Wishes Gone Right (closed for DirrrtyDanny and DreamingOfMyEx)

[DreamingOfMyEx]

Eric Taylor looked in the bathroom mirror for the hundredth time since waking a couple of hours earlier from what felt like a fever dream. Perhaps it was silly to expect he’d see something different than he’d seen the first 99 times, but then stranger things have happened.

The strangest thing that ever happened to Eric Taylor was what he saw the first time he looked in the mirror that morning.

He was no longer Eric Taylor. Eric had been a nerdy 18 year old boy, a recent high school graduate who had never been on a date in his life. Not a real date, anyway. There was Betty, who had lived next door to him in the church parsonage ever since her father was called to be pastor of the Lakeside Community Church a few years earlier. Eric and Betty had ended up “together” on a few occasions, mostly at group activities related to school, or Sunday School, but never an actual “date”.

“This can’t be happening” he mumbled again for perhaps the thousandth time, but it wasn’t his voice he heard. The image in the mirror, and the voice in his ear, was decidedly more feminine – and more mature – than the 18 year old loser named Eric Taylor.

He – or “she” – had just emerged from the tiny shower in the tiny home Eric had fashioned for himself from a large storage building in his parents’ back yard. It was a cold shower. As if the cold water could wake him from the dream he was having. Now, with wet hair and goose bumps all over, the only thing that had changed was the image in the mirror had wet hair and goose bumps all over – and harder nipples. Her hair was long, her eyes mesmerizing, and her lips fuller than any lips he’d ever dreamed of kissing. Her hips were wide, her waist unrealistically small for the hips, and her “boobs” were humongous. Certainly larger than any he had seen in National Geographic – his only source for pictures of naked breasts. Even the ones he’d seen in the movies in sweaters weren’t as big as those in the mirror.

Even though Eric wasn’t the expert on women’s breasts, he noted they were more “firm” than one might expect from breasts of that size. Not exactly hard, as there was plenty of jiggle and bounce with every movement, but they didn’t droop much at all.

“This can’t be happening” the woman in the mirror whispered again. Obviously, she was wrong.

==

Dear Betty,

(even the handwriting was decidedly more feminine)

When I woke up this morning, I noticed something very strange has happened. So strange I can’t even tell you what it is because you might think I’m crazy.

Anyway, I think it could have something to do with the carnival, and that “wishing machine”. I remember you made a wish, too.

(yes, they went to the carnival together, but it wasn’t a “date”)

So, did you notice anything unusual this morning, that might be related to making a wish? If not, I’m sorry to concern you, it’s something I’ll just have to deal with myself.

(she’s trying hard not to make the writing look so feminine – Betty knows what Eric’s handwriting looks like)

But if something happened to you like it happened to me, then we definitely need to get together to talk about it. I know your parents are away for the week, so I can come there or you can come to my place. Just hang the towel in the window like you used to do when you wanted to study together and I’ll come over. Or if you want to come here, just knock. (I’m keeping the door locked so my mom or dad don’t come in.)

She signed the note “Eric” even as she was thinking of using the name Erica – if ever she needed to give herself a more feminine name.

--

Next was the challenge of getting the note to Betty. He knew it would slide under the kitchen door which led into her back yard. The challenge was in sneaking to her back door and home again without being spotted. That’s when she found Eric had almost nothing that would fit her. None of his pants would fit over her hips, and none of his shirts would fit over her breasts. Only his shoes were somewhat loose on her feet.

If I knew what that stupid machine was going to do, I would have wished for some clothes, too.

Last night at the Carnival, he surprised himself by saying his wish out loud. “I want to be hot.” He said it right in front of Betty. Thank God nobody else was close enough to hear. Even more surprising was when the mechanical man in the machine asked him to be more specific. After all, “hot” could simply mean a rise in temperature, right? Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “I want to be more … attractive. Sexy.”

It was just a stupid machine at a carnival. It wasn’t supposed to be real. But Eric looked in the mirror one more time. It appeared the machine could be real. As stupid as that explanation was, he couldn’t think of another.

A few minutes later, the woman who had been Eric Taylor checked herself in the mirror one more time. She was wrapped in a white bedsheet which had been more-or-less fashioned into something faintly resembling a dress through the judicious use of safety pins and a belt. Underneath was one of Eric’s tshirts, which fit so tightly across her breasts that they wouldn’t bounce uncontrollably and risk dislodging the dress. Three pairs of socks helped keep the sneakers from falling off her feet. She tried to don a ball cap to keep the hair somewhat constrained, but there was simply too much hair with too much body. In the end, she took a strip of cloth and tied her hair into a pony tail.

All this was just in case someone saw her – but she didn’t intend anyone to see her. It wasn’t as if she could explain her presence - exiting Eric’s little house in the back yard, dashing to the house next door to slip an envelope under the door, then dashing back to Eric’s. She whispered a prayer to not be seen before the dash, and whispered a prayer of thanks for not being seen (as far as she could tell) on her return home.

Now it was just a matter of waiting for Betty’s signal. Who knows how long that could take. With her parents away, the note might not even be found for hours. Or days??? “Please God, please help her find the note.”

