She said to write out my fantasies. That being alone in the cabin for a month
would allow me to explore both my creativity and reverie. She even joked that with enough time and
enough finesse I’d actually get to live out those fantasies. So, after my arrival, after unpacking, and
after settling in, I found her cute writing desk with the ancient but still
working typewriter and began.
I tried several standard tropes. Wife forces husband to be lesbian lover. Friend coerces buddy to become his dream
girl. Stranger lures man into feminine life. Boss pressures employee into skirts and
lipstick. But none of them rang
true. Sure, they were my fantasies, but
I didn’t have a wife. My friend already had
his dream girl. There were no strangers
here, and my boss was about as straight laced as they came. And what really rang true of all these failed
starts was that the dream wasn’t mine.
It was the person making the forcible transformation.
After a couple nights with no success, I started over with
what I thought would just be an exercise.
Start with some guy in a cabin.
He’s alone and he’s writing out his ideal body. I spent about a page on how his body changed. How it slimmed down and curved out. How the breasts grew from the now bare chest
and how the belly swooped down to a smooth glorious pussy. I wrote faster and faster and faster still as
this writing, unlike all the previous dead-end alleys, felt right. It felt true.
When I finally sat back and looked at the dozen or so pages I breathed a
sigh of relief… and noticed the breasts pushing up at my loose t-shirt. Pulling the shirt up I was rewarded with lustrously
even skin. Above the nearly flat belly
were two proud breasts with two proud nipples poking out.
It was just like I’d written. It was my fantasy and it was coming
true!
I didn’t hesitate or take a break and instead just dove back
into he writing. Once my fingers were
dancing over the keys I imagined the change I wanted, I gave those ideas form
in words and phrases, and I then felt the changes happen to me. I wrote about sun kissed dark blond hair and
felt it grow down to my back and spill over my eyes. I wrote about the lovely face and felt my
cheeks and lips and nose shift and move.
I wrote about my flabby legs changing to long shapely smooth extremities
and felt them glide against the soft sweatpants I was wearing. I even got creative and wrote about my underwear
changing to match my new body, black and white boxers changing into delicate
pink panties and felt the new fabric hugging me tightly.
More and more paper shifted from the package to the typewriter
to the pile of finished prose and more and more of my life changed around
me. I knew I’d find a bevy of sex toys
in my luggage that would help me explore this new body because I compiled a story
of me packing the dildos and plugs up. I
knew my old broken down mustang was gone and replaced with a feminine
convertible miata because I wrote how I flirted with the salesman and got
another 10% off when I bought it. I felt
my libido drive up higher and higher and even jokingly wrote that I couldn’t
satisfy that itch until I was done writing out my own fantasy, putting out my
own desire to stop writing and start exploring.
As I squirmed in the chair, growing more and more excited my
writing picked up even faster. No detail
of my life was safe. I spent two pages
on how I liked to explore makeup and could make myself as pretty or exotic as I
wanted. I wrote about how I liked to
read and consumed everything from Chaucers Canterbury Tales and Finnegans Wake
by Joyce to romance novels by the dozen.
And when I wrote down something wrong, something that was someone else’s
fantasy, I had to abandon that page and start it over. I wrote how I was addicted to cock and cum,
but that cost me three pages. I wrote
how I liked being bent over and taken roughly from behind, but that cost me
more paper.
When I felt like I was nearing the end, almost out of my
mind with the desire to explore my new body, my new life, I decided I had to bring
this fantasy to a close. I could return
to the beginning, write how the transformation ended and the hero, now heroine,
of the story was now free to live her life in happiness and satisfaction. But after starting the end, I ran out of
paper. Even the frustrated growl I let
out sounded sexy as all get out and piqued my arousal even further. I tried to take a break and just take the
edge off, but it seemed that my previous limitations were still in affect. My fingers rubbed and dove deep into my wet pussy,
my nails tickled and danced around my nipples and clit, my hands rubbed all
over my new sensitive skin, but all of these actions just rose my desire higher
without giving me any release.
Almost frantic with desire to finish the story I started
rummaging through the desk looking for another ream of typing paper. When that came up empty I moved around the office
checking the filing cabinets and shelves.
When there wasn’t any paper here where it should be, I started to grow
worried and spread my search out. There
wasn’t any paper in the kitchen cabinets or pantry. There wasn’t any on the porch or in the
shed. There wasn’t any in the bedroom, although
the toys lined up next to my bag begged me to try to please myself again. I even checked my own luggage and cute new car,
but there didn’t seem to be any clean
writing paper in the cabin.
She said to write out my fantasies. That being alone in the cabin for a month
would allow me to explore both my creativity and reverie. She even joked that with enough time and
enough finesse I’d actually get to live out those fantasies. Now I’ve burned through all the creativity,
reverie, and fantasy in a single day and as the sun rises and makes the whole cabin
glow, I can only look at my new body as it begs me to play with it and
simultaneously denies me the pleasures it promises.
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