u/no7-7oday

Después de mi segunda pubertad, mi vida dio un giro inesperado: En cuestión de meses, mi cuerpo cambió por completo y terminé con un cuerpo completamente femenino. Adaptarme ya era bastante difícil como para encima tener que seguir cruzándome todos los días con bully de toda la vida.
Pensé que, con tantos cambios, por fin iba a dejarme en paz pero estaba muy equivocado... Equivocada. No solo no dejó de molestarme, sino que empezó a prestarme todavía más atención. Una mañana apareció frente a mi banco en la universidad y dejó una bolsa de una boutique: Adentro había un vestido. Al día siguiente llevaba zapatos. Después, un bolso. Más tarde, un estuche con maquillaje. No preguntaba si me gustaban, no dudaba, simplemente los dejaba frente a mí.

En parte eso me ayudo a aceptar que mi viejo cuerpo (y vida) no iban a volver mas y que yo era libre de elegir mi nueva realidad como mas me gustara. Creo que el se dio cuenta de este cambio porque casi de inmediato me invito a salir. Tal vez me pase de positiva aceptando sin chistar, si, pero ahora que estoy armando mi outfit no puedo dejar de sentirme emocionada por la cita con mi ex-bully...

Hace muchos años fuiste mi padrastro hasta que tu relación con mamá termino. Eras de las pocas personas que nunca me trato diferente a pesar de conocer mi secreto: puedo transformar en mujer cuando quiera y por el tiempo que quiera.

Cuando volvimos a encontrarnos por casualidad me ofreciste llevarme de vacaciones con la condición de que me quedara feminizada durante todo el viaje y actuara como tu pareja para evitar preguntas incómodas. Hace meses que ocultamos este secreto, incluso de mamá, y cada día me resulta más difícil distinguir cuánto de ese papel es una actuación y cuánto forma parte de quien realmente soy.

El viaje transcurría entre paseos por la costa, cenas tranquilas y largas caminatas al atardecer. Frente a los demás parecíamos una pareja cualquiera, pero cuando la puerta del hotel se cerraba, apasionadas noches antecedian a largas charlas.

-No sé si estoy cómoda con la mentira -admití- Pero sí sé que cuando vuelvo a ser quien era antes, extraño mucho esta parte de mi... La que comparte esto junto a vos...

El líder era un hombre de color alto, de semblante severa, musculatura bien definida y aspecto robusto. A simple vista uno podía ver que era el mas feroz y fuerte de ellos. Usaba un ornamento en la cabeza que daba la impresión de ser una corona.

El se dio cuenta que yo no entendía que había pasado con mi cuerpo e inmediatamente me ofreció mas fruta y una medida mas pequeña del mismo licor, haciendo señas que daban a entender que eso era lo que había alterado mi cuerpo. Parecía que el color de mi blanca piel y el dorado de mi pelo le agradaba porque me mantuvo junto a el por semanas, dándome mas fruta, licor, agua y otros alimentos.
Pronto me di cuenta que la vida de los nativos era la de una tribu quedada en el tiempo: Cazaban y recolectaban lo que comían, era una vida dura pero pacifica ya que parecían ser la única tribu en la isla. Mi cuerpo se había recuperado de las heridas que sufrí cuando naufrague y la corriente me arrastro hasta la isla pero nunca recobro mi aspecto masculino porque me di cuenta que el líder me había "adoptado" como una suerte de mascota a la que le daba de comer la fruta y bebida feminizadora.

Me pareció lo mas conveniente seguirle el juego porque no quería ofenderlo al rechazar su fruta y además mi vida era relativamente mas sencilla que la del resto de la tribu: Solo tenia que sentarme junto al líder y dejar que me viera. El cambio mas brusco en mi vida, sin embargo, no fue naufragar y terminar en esta isla o comer la fruta feminizante, sino el día que la tribu tuvo su festival anual al cual tuve que acompañar al jefe. No entendía del todo las costumbres porque me costaba entender su lengua pero poco a poco comprendí sus acciones e intenciones: Parecía tratarse de una celebración a su líder y a su nueva "mascota", o sea, yo.
Luego de varios rituales y bailes "tradicionales" de ellos el líder me escolto de nuevo hasta su choza y finalmente comprendí que estaba pasando: Acabábamos de celebrar lo que en su cultura seria una suerte de casamiento y ahora yo era la esposa del líder, quien debía cumplir su obligación de oficializar la unión. Luego de la primera vez que lo acompañe a su cama, donde experimente lo que era ser la mujer de un hombre, nunca deje de comer la fruta o tomar el vino.
A partir de esa noche empecé a hacer un esfuerzo por entender su idioma, sus costumbres y ayudar a la tribu como fuera posible.