Well, it wasn’t just a matter of waiting for Betty’s signal. This woman, whoever she was, would eventually need to move out of Eric’s little house in the back yard. It isn’t as if she could say “Mom, Dad, a funny thing happened at the carnival.”

 

[DirrrtyDanny]

Prelude, Part One

It had been a little over two hours since Eric had wandered, almost as if on autopilot, over to the ‘Wishes Granted’ kiosk. Betty had said at the time – it looked old. It looked out-of-service. It looked creepy. But Eric had looked… Betty couldn’t tell exactly what Eric had looked like. Determined. Anxious. Hell-bent? The five cents it had cost to activate the clunky, mechanical machine had caused its eyes to glow, and the genie’s head to turn to face them. (Or had the eyes glowed before he had placed his nickel in the slot? Betty was trying to remember…) and why had the Genie’s head turned to her, as well as Eric? She had laughed a little at what he had said. It seemed unlike something Eric would say. It wasn’t like he was ugly. Awkward, maybe. Tentative, a little quiet and reserved, sure. But Betty had never heard a boy use language like that. ‘Hot.’ It was coarse. Vulgar. Not what she expected to hear from a God-fearing young man like Eric Taylor, and she had said his name, admonishing him as such, placing her hands on her hips as she did.

The thing is, Betty had been wrestling with her feelings about Eric for a little while. She wasn’t ignorant to his advances, chaste and innocent as they might have been. She had been having unclean thoughts, and had prayed about it over the past couple of weeks …and so, when Eric had shrugged, and the Genie had laughed its cruel, taunting laugh, it had been Betty’s turn to be caught in its spell, stepping forward with a dime in hand. She looked the Genie in the eye as she slid the coin into its well-tarnished slot, and those eyes blazed once more, looking deep into her soul as she spoke, in barely a whisper, “I want to be everything Eric could ever desire…”

Eric had asked her, leaning in close after it was too late, ‘What? I didn’t hear… No fair, you heard me embarrass myself…” but Betty had remained unflinching in her refusal to say anything. “It doesn’t matter anyways, Eric…” she gave the contraption a light kick with the toe of her loafers. “...dumb thing doesn’t do anything, anyhow. Just a toy for relieving folks of their coin. Like all of these.” She waved a hand, insinuating the line of pin-ball and ‘gauge your strength’ machines lined up on the outskirts of the midway. “C’mon, mister. Let’s win me a pink elephant at the ring-toss.”

So they had wandered off, played a few games, and rode the ferris-wheel for a half-hour, forgetting all about the Genie. Betty’s stomach had felt a little off by an hour later, and she had called off the rest of their evening, as nice as it had been, chalking up the churning in her guts to the corn-dogs they had shared, and had asked Eric to walk her home.

Betty had been forced to be cordial with her parents when she got home, because (of course) they had been waiting for her in the sitting room for her arrival. When she was home an hour earlier than expected, her mother (Nicolette, nee Argento – a statuesque Italian-American who embodied the pinup look that was popular in the boys’ locker room these days, and bore no resemblance to her daughter at all, save for the red hair…) expected tears. But Betty had patiently explained that no, she simply had a stomach ache and asked to go home.

Her father had asked all kinds of questions about her ‘date’ (It wasn’t a date. Eric was just a friend… wasn’t he?) while all the while, her stomach ache grew worse, and her head and back began to throb. She had dutifully answered (though she would have been hard-pressed to recall any of their stilted banter) but finally, her mum had seen the truth, that this interrogation was torturous, and the poor girl really did look awful. “Betty, darling… you look pale. Greg, dearest, let’s let the poor girl get some rest. Bets, why don’t you get an alka-seltzer and a hot water bag, and curl up. I’ll check in on you later if you like.”

Betty hated it when her parents feigned mock-sincerity. They took little interest in her, unless she was seemingly bringing indignity to the family with a skirt shorter than ankle-length, or some other infraction. “No – I’m fine. Really…” she lied, and took a herculean effort to rise, and not double over in pain, pasting a thin smile on her pale, clammy face. “I just need some sleep.” She barely made it up the stairs, her stomach felt like it might explode, and her head pounded till her vision swam and she thought she might black out. But somehow, she made it to her bedroom, and closed the door before collapsing to the floor, stifling cries of agony…

 

[DreamingOfMyEx]

"...win me a pink elephant at the ring toss"

Eric was smart enough to know the games were rigged, even if he didn't know how. An out-of-balance ring? The positioning of the bottles? A hidden fan to blow the ring off course? All he knew was he stood as much chance of winning the big pink elephant as he did being asked to play starting quarterback in next week's football game.

Betty ended up with a little furry critter which couldn't be identified on the end of a key ring. It probably came from Japan and they probably paid a penny for ten of them. Or maybe for fifty. At any rate, his dad, most of his uncles on both sides, almost all his parent's male friends, everyone he knew from church, most of his male teachers, had been in the service during the war. Some sheepishly admitted they spent most of the war in the States, or in some safe area, while those who saw a lot of combat would rather not talk about it. All he knew of their experiences were when he overheard one vet talking to another. The Japanese were the worst. So why the hell are we buying things from Japan???

