The stink of Axe body spray made Jon dizzy as he entered the boys’ locker room for what might be the last time. Well until the 24 hours were up hopefully. He had half-unslung his backpack and held it to his chest, as much to stop the jiggling from his A cups as to hide them.
He found his usual bank of lockers, terrified that the combination wouldn’t work, or that his locker would be gone, but it was still there. The locker opened. He turned his back to the room, desperate for privacy, and began to strip.
Peeling off the yoga pants was a relief and a nightmare. They clung to his skin and as he peeled them all of his body hair came with it giving his legs a smooth texture. He quickly glanced around and felt only a modicum of relief as no one was staring at him. A whimper caught in his throat. His boxers—plain black cotton—were now hanging loosely on him. He would have thought they would’ve changed but they hadn't. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pulled them down, feeling some disgust at them for a reason he couldn’t place but also he dreaded what he would see.
It was worse than he imagined.
His manhood, once average and reliable, had retreated significantly. It looked dainty, almost shy, nestled between thighs that had thickened with soft, pale flesh. There was no bulge to speak of anymore, just a smooth, flat mound that barely interrupted the curve of his pelvis. He felt a flush of heat that wasn't just embarrassment; it was a strange, vibrating arousal at his own diminishment.
"Nice ass, Jon."
The voice came from behind him. Deep. Mocking, but hungry.
Jon froze, clutching his yoga pants to his chest. He glanced over his shoulder. It was Biff.
“Tranny,” Biff mouthed, grinned cruelly and turned away. Jon felt his heart freeze as he stuffed the yoga pants in his locker and quickly pulled on his gym shorts. Covered up, he felt better as the other boys started to file out for class.
He glanced down at what he had pulled on and felt relief that his gym shorts were the same generic black gym shorts he’s always had. He quickly turned to his shirt and, keeping his eyes on the locker room and the other boys he pulled off the cropped Star Wars shirt and held it in front of him. The cold air caused his nipples to pebble, but he to focused on the shirt to notice the new bodily reaction.
The t-shirt. It was so small. Way smaller than this morning.
He threw it in his locker as if that would get rid of it and pulled out his gym shirt—the standard grey XL, monogrammed with MCH (Maple Creek High), he liked for the baggy fit—and pulled it over his head. Everyone had to wear an MCH shirt and could only buy it from the school. A bigger scam Jon hadn’t seen.
The shirt swallowed him.
The neckline slipped off one smooth, hairless shoulder immediately. The sleeves hung past his elbows. It didn't look like he was wearing gym clothes; it looked like he was a girlfriend wearing her boyfriend's shirt the morning after or something. It draped over his small chest, doing nothing to hide the perky, sensitive nipples that rubbed against the coarse fabric, sending jolts of electricity straight to his groin.
"You look good, Jon," another voice said. He didn't see who it was, but the tone was appreciative. "Real petite."
Petite?
Jon slammed his locker shut and practically ran to the long mirror at the end of the row, needing to see the damage. He skidded to a halt next to Kyle, a sophomore who Jon knew for a fact was five-foot-ten.
Jon stood up straight, trying to maximise his height. He was six-foot-two. He should be towering over Kyle.
He looked over. He was looking Kyle directly in the eye.
The blood drained from Jon's face. The world tilted. Four inches. He had lost four inches of height in less than two hours. He felt small, fragile, and terrified. The average but wiry muscles he had built playing for the school's soccer team were gone, melted away into this... this soft, yielding thing.
He looked at his reflection, dreading the monster he’d see, but it was more confusing than that.
The face staring back was still his, but... polished. The harsh angles of his jaw had been sanded down, not removed, but softened into something cleaner, less aggressive. His skin, usually prone to the occasional breakout and stubble, was flawlessly smooth and glowing with a vitality he’d never possessed.
It wasn't a girl's face, but it was a pretty face. His eyelashes seemed just a fraction longer, framing eyes that looked wider and wetter than before. His lips, usually thin and pale, were now a flushed pink and looked slightly fuller, as if he’d been biting them. It was an androgynous beauty, the kind that made people pause—too soft to be rugged, too pretty to be handsome.
He brought a trembling hand up to touch his cheek. The skin was impossibly soft. He looked at his reflection, at the oversized shirt slipping off his shoulder, the shorts clinging to his widening hips, and the terrified, pretty eyes.
There was a shifting sensation beneath his shirt.
His A cups couldn’t be seen through the baggy shirt except for brief moments when he shifted his arms and his nipples pressed against it for a moment. But now he felt a sharp, pleasurable heat radiating through his chest. Slowly, his shirt pressed imperceptibly outwards. It wasn't muscle growth; it was soft, fatty tissue rapidly collecting behind his nipples.
He gasped, clutching the edges of the mirror, helpless to stop it. More undeniable change that pushed him towards what he hadn’t intended, most certainly didn’t want and didn’t even conceptualise the night before as he made his two wishes. The sensation started to lessen as the swelling slowed. He leaned back from the mirror, standing straight, unconsciously he bent his back slightly as bones rearranged, pressing his chest out just a little. Just barely, the swell of breasts could be seen through the baggy shirt, jiggling with his rapid, panicked breaths. In the cool air of the locker-room, the sensitive nipples, now just that much more pronounced, pebbled outwards. Jon watched in horrified fascination as they pressed against the scratchy synthetic of the school’s official gym shirt. Each breath caused the shirt to slide a millimetre up and down over them, sending shocks of pleasure to a new, concerningly central part of his abdomen.
"Move it, ladies!" the coach bellowed from the doorway.
Jon flinched, biting his lip—which felt distressingly plush between his teeth—and turned to follow the other boys, his hips swaying with a slight but natural, rhythmic motion he couldn't control, totally unaware of the eyes tracking the bounce of his ass in the tight mesh shorts.
As he walked to the gym, his hand snapped down as he realised his shorts were about to fall down.
Fuck why did he have to be so petite?
He cinched them tight in record time with slimmer and more dextrous fingers; he was too distracted to notice and took a few more experimental steps. It was much better, not only because of the tighter drawstring but also as his hips crept imperceptibly outwards, pushing the long shorts further up his abdomen.