Me costo un buen tiempo poder comprender a mi "esposo" pero durante los primeros meses nuestra comunicación fue casi enteramente física y muy fortuita: De alguna manera ser la mujer de este hombre me salía naturalmente. Las ancianas de la tribu no tardaron mucho en darse cuenta cuando me embarazo. Dar a luz y ser madre me daba mucho miedo, pero cuando el me sujetaba de la espalda y con su fuerte brazo me apretaba contra su robusto cuerpo, me resultaba imposible sentir que estaba en el lugar correcto.

Durante años nos enfrentamos en todo: negocios, amistades, incluso pequeños detalles que parecían insignificantes. Siempre encontraba la forma de ir un paso por delante. Pero nada me preparó para lo que ocurrió cuando mi matrimonio se derrumbó.

Fue él quien representó a mi esposa en el divorcio.

El resultado fue devastador. Perdí la casa, gran parte de mis bienes y cualquier sensación de control sobre mi propia vida. Mientras firmaba los últimos papeles, lo vi observándome desde el otro lado de la sala con una expresión imposible de descifrar. Entonces comprendí que aquello no era una simple victoria profesional.

Era el primer paso de algo más: Meses después volvió a aparecer. No con amenazas ni con burlas, sino con una propuesta tan extraña que pensé que se trataba de una broma. Me ofreció un lugar a su lado, una vida cómoda y sin preocupaciones. A cambio, debía abandonar la persona que había sido hasta entonces y convertirme en alguien diseñado según sus gustos, alguien que encajara perfectamente en la imagen que quería mostrar al mundo.

Debería haberme negado de inmediato.

Sin embargo, cuando uno toca fondo descubre que ciertas certezas ya no pesan tanto como antes. Lo que comenzó como un acuerdo incómodo se transformó lentamente en otra cosa. Con el tiempo dejé de sentir que interpretaba un papel. Empecé a encontrar una extraña libertad en aquella nueva vida.

A veces todavía me pregunto si todo fue parte de su venganza o si, de algún modo retorcido, intentó salvarme de mí mismo. Lo único que sé es que han pasado muchos años desde entonces y, contra toda lógica, hoy no me arrepiento.

Cuando despertás te das cuenta casi de inmediato que no estas en tu casa y unos breves momentos después te das cuenta que no estas en tu cuerpo. Entras en pánico, no sabes lo que esta pasando, te levantas de inmediato y buscas un espejo. Cuando finalmente ves tu reflejo te toma un momento darte cuenta de que te reconoces: Sos la esposa de un futbolista mundialmente famoso (el que prefieras).

Un segundo después de reconocerte escuchas el sonido indistinguible de haber recibido un nuevo mensaje en tu teléfono. Lo agarras y lo miras, por un momento pensas que no vas a poder abrirlo pero tu cara lo desbloquea de inmediato. No recibiste mensaje en ninguna aplicación, sino un mensaje de texto:

"Este cuerpo es tuyo por las próximas 24 hs. Si deseas que esta sea tu vida desde ahora solo tenés que hacer que tu esposo tenga un orgasmo adentro tuyo y te llene de su semen antes de que se acabe el tiempo. No vas a perder la memoria ni tu personalidad, pero además del cuerpo de ella, vas a heredar todos sus recuerdos y sus responsabilidades."

Lo harías o no? Que esposa de futbolista te gustaría ser? Harias algun cambio en su vida si decidís quedarte?

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the smell of antiseptic and the dull ache crawling through every inch of my body. The second was that my hands looked wrong: Slim fingers, pale pink nail polish, a wedding ring I recognized instantly because I had bought it myself.

"No..." I whispered, except the voice that came out wasn’t mine. Softer. Higher.

A nurse rushed in immediately. "Miss? You’re awake."