It has to do with communism, and needing the Japanese (and Germans) on "our" side to contain them.

Things like international relations and adulting could get complicated. Eric won a trinket at the ring toss, and that was better than winning nothing at all. Would that be Eric's life from there on? Small victories here and there? Just enough to get by, but never the big score? He certainly wasn't going to marry someone like Jayne Mansfield. He would probably end up with ... Betty? Well, that wouldn't be so bad. Betty was nice. In fact, she was probably the closest thing to a best friend a girl could be. But he couldn't picture Betty in a corset and knee high boots with spike heels threatening him with a riding crop. Eric had a lot of fantasies he would love to explore, and they all featured a beautiful woman with a cruel streak. A couple of them featured Betty's mother. None of them featured Betty.

So maybe he should hold out for Jayne Mansfield - or someone who looked more like her. He didn't want to be mean, even in his thinking, but the truth is nobody was going to sweep Betty off her feet and take her away any time soon. He was in no hurry to commit to her? And besides, would she even want him? Or were her expectations as unrealistic as his?

But -- there was one more thing about Betty that intrigued him. Betty's mom. Because, let's face it, Betty's mom is a gorgeous sexy woman. Isn't the daughter supposed to look like the mom? Was Nicolette a late-bloomer? If so, maybe Betty would be a late bloomer too. Maybe ...

--
--

"This can't be happening" the woman in Eric's little house in the back yard said again. Soon she would stop peeking out the window every five seconds looking for the sign in Betty's window, and check every 30 seconds or so. Meanwhile, there was a lot to do, a lot to think about.

Where would she go? What would she wear? What would she do for money?

Why was this even happening??? Was it God? or the Devil? Why would either of them want to do this to Eric?

How much time did she have before one of her parents - or rather, Eric's parents - appeared? They mostly left him alone, but at the spur of the moment mom could need help getting a box out of the attic or dad could need Eric to hold a board he was cutting.

The woman made a note - trying her hardest to make it look like Eric's scrawl - to put on the door. She hoped that by specifically addressing "Mom and Dad" in the header Betty would know it wasn't intended to keep her out.

I feel like I might be coming down with Strep Throat again - something you don't want to catch. I'm fine and I have plenty of soup, and I'll let you know if I need anything.

Only her arm would be visible to anyone from the outside as plenty of tape was used to plaster the note to the door, then it was closed and locked securely again. After checking one more time for a sign in the widow, the woman found the needle and thread Eric kept on hand for sewing buttons on shirts and began to work on her "dress".

"This can't be happening ...."

Eric had money in the bank. Maybe she could cash a check? No, not without ID.
How much does a motel room cost? Eric had never had to pay for one. Whatever it was, she wouldn't have enough to stay very long.
Eric had a sleeping bag and a small shelter - she could always just go - hide in the woods? For how long? How would that help her situation?

There were prayers - sort of -- the woman wasn't quite sure what to pray for. Undo this?? The woman looked in the mirror again and a strange feeling washed over her. Yes, it was a terrible and strange thing happening - but - did she really want this to be undone? She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful creature Eric could have ever imagined. Even sexier than Jayne Mansfield.

Did she really want to go back to being Eric?

Yes, yes of course she did. She didn't belong here. Eric had a life, a home, friends and family. She had nothing and nowhere to go.

She took another look in the mirror. God, what a beautiful woman! A woman this beautiful - she could have anything she wanted, couldn't she? She smiled for the mirror. Beautiful. She pouted for the mirror. Oh god, those lips! She winked at the mirror. What red-blooded American male could say no to her? Eric certainly couldn't.

Was she communicating with Eric? Telling Eric to get lost? That she is taking over? Or maybe, just maybe, she was telling Eric that she is his salvation - saving him from a life of mediocrity.

No, no, that had to be Satan talking. Eric had been made in God's image - God made Eric the way Eric was intended to be. If God wanted Eric to be a beautiful woman, He would have made him that way, right? It was becoming clear now. This had to be the work of Satan. And there was one sure-fire way every Christian could protect himself (or herself) from whatever temptations were laid in their paths. All she had to do is say those five little words - Get thee behind me, Satan.

With a renewed determination, the woman who didn't belong in this world lay down her sewing and marched back to the only mirror in the little house in the back yard to confront this evil head-on - even though she was a bit distracted by the swaying of her wide hips and the gentle bouncing and swaying of her unconfined breasts. She stared at the mirror and with all the determination she could muster said "Get thee ..."

"Get thee ... be... hind..."

"Get ... "

"My god! I'm so... perfect."

Then she smiled and winked at the beautiful woman in the mirror. There's no sense in making hasty decisions. She could always tell Satan to go away later.

Returning to her sewing, she wondered how much a corset and knee high boots with spike heels cost. And a riding crop.

Wanting to be at the mercy of a beautiful cruel dominant woman was only one of Eric's dirty little secrets. He had also fantasized about what it would be like to be that woman.

