well, we were kind of preparing for this."

"I'm not an idiot, Harris. At least I didn't used to be. It's just..." She stopped herself, frowned even harder, and turned her face away. "Fuck, just put me down already. I can walk by myself."

Instead, I carefully adjusted my grip on her and headed toward the bed. Bambi looked at me with such indignation that I couldn't help smiling. She noticed immediately and jabbed a finger into my shoulder.

"Don't fucking smirk, asshole. I'm not some little girl you can just grab and carry around your apartment. I used to be able to take guys like you down with one hand..." She looked at her slender wrists, then at my shoulder, and let out an irritated sigh. "Fine, forget it. And for the record, I came here voluntarily, got it? You don't have to play the fucking Casanova."

"I'm not playing anything. I'm just carrying you to the bedroom."

"We're already in the bedroom, idiot."

She was right. The bed was barely three steps away. I carefully lowered her onto the mattress, but Bambi didn't immediately let go. For several seconds, she continued holding on to my neck, staring thoughtfully at something beyond my shoulder. Then, as though suddenly remembering herself, she abruptly pulled her arms away and sat up, automatically straightening her disheveled hair.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered, staring down at her own knees. "If someone had told me eight months ago that I'd voluntarily come over to some insurance-company IT guy's apartment and sit in front of him like this, I'd have ordered that person tested for drugs."

"Senior systems architect, actually."

"I don't give a shit, Mike," she muttered, although the corners of her lips twitched for a moment. "Just... give me a minute. I have absolutely no fucking idea what this is going to be like. And it pisses me off so much that I can't stop thinking about it."

This was going to be the first time for Bambi Bubbles, a twenty-five-year-old, big-titted bimbo from the Pretty Kitty beauty salon, who just eight months ago had been Richard Wallace, the forty-eight-year-old head of the CIA's Operations Directorate, one of the most powerful and dangerous men in American intelligence.