Panic detonated inside me. I nearly ripped the IV from my arm trying to sit up."Where’s my wife?" I demanded.

The nurse froze, exchanging a nervous glance with someone in the hallway before hurrying out. A doctor arrived minutes later with the cautious expression people wear around dangerous animals. He explained there had been "significant trauma" and "neurological confusion." He spoke slowly, gently, as though choosing words that wouldn’t break me when he shared the news that my husband -my body- had sadly passed in the accident.

I screamed until my throat gave out. I told them they had it backwards: I told them the woman in the hospital bed was my wife. But of course nobody believed me.

The days afterward blurred together into a fog of medications, nightmares, and mirrors I couldn’t bear to look into. Every reflection showed my wife staring back at me with frightened green eyes.

What haunted me most, though, was not knowing what happened to my wife.

I couldn’t stop wondering what had happened to her consciousness. Had she awakened in my body after the crash, trapped inside me just long enough to die when my injuries finally took me? The thought sickened me. Or was she still here somehow?

There were moments (brief, strange moments) when emotions surfaced that didn’t feel entirely mine. Sudden anxiety around certain songs. A flutter in my chest when a specific cologne drifted past me in the hallway. Once, while staring at our wedding photo, I felt an overwhelming wave of guilt so intense it nearly dropped me to my knees. It felt borrowed.

Weeks passed before I stopped trying to convince people of the truth. What else could I do? Legally, physically, socially... I was my wife now. My body had been buried beneath six feet of earth while I stood beside my own coffin wearing my wife’s black dress and listening to people tell me how sorry they were for my loss. So I accepted it.

Then I found the messages.

I wasn’t even snooping at first. My wife's phone buzzed while I was making coffee one morning. A notification lit up the screen.

MISS YOU ALREADY ❤️

Something twisted painfully in my stomach. The conversation stretched back nearly a year: Photos, hotel reservations, and my god, so many videos. Long strings of messages complaining about me and about how he could make her feel like I never could.

My wife had been having an affair. I nearly convinced myself it was only emotional until I opened the videos. After that, grief curdled into something darker: I met him properly three days later.

The moment he stepped into the house, my wife's body reacted before my mind did. My pulse quickened. My breathing shallowed. My skin turned hot with nervous anticipation. This were not my feelings. They were hers.

He wrapped me in a hug that lasted too long. "I told you I was gonna make sure you survived." he whispered into my ear. There was something deeply wrong in the way he said it. "Now he’s gone, we can finally be together, like you planned it."

My blood ran cold.

I replayed the accident in my mind for what must have been the thousandth time: the headlights swerving across the divider, the roar of an engine accelerating instead of braking, the impact crushing directly into the driver’s side. It hadn’t been random: He had aimed for me. And my wife had helped plan my murder.

I wanted to kick him out right then and there and go straight to the police, not even thinking I would be condemning the body I was currently inhabiting to a life in prison, but I couldn't: This body, my wife's body, betrayed me.

A sharp warmth spread through my chest so suddenly it stole the breath from my lungs. My pulse stumbled into a quicker rhythm. Muscles I didn’t even realize were tense relaxed instinctively at the sight of him standing there in the rain.

"Honey?" He asked softly.

Hearing my wife’s pet name in his voice sent another wave through me: familiarity, comfort, desire, femininity... Emotions surfacing so naturally they felt automatic. My body knew this man intimately. It remembered him in ways my mind never could. I suddenly understood what muscle memory truly meant: Not just movement. Feeling.

The way my breathing unconsciously slowed around him. The involuntary urge to lean closer. The strange certainty that his touch would feel safe before he’d even moved. My wife had loved him so deeply that her body still reacted to him on instinct.

I stared at him silently and he double down on his first move: Kissing me passionately and deeply. He killed me, but my wife's body didn’t care, my wife's body wanted her man. The moment his hands went under my shirt and touched my skin, something inside me eased, like tension releasing. Like this body had been waiting for him to return. Every inch he touched sent more foreign sensations rippling through me. My skin warmed. My stomach tightened. There was even anticipation burring whatever disgust I may have felt for him.

Her body remembered love even when my mind wanted to forget it.