 

[DirrrtyDanny]

Prelude, Part Two (the change)

Her stomach was on fire, and Betty struggled to roll over onto her back, ro relieve some of the horrible pressure that made her feel as though she might explode. But her back was no better, and Betty gritted her teeth as her spine began to crack and pop, like that time she and Jenny Wright had linked arms and bent over, hauling the other off her feet. Betty’s back had cracked then, too. But not like this. This felt like what she imagined a car accident would be. Her back cracking, compressing, popping, expanding, stretching of its own accord. It was excruciating, and Betty bit her lip until it bled, stifling the cries she wanted to make.

At the same time – something she would never admit to, the pain was accompanied by an intense pleasure. Betty was a good girl. She knew the evils associated with touching herself… down there. She had prayed on it in the past, but the fact was, she didn’t yearn for it, much. She simply believed what everyone else insinuated about her. That she was too plain, not pretty. Only pretty girls deserved that kind of temptation. But now, for whatever reason, she felt an overwhelming urge to stroke, to open herself up, to thrust, to invite anything into her centre, to deeply bury. Such vice. Such sin. Betty wondered if she was going mad. If she was Satan’s vessel.

The heat in her chest and the pounding in her head continued unabated, and try as she might, Betty let slip a moan, which sounded nothing like her own mousy, studious, nagging voice. It was deeper, almost… sultry? Why did the moan sound like a pleasured mewling cry? It was pain, she was certain. Not pleasure. Not pleasure?

She was afire with this sickness that threatened to overtake her whole being. She felt constricted. Everything was to tight, so wet. She must have been sweating badly. Fevered. That’s what it was. A fever. She had heard of meningitis. Maybe she should call out to her parents… she obviously needed a hospital. That voice… she was hallucinating. Betty tore at her chest, tore at her shirt, the stricture so all-encompassing. She was only vaguely aware of the diamond-hard nipples under her shirt, the sprouting breasts, the straining, flexing abdominals. Her shirt – one of her favourite blouses, split and tore under her fingers. Her… longer, more feminine, slender fingers, the nails not chewed-off to the quick and stubby, but elegant and long, like mother’s.

Betty pressed on her stomach… such was the extent of her pain. She needed to taper this excruciating nausea and flame in her guts. What she found was not her soft, little paunch. Her little buddha belly, as her father had called it in the past. She found a taut, smooth expanse of muscled midsection, and hips! Hips! Once more, her physique cracked, doubling her up, a grunt escaping her lips. When she felt… something… something bestial, something insane, something from the depths of hell itself making a mockery of her poor, stretched underwear, she was again tempted to sin, tempted to explore herself, her hands moving of their own volition, under the hem of her now-bizarrely-tight, yet likewise loose and ill-fitting skirt, and brushed against something that simply could not… be. The sensation caused the first – and thankfully the only – cry to escape her lips, and then blessed darkness enveloped her…

The sunlight creeped its way into her eyes, forcing consciousness upon her. It was morning, and she ached everywhere. Betty was still on the floor. She could tell from her vantage point, looking up at her familiar ceiling. She was not in bed. She tried rolling on her side, and found the act difficult. But not from the ache (which was likely due to a poor night’s rest on the hard wooden floor.) She found her body resisting in ways it had never done before. Her chest was heavy. And her back snaked in ways it had never needed to before. The doctor had warned of possible scoliosis when she had been a tot, but it had come to nothing, praise Jesus. But this was like that… what – was she lying on one of her stuffed animals? The realization came upon her like a firecracker going off in her brain. Hips… breasts… waist… Betty shot up, staggering to her feet, and gripped herself in ways that had never been possible before. She swooned, as her vantage point had changed. This room was as familiar to her as any in her world. But she had never seen it from this high up before. She ran fingers through the remains of what had been her shirt, filled her fingers with luscious, full breasts that put even her mother’s cups to shame, flesh spilled out of her hands and around her fingers. Her waist was narrow, defined, thin even, and flowed (flared) sharply into preposterous hips as wide as her waist was, narrow.

It was when her fingers swept across her lap that she stopped, gasping. No. Dear God in Heaven, no. She tried to glance down to see her disfigurement, but her gaze was blocked, prevented by the enormity of her bosom. Betty hefted a breast, feeling the weight, the nipple shockingly close to her own mouth. Peering down the valley of her substantial cleavage, she could finally see… it. No. God… such sin. She was a demon. A succubus. Satan’s bride, surely. Falling to her knees, Betty began to weep, crying to God for forgiveness. But even as she did so, her hand found the beastly thing, lifted it, wrapped sinful fingers around it. Jesus… it was so vast. Something wet drizzled from its tip, across her fingers.

An hour later, Betty finally dared to open her bedroom door. Her parents were nowhere to be found. Of course… the retreat. Her father’s workshop. She was alone.

