I thought I could handle this magic.
At first, I would change every few weeks. Each time I was a different woman, at least at the beginning; working through old crushes, ex-girlfriends, women in my office, people I passed on the street, and the occasional celebrity. But over time, I discovered the woman inside of myself. It was unexpected. She appeared slowly through successive changes, developing until, finally, I found myself in a body that was distinct, my own. I was surprised at her features; many were quite different from the type I was usually drawn to in my male form. But somehow, she made sense, and I settled in, returning to her again and again, and more frequently, without variation.
At that point, it became harder.
When you are not her, you miss the weight of her breasts and the smooth flowing movements that seem to come naturally with a body so exquisite. You start making excuses to come home early, to stay in during the weekends: To enjoy her. You paint your nails. After a few weeks, you buy panties after work. You take them home, blushing at yourself.
You adorn and explore your body, becoming intimate with every part, learning what makes the woman inside of you tick - and moan. You start to feel more like yourself when you are her. Your old body, the one everyone knows, becomes the imposter, the mask you wear - before you rush into your apartment and your beautiful breasts swell from your chest, filling your male clothes before you've even undressed from them. But who are you kidding? By this time you are wearing panties all of the time. As your dick recedes and your balls pull inside of you, becoming your ovaries, you delight as the crotch of your panties is finally pulled flat against your sex.
You fall to your bed.
You know it's wrong. Every stroke is a violation of your past. A denial. An acceptance of the pleasure of your new body. You look down at your fingers, nestled in your folds. Your eyes search the ceiling for answers. What are your fingers doing to you? But you know you are the one leading them. They move in the pattern you've learned over time: the one that gets you off. Committed and consistent, they traverse the place where your cock once stood, where your balls used to hang. Each moment your fingers touch your clit makes you miss them even less.
You spread your thighs wider, knowing it is an act of acceptance. The gates have fallen. Your crotch has been opened to the world, vulnerable to any stray touch, any sensation, any invasion; you moan, sad you must hide yourself from the world.
And so you search for safe fantasies: Like your old cock. You imagine it, turning on you, approaching. You imagine it inches from your pussy, dangerously close to pushing into you. You imagine your new and old forms, pressing together, becoming one. Fucking. You pulse the muscles in your pussy. You would give anything to have your dick back - with one condition: You want it inside of you.
It is such an innocent thought, really; to plunge your own dick into your own waiting vagina. You rush to help your imagination, involving your fingers, pushing two into you, knowing full well that fingers are wholly inadequate for quenching your growing lust for penetration. You know consciously that you could never allow a dick to invade you, but with merely an innocent thought and two dainty fingers you carelessly plant the seed of this new obsession into your subconscious.
It is a funny thing with fingers: One becomes two. Two become three. And then you dream about the dick you once possessed. Once this dream appears, it won’t be too long until you are imagining a larger version of your dick pummeling you; one with more veins, a thicker circumference, and a throbbing bulbous head - perhaps even a different shade of skin. Yes, the longer you wait to change back, the longer the memory of your dick has to become this new monster.
A stranger's.
Then begins the elaborate self-deception: How to encounter this dick by accident? To have it slip inside of you. To have it fuck you. To have it unload on your tits and face. Or inside of you. To desperately seek a situation that ends with you chatting over coffee with some girlfriends and saying “it just kind of happened."
A skimpy new dress is waiting for me on the chair across the room. And some lingerie. I even bought new heels. I'm going out tonight. I think I'll just go out for a few drinks. I feel cooped up inside anyway, plus I feel like it would be fun to meet some new people. I'm not sure why, but thinking about going out as myself tonight makes me feel so wet.