He never left that day and spent the next three days reminding me just how well he knew my wife's body, his lover's body, to be more accurate. I couldn't say "No" a single time, no matter what he asked me to do for him. He fucked me raw from the get-go. When asked me to stop taking the pill so he could knock me up I felt a rush of happiness that made me cum right away as I imagined my egg being fertilized by him. I didn't even know my wife was on the pill, I just thought it wasn't in the card for us. When he asked me to have sex in front of a picture of "my" dead husband not only I couldn't deny him but I was aroused out of my mind. I had the strongest orgasm of my (previous) life when he took my wedding ring and destoyed it, saying he would soon give me a proper ring and made me the woman of a real man.

I felt completely defeated and dominated by this man that -literally- ended my life as a male and conquered my life as a female.

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the smell of antiseptic and the dull ache crawling through every inch of my body. The second was that my hands looked wrong: Slim fingers, pale pink nail polish, a wedding ring I recognized instantly because I had bought it myself.

"No..." I whispered, except the voice that came out wasn’t mine. Softer. Higher.

A nurse rushed in immediately. "Miss? You’re awake."

Panic detonated inside me. I nearly ripped the IV from my arm trying to sit up."Where’s my wife?" I demanded.

The nurse froze, exchanging a nervous glance with someone in the hallway before hurrying out. A doctor arrived minutes later with the cautious expression people wear around dangerous animals. He explained there had been "significant trauma" and "neurological confusion." He spoke slowly, gently, as though choosing words that wouldn’t break me when he shared the news that my husband -my body- had sadly passed in the accident.

I screamed until my throat gave out. I told them they had it backwards: I told them the woman in the hospital bed was my wife. But of course nobody believed me.

The days afterward blurred together into a fog of medications, nightmares, and mirrors I couldn’t bear to look into. Every reflection showed my wife staring back at me with frightened green eyes.

What haunted me most, though, was not knowing what happened to my wife.

I couldn’t stop wondering what had happened to her consciousness. Had she awakened in my body after the crash, trapped inside me just long enough to die when my injuries finally took me? The thought sickened me. Or was she still here somehow?

There were moments (brief, strange moments) when emotions surfaced that didn’t feel entirely mine. Sudden anxiety around certain songs. A flutter in my chest when a specific cologne drifted past me in the hallway. Once, while staring at our wedding photo, I felt an overwhelming wave of guilt so intense it nearly dropped me to my knees. It felt borrowed.

Weeks passed before I stopped trying to convince people of the truth. What else could I do? Legally, physically, socially... I was my wife now. My body had been buried beneath six feet of earth while I stood beside my own coffin wearing my wife’s black dress and listening to people tell me how sorry they were for my loss. So I accepted it.

Then I found the messages.

I wasn’t even snooping at first. My wife's phone buzzed while I was making coffee one morning. A notification lit up the screen.

MISS YOU ALREADY ❤️

Something twisted painfully in my stomach. The conversation stretched back nearly a year: Photos, hotel reservations, and my god, so many videos. Long strings of messages complaining about me and about how he could make her feel like I never could.

My wife had been having an affair. I nearly convinced myself it was only emotional until I opened the videos. After that, grief curdled into something darker: I met him properly three days later.

The moment he stepped into the house, my wife's body reacted before my mind did. My pulse quickened. My breathing shallowed. My skin turned hot with nervous anticipation. This were not my feelings. They were hers.

He wrapped me in a hug that lasted too long. "I told you I was gonna make sure you survived." he whispered into my ear. There was something deeply wrong in the way he said it. "Now he’s gone, we can finally be together, like you planned it."

My blood ran cold.

I replayed the accident in my mind for what must have been the thousandth time: the headlights swerving across the divider, the roar of an engine accelerating instead of braking, the impact crushing directly into the driver’s side. It hadn’t been random: He had aimed for me. And my wife had helped plan my murder.

I wanted to kick him out right then and there and go straight to the police, not even thinking I would be condemning the body I was currently inhabiting to a life in prison, but I couldn't: This body, my wife's body, betrayed me.

A sharp warmth spread through my chest so suddenly it stole the breath from my lungs. My pulse stumbled into a quicker rhythm. Muscles I didn’t even realize were tense relaxed instinctively at the sight of him standing there in the rain.