The first two hours of her self-imposed isolation were spent in shocked disbelief, swinging wildly from seeking out an exorcism, to trying in vain to keep from examining her new form. Betty had never seen a boy’s penis before, but from the size of the underwear she washed regularly for her father, there was no way this was normal. She refused to touch it. Barely allowed herself to glance at it, lest it mesmerize her. A little before ten in the morning, she ventured out into the hall, awkwardly and completely inadequately covering herself with her dainty, feminine hands. She didn’t know whether to cover the lurid expanse of her heaving chest, or the instrument which swung between her shapely thighs. In either case, her hands were nowhere nearly up to the task.

She moved quickly down the hall. Every step sent reports of the cool air, the weight of the testes that churned between her legs, the flopping of her monstrosity, dangling halfway to her knees, the thumb-sized erect nipples that stood proud on the upper slopes of those sinful boobs. Every step called for vice. And every step was ignored. Willed away.

Her mother’s boudoir / dressing room was her destination, as Betty had discovered that nothing she owned would fit her. She never ventured into this room. She was neither invited, nor permitted. It was her mother’s sanctuary. She paused, afeared, even though she knew full-well that her parents were two hours away. Finally, breathing deep and calming herself (as much as she could, heart pounding fit to burst all morning…) Betty stepped to the long, low chest of drawers and opened drawer after drawer until she found what she was after. Brassieres. Her mother had many, and as one of Betty’s chores was the family laundry, she knew as well as anyone (probably better) that her mother was gifted by Venus in the chest department. A 36DD. Betty had read, many times, on the fabric tags. She had tried them on before, and they had been an ill-fitting mess on her before. The band too tight, and the cups ludicrous on her flat-chested frame. Now, she tried once more, one of her mum’s oldest bras, from the back of the drawer. Again, she was ill-suited for the contraption. Except now, the band was several sizes too big (Betty guessed she was no bigger than a 30) yet the cups dug in and pinched, producing distinct depressions on her newly-developed meat. The band stood out from her ribcage by several inches. It was hopeless. She tossed the elastic device to the floor in disgust.

An hour later, Betty came down the stairs for a bite to ease her aching stomach. She wore one of her father’s plain white tee shirts, too big in the arm, but stretched tight across her ample assets, a pair of her mother’s panties, too big in the waist but tight at the hip, and her mother’s silk robe. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for around the house. She fixed herself a sandwich, all the while aware of the rubbing of her new appendage against the silk underwear. She tried to ignore it, tried to make it go away, but before long she was red-faced, and sporting a fearsome erection which had found its way out one of the leg-holes of her mum’s panties. She panted, resisting, as the thing pulsed and drooled. And it was then she saw the envelope on the kitchen floor.

It took her five hours of debate with herself before she hung her bath-towel in her window, and turned the light on to shine a silhouette out the window that Eric could see. Just after four p.m.

Why was the damnable thing so hard??

 

[DreamingOfMyEx]

Eric Delaney Taylor (yes, he had the additional misfortune of being given his mother’s maiden name as his middle name) had no such qualms about touching himself “down there” like Betty did. He was a guy, and guys masturbate. He couldn’t even remember when he started, and he couldn’t remember going longer than a couple of days without doing it. He didn’t understand any of it, but he did it anyway – as if it was instinctive for guys to do every day. Maybe. He couldn’t really know if other guys did it. After all, who would he ask? Say, Dad, I have a question: when I think of tits and rub my penis …. Ask the preacher? A teacher? No, and no. That was something you didn’t even mention to your best friend. Especially when your best friend is a girl.

He only knew it had a name (and a couple of nicknames) and that other guys did it because occasionally some other guy would mention it, but always as an insult. Something like “I bet you jerk off to ...” That didn’t really help overcome the feeling that it was wrong to do. It just felt so sinful. The only sin he really didn’t want to stop doing. There was no Get thee behind me Satan in the cards when he was looking at a lingerie model in the Sears catalogue in the privacy of his bedroom.

As for the woman in the mirror, the female body that replaced Eric’s male one, it had no penis. If it did, it probably wouldn’t have taken Eric – or whoever she was – very long to start stroking “down there”. But for this woman, she had no overwhelming desire for an orgasm – not when there were too many other things to worry about. She worried about being discovered. She worried about where to go and what to do. She struggled with her own reluctance to give up this perfect body for the privilege of being “Eric” again. She worried about trying to put together an outfit she could wear outside. And – she was on pins and needles about Betty, waiting for a sign from her. Hours passed with no sign in the window and no knock on the door. That probably meant Eric – or whoever this woman was – was all alone in the world.

She even struggled with that. Sorry to be all alone, but Eric’s love for Betty meant he – this woman – was glad Betty hadn’t been affected by the Wishing Machine.

Eric would not have realized this, nor would the woman occupying his little house, but this was a manifestation of what many older men – married men – knew all too well. The woman can’t possibly be in the mood for sex if there were other things left undone. Dirty dishes in the sink? No sex. Living room a mess? No sex. Child having problems at school? No sex.-Just woke up from a fever dream in a different body, not understanding what happened and not knowing what to do about it, with nowhere to go? No sex.