"Honey?" He asked softly.

Hearing my wife’s pet name in his voice sent another wave through me: familiarity, comfort, desire, femininity... Emotions surfacing so naturally they felt automatic. My body knew this man intimately. It remembered him in ways my mind never could. I suddenly understood what muscle memory truly meant: Not just movement. Feeling.

The way my breathing unconsciously slowed around him. The involuntary urge to lean closer. The strange certainty that his touch would feel safe before he’d even moved. My wife had loved him so deeply that her body still reacted to him on instinct.

I stared at him silently and he double down on his first move: Kissing me passionately and deeply. He killed me, but my wife's body didn’t care, my wife's body wanted her man. The moment his hands went under my shirt and touched my skin, something inside me eased, like tension releasing. Like this body had been waiting for him to return. Every inch he touched sent more foreign sensations rippling through me. My skin warmed. My stomach tightened. There was even anticipation burring whatever disgust I may have felt for him.

Her body remembered love even when my mind wanted to forget it.

He never left that day and spent the next three days reminding me just how well he knew my wife's body, his lover's body, to be more accurate. I couldn't say "No" a single time, no matter what he asked me to do for him. He fucked me raw from the get-go. When asked me to stop taking the pill so he could knock me up I felt a rush of happiness that made me cum right away as I imagined my egg being fertilized by him. I didn't even know my wife was on the pill, I just thought it wasn't in the card for us. When he asked me to have sex in front of a picture of "my" dead husband not only I couldn't deny him but I was aroused out of my mind. I had the strongest orgasm of my (previous) life when he took my wedding ring and destoyed it, saying he would soon give me a proper ring and made me the woman of a real man.

I felt completely defeated and dominated by this man that -literally- ended my life as a male and conquered my life as a female.

Everyone in my family was angry because I accepted my dad's rich friend's proposal to feminize myself and be his girlfriend after my sister rejected him for being a "dirty old creep." They tried to convince me it was crazy, but ever since I agreed, I spent every day getting dolled up, relaxing, or on vacation. Honestly, I was a little worried about having sex with him, but it turns out it's not bad at all. He's very good and confident in bed, knows how to treat a woman, and I always end up a mewling mess.

I would say my life is perfect now, but that wouldn't be true: The only problem is that my family practically stopped talking to me, except for my brother. Nobody wants to know anything about me until I reconsider this "crazy" thing I'm doing.
When my brother came to visit, he fell in love with my lifestyle and couldn't believe my travel and sex stories, so much so that he ended up begging me to give him an x-change pill and introduce him to one of my sugar daddy's friends so that he could experience the same thing.

He even promised to sit down my parents and talk em into the benefits of the lifestyle and how what I was doing "wasn't that big of a deal" before I fulfill my end of the bargain.
Joke's on them, I guess.

Going out with him is intoxicating. Whenever we arrive somewhere, it feels like they're hosting a celebrity because he's a legendary racer. Sure, the clothes I have to wear are a little revealing for my taste, but when they see me in front of his car, I get everyone's attention, and it feels a little addictive.

The best part, however, is riding with him in the car during the races. Finally experiencing winning a race, even if it's from the passenger seat, is incredibly exciting. Not to mention the celebration afterward 😏

I was supposed to do this for I was supposed to do this for a week and get my lost car back, but I lost count about a month ago and stopped caring about it...a week and get my lost car back, but I lost count about a month ago and, to be honest. I stopped caring about it...

Todos en mi familia estaban enojados porque acepte la propuesta del amigo rico de papá para feminizarme y ser su novia después de que mi hermana lo rechazara por "viejo verde y desubicado". Trataron de convencerme que era una locura, pero desde que acepte me paso todos los días poniéndome linda, relajándome o de vacaciones. Honestamente me preocupaba un poco tener sexo con el pero resulta que no esta nada mal, el es muy bueno y seguro en la cama, sabe muy bien como tratar una mujer y siempre termino acabando a chorros.

Diría que mi vida es perfecta ahora pero no seria cierto: El único problema es que mi familia prácticamente dejo de hablarme, con excepción de mi hermano nadie quiere saber nada de mi hasta que reconsidere esta "locura" que estoy haciendo.
Cuando mi hermano vino de visita se enamoro de mi estilo de vida y no podía creer mis anécdotas de viajes y sexo, tanto así que termino rogándome que le convidara una pastilla x-change y le presentara algún amigo de mi sugar para que el también pudiera experimentar lo mismo.