And speaking of pins and needles – three sheets, two pillow cases, a light blanket, and two tshirts had given their lives in the quest to cover this woman – we’ll call her Erica – something to wear outside the little house in the back yard. The tshirts provided her with some rudimentary sort of “bra” – something that flattened the breasts a little and helped to control the massive swing and bounce. One sheet became something like a toga, another became a poncho dress, and another became a mess of random strips of cotton. The blanket became a shawl to further hide the breasts. Pillow cases provided the – the she didn’t know what it was called – to line holes cut for head and arms to pass through.

As the woman cut and sewed she began to calm down, focusing on her work. A few minutes later the panic would build up again. It was quite the roller coaster ride, punctuated with additional peeks out the window looking for a sign from Betty.

There were also prayers. How could someone with Eric’s history not pray in time of crisis! The woman was only barely conscious – and didn’t feel as guilty as she knew she should – that the prayers had evolved from “Turn me back into Eric” to “Help me make this look like a real dress”.

Over time, one so beautiful as this woman, with a history of being Eric, probably can’t be looking down at her sewing with those massive breasts filling half her field of vision without giving in to the desire to touch them. Of course she had already “touched” them, but a different sort of touch - just to see if they were really there. This time those touches quickly turned to gentle rubbing, licking a finger and stimulating a nipple with it, or simply wiggling her butt in the chair and watching the effect that had on her breasts. She knew it would drive males crazy, because she used to be male. And because it was starting to drive her crazy, too.

She had better things to do, but how could one be this up close and personal with a body like hers and not want to … explore a little? Besides, the dishes were clean and she had no children to worry about. And there was a towel in the chair. It only seemed reasonable for her to put it there for her naked butt.

Bending over for a look – and there it was. Of course he looked earlier, but now she really looked. And there it was. The Holy of Holies for every male throughout the history of human males. With her left hand cupping her left breast, the index finger rubbing back and forth over her nipple, she reached down with her other hand, gently trailing a finger along the inner thigh of her right leg – as if it had to be approached slowly.

But not too slowly. Eric wouldn’t have been very patient, only afraid of the unknown – just as she was.

The hair down there seemed kind of – awkward. Why was there so much hair down there? It took her a while to remember that guys had hair down there, too. It didn’t seem useful for anything, and she didn’t waste much time worrying about it. At least most of the hair was above it and out of the way. It was lighter in color, and didn't seem as course as Eric's.

Then she touched it. Whatever “it” was. The outside. Not with her index finger, but with the middle one. That just seemed instinctive to her. Now what?

Folds of skin she couldn’t see very well – her boobs were in the way, the hair was in the way, even her own hand was in the way. There was an opening – so … so what? Just … stick it in? The woman had stopped rubbing her nipple, though her finger was still touching it, frozen in place. She was biting her lower lip. It all felt so naughty. As naughty as masturbating. A sin she might ask forgiveness for, but would never ask for help resisting. A little wiggle of the butt, a gentle pressure between the…

It was wet. Did she?? No, of course not. She would know if she had peed. Of course! It was lubricant! She was lubricating herself! Inviting something – someone – in to her. Erica rubbed up and down the length of the opening, spreading the lubricant, slowly but surely lubricating the end of her finger, knowing she would be sticking it in further at any moment. Should she work it in slowly, or just take a big plunge? Eric’s fear of the unknown had, in some small way, also been manifested in Erica. But that realization was the moment a significant change took place in the woman’s makeup.

She suddenly didn’t care for the name "Erica". Delaney sounded much sexier to her, an epiphany she experienced at the same moment she boldly plunged her right middle finger into her wet and inviting pussy.

As pleasurable as that was, it was almost forgotten when she discovered a certain .. place. A thing, just inside, near the top, that when she rubbed it caused a sensation a thousand times more pleasurable than rubbing a penis. Delaney had to let go her breast and literally wrap her arm around the back of the chair to keep from sliding off as a mere minute or two after discovering that little nub, her body was wracked by its first orgasm.

Oh.. oh.. oh … ahh.. ahhh… ahhhhh… AAGGHHHHHH! Aghh.. agghhhhh… AAAGGGHHHHH!!! Fuuucckkk

The next minute – or two – actually, she didn’t know how long, was spent whimpering and quivering as her body recovered… somehow managing to stay in the chair. She chuckled as she noticed how wet the towel beneath her butt had become, then realized she needed to pee.

Wait a second. Did she pee on the towel? Standing, though unsteady on her feet this soon after her orgasm, Delaney lifted the towel to her nose to see if it smelled of urine. It didn’t. It was all her … her … sex? After she peed, Delaney thought, she would transfer herself to the bed, and would need to remember to bring an additional towel or two.

A nonchalant peek out the window, however, brought those plans to a screeching halt.

Finally, hours after sliding the note under Betty’s back door, there was the signal. Delaney peed, cleaned herself “down there” with a wet wash cloth then a dry hand towel, got “dressed” as best she could, and ten minutes after spotting Betty’s signal hurried through their adjacent back yards and found herself at the back door of the parsonage which led into the kitchen.

Locked! Locked? Yes, locked. Dammit, she could have at least kept the door unlocked. Terrified someone might see her, Delaney knocked as loudly as she dared. Delaney, dressed in a white bedsheet poncho held together with a belt, clutching a shawl around her shoulders and over her breasts, with three pairs of socks holding Eric’s newest (cleanest) sneakers on her feet, -tried to make her voice as deep as possible – Betty would be expecting Eric, not Delaney.

“Hello? Betty? It.. it’s me.”

 

[DirrrtyDanny]

Betty was expecting… she didn’t know what to expect, actually. After seeing the note, Betty had felt, well, neither relieved nor happy. If anything, the vague tone and confusing wording of Eric’s note had left her just as perplexed as she had been upon waking that morning. Actually, it had made her blood boil, and she had slipped, for a while, into a mindset where all of this was Eric’s fault. But that wasn’t going to help anyone. She had relented, backing down from her anger. A shower. A shower would help ease her nerves, and quiet the mind. Maybe Eric had an insight into this that she had missed. Maybe this was temporary? In any case, two heads were better than one, and surely they’d be able to come up with some sort of solution together.

But would she be able to face him? Like this, with her demonic appendage? The shower soothed, but also stirred within her an animalistic, coarse, almost savage lust that she found difficult to reconcile. Driving lusty thoughts away became like swatting mosquitoes in the middle of the amazon. Hit ten, there were another fifty waiting for you. Eric had said he wanted to be attractive. What if it had worked? What if he was an adonis now, carved from solid marble like the pictures she had seen of Vince Gironda or Steve Reeves? The beast between her legs stirred at the thought. Again banishing the images, and the sinful thoughts that they carried with them, Betty finished her shower, and “dressed.” Such as it was. (She had half a mind to put on some of her father’s gardening dungarees, but the morning’s attire would seem to suffice.) So on went the tee shirt, and her mother’s underwear, and then the robe, which hung to about mid-calf. She cinched this so that it wouldn’t fall open, but not terribly tight – she didn’t want to draw any undue attention to her newfound curves. Unfortunately, the robe was a slinky affair, and clung to her shape. Ah, well. It was better than nothing, and with any luck, her ‘problem’ would be fixed once Eric arrived. She had also donned a pair of her father’s wool work socks, which wasn’t strictly necessary, but was a habit she had fallen into some months ago. Her feet were always cold.

“Hello? Betty? It.. it’s me.”

She had been fixing a sandwich (and had made a second, for Eric, who was usually hungry) when the rap at the kitchen door came. Padding to the door (much to her own chagrin, as her barely-contained chest bounced and wobbled, which seemed directly connected via a string, to her she-penis, which responded to every shift and shimmy, every bounce and wiggle, threatening to overwhelm.) Betty clutched at the neckline of her mother’s robe as she opened the door enough for a single-eyed squint, peeking out through the crack… and dissolved into fits of laughter. ‘Eric’ was there, shrouded like some sort of hunchback of notre dame / dime store Egyptian Mummy meets college Toga party, and Betty couldn’t help but be reduced to tears over his efforts. “Get in here, King Tut…” she opened the door for him, laughter having set aside any lingering anger she felt over her own condition. It wasn’t that Betty couldn’t tell something was different. It was obvious. But her gut reaction to Eric’s appearance had overridden Eric’s other, more substantial, changes. Now, hauling ‘her’ inside, Betty looked her friend over. She shook her head, tearing her eyes away, and padded over to the kitchen counter, picking up the sandwich.

“Here. Eat.” She held the plate out at arms’ length, and again looked over Eric’s new form, a low whistle escaping her lips. “Well, you sure got what you wished for…” Betty felt compelled to remind herself that she was a good, respectful, gentle friend and a kindly soul. (Accomplice, in this case?) There was a part of her mind (something she had never experienced before) that was compelled to look, to linger, to lick lips, to undress with her eyes… that wasn’t like her at all. That was simply not done in polite company. And She and Eric weren’t that sort of friends. Certainly not boyfriend-girlfriend. And Betty would like to think, even if they were, she wouldn’t be the sort to whistle and cat call. But there we were.

While all this was transpiring, Betty’s she-penis was thickening, hardening, growing. ‘Eric’ smelled divine. She looked as good as she smelled, and Betty wanted to taste. It – the thing between her legs… wanted to taste. Thankfully, she had trapped the vicious thing between her thighs, and stood now, stalk-still, while it throbbed and pulsed and drizzled its nasty boy-nectar down her inner thigh. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and she was sure the colour of her cheeks was fully crimson. She dared not move, for fear the thing would spring up… so there she stayed, leaning in mock-relaxed repose, against the fridge door. “So what do we do now, genius?” she crossed her arms, for the first time since growing such a mighty chest, and immediately regretted it, as the act thrust her bosom up and out obscenely. But once she had committed to the gesture, she stuck with it in case dropping the gesture seemed even more awkward… like this whole situation. “Heck of a mess you’ve got us into, Taylor.”

 

[DreamingOfMyEx]

Delaney had tried to prepare herself for anything. Well, almost anything. Actually, she had no idea to what extent she would need to prepare herself for, because she had no way of knowing what she would find. She might have expected to find Betty in a new body of her own – after all, one could guess what Betty might have wished for – but she wasn’t prepared for laughter.