A veces pienso en por qué terminé con este cuerpo y él terminó luciendo aún más varonil de lo que ya era. ¿Fue pura suerte o la fruta rosa amplificó algo que existía en lo más profundo de nosotros? ¿Me derrotó como hombre en su esencia más básica? ¿Es por eso que me convertí en su esposa en esta isla desierta, cocinando todo lo que el caza o pesca y por las noches le agradezco con mi cuerpo por cuidarme tan bien?

No sé la respuesta a mi propia pregunta, pero sí sé que no quiero detenerme.

We don’t know how much time passed since we shipwrecked, but after eating the pink goo that feminized me every day, it didn’t take long for me to become the captain’s woman, and for him to become my strong provider and protector.

Sometimes I think about why I ended up with this body and he ended up looking more manly than he already was. Was it dumb luck or did the pink goo amplify something that existed deep within us? Did he defeat me as a male at the most fundamental level? Is that the reason I became his island wife, started to eat whatever he fishes or hunts and thank him with my body for taking such good care of me?

I don't know the answer to that question but I do know I don't ever wanna stop.

[Art: "Paradise" by laliberte]

We don’t know how much time passed since we shipwrecked, but after eating the pink goo that feminized me every day, it didn’t take long for me to become the captain’s woman, and for him to become my strong provider and protector.

Sometimes I think about why I ended up with this body and he ended up looking more manly than he already was. Was it dumb luck or did the pink goo amplify something that existed deep within us? Did he defeat me as a male at the most fundamental level? Is that the reason I became his island wife, started to eat whatever he fishes or hunts and thank him with my body for taking such good care of me?

I don't know the answer to that question but I do know I don't ever wanna stop.

Art by laliberte: https://www.patreon.com/laliberte

I believe in not letting opportunities go to waste, no matter how they present themselves or what I have to do to take advantage of them, so even if I had to take a flimsy pill and live as a woman 5 days a week, I said yes to the new CEO's proposal. I thought he was after my expertise in the business I worked in far longer than he did but I was wrong: He just wanted to toy with me, break me and make me fall head over heels for him.
Slowly but surely he put his plan into action from week 1. Working long hours together he didn't lack opportunities to pay me a compliment here, give me a long stare there, not to mention that he basically choose my wardrobe and practically made me his personal assistant. It didn't take long for us to develop a close working relationship and for those late worknights to turn into late night dinners. Took even less for those late night dinners to turn into all-night hotel visits.

In less than two months I was spending seven days a week on x-change, five days at the office and the weekends at the fancy apartment he rents for me... as his mistress. He loves to show me off in front of people: While he's applying cream to me next to the apartment's pool he whispers in my ear about how everyone is staring at my body and how everyone knows he owns me by the way he touches me. Hearing him say that while I feel his hands all over me makes me so fucking wet.

Since we broke up, I went to sleep almost every night thinking about my ex-girlfriend. The night I found out he'd met someone, I fell into a deep sleep, and when I woke up, I was at a party with a man gently caressing my leg. It all felt so real, but it couldn't be. I immediately recognized my scent, my legs, my hands, my rings: I had somehow switched bodies with my ex-girlfriend.

In his eyes, I could see the hunger he felt for me, how his subtle touches indicated he couldn't wait another minute to take me somewhere where we were alone together. I could have refused, I could have told him I didn't want to see him again, I could have taken a taxi home to ring the bell and see who would answer, but I didn't do any of those things. When he stood up from his chair and extended his hand, I couldn't help but take it; he was simply stronger than me.

In the blink of an eye, we were home, in his room, in his bed. Without realizing it (and without wanting to resist in the slightest), I ended up underneath this strong, manly man as he made love to my girlfriend's body, instilling in me a pleasure I couldn't compare with anything I'd experienced up until that moment.

I felt his lust and pure power inside me as he brought me to ecstasy with a deep, slow thrust. I could feel inside me the reverberation of every thrust, every heartbeat, and every tiny movement of his body where it connected with "mine."