For the moment, Betty’s new penis was safe from discovery. Delaney might be sporting Delaney’s body, but between that gorgeous exotic face and that head of hair that deserved its own television commercial for expensive shampoo and conditioner lay Eric’s 18 year old boy brain. Her eyes never got lower than Betty’s boobs.

Her initial reaction was just to stare at Betty in disbelief. Of course she was ready for the new body, but … King Tut? Laughter and mocking her for her wish-gone-wrong? And … and … a sandwich?

“Well, I’m glad one of us thinks this is funny!” She obviously wasn’t really glad. In fact, it felt ridiculous hearing Delaney's voice instead of Eric's, which made her even more upset. “How can you eat at a time like this???”

Truth was, she suddenly realized she was starving, having had nothing to eat yet that day, but she was too upset and too stubborn to admit it now.

“So what do we do now, genius?” she crossed her arms, for the first time since growing such a mighty chest

The truth was, Eric did sometimes think of himself as more a genius than Betty, though he never expressed that sentiment to anyone. And there were plenty of things she knew that he didn't. But with that question, it established the fact that he was going to take the lead - he was going to figure out how to fix all of this.

"We ... we need to ...." Delaney's eyes, however more alluring than Eric's had been, were still attached to Eric's brain - and with the crossing of her arms across her chest and under her breasts, Betty was now holding her friend in thrall. Delaney's inability to speak was not because she couldn't think of a plan. It was because .... boobs.

“Heck of a mess you’ve got us into, Taylor.”

Delaney realized this was all Eric's fault. Sort of. Still, Betty made her own decision, dropped her own money into the slot, made her own wish.

"We need to go" her voice barely above a whisper now. "Go back to the carnival. Get the machine to change us ...." she wasn't sure she wanted to say it ... "back. Into who we were."

Then she reached for the sandwich.

"Thank you. I ... I think we need to find something to wear."

 

[DirrrtyDanny]

“Go? We can’t just go… You, uh… you need to finish your sandwich.” It was a ridiculous statement. Betty knew it, but she couldn’t conceive of going anywhere … Not now. Not while she was struggling to contain a tent pole between her legs. Was she sweating? Was her lip trembling? Was she standing too awkwardly? Would Eric know something was wrong? Hellfire… Of course there was something wrong… Everything was wrong. Except that when she looked in the mirror, Betty Pryce finally felt like the person she was meant to be. That part felt right. … As long as she didn’t look down.

“something to wear… Sure, sure… Mom’s bedroom. Go, uh, go pick something out. You won’t be her size exactly. You look, uhm… bigger in some places… Tighter… In others.“ She trailed off, realizing how absurd she sounded. But she wasn’t willing to give in, wasn’t willing to let Eric see her like this. So she doubled down. “Go on… I’ll be here, I’ll, er, fix you another sandwich.“

(Delaney)

Delaney’s brain had been working overtime since she woke early that morning, and now, as overwhelming as things had been earlier, now they were no less overwhelming, just coming at her more quickly.

“Your mom’s bedroom? I’m not really comfortable … with …” But what had she been thinking? That Betty would have something she could wear? Of course Nicolette’s wardrobe would be more likely to supply what she needed. “Besides, I don’t know anything about women’s clothing. You should come with me. After all, it’s your mother’s things, not mine.”

Then things got even a little more strange when Betty offered her another sandwich, even though she hadn’t finished the first. Somehow, even the act of eating a sandwich seemed foreign to her new body, and Delaney’s free hand was continually covering her mouth as she ate.

“No, not another one, I need to watch my fig….”

Did she really just say that???

“No, just come with me, please” she said, setting the remaining third of her sandwich back on the plate.

(Betty)

This wasn’t working. How had she ever felt it would? No matter the encouragement Betty put into her features, no matter the short nod at Eric’s repetition of ‘mum’s closet…’ Betty could see that Eric wasn’t going to go for it. Not in pastor Pryce’s home, certainly not in Mrs. Pryce’s walk-in closet. (Though some of the neighbourhood boys would have killed to be in his place…) Betty could see that she would have to be (pardon the pun) firmer in her coaxing.

She rolled her eye at his hesitance. “Just gooo, Eric!” She pointed to the hall which led to the staircase by the front door, in doing so she let go the shelf-assist she had been providing her newly-developed ‘girls, and as her toned, slim arm and long, slender finger pointed out the hall, her chest bounced with the unrestrained motion. Eric’s gaze fell once more to them. (This was something Betty was not used to. Boys had never paid her that kind of attention.) and as much as she hated it, and as much as it served to distract Eric from her grand plot, she also secretly desired it, needed that attention, made her she-nis throb. He was going nowhere. It didn’t help that in her state of edged arousal (though Betty would be hard-pressed to even identify what she was feeling…) her nipples were erect and proud, straining the tee shirt and the satin that covered them.

“No, just come with me, please” Eric said, setting the remaining third of her sandwich back on the plate, and stepped in his too-large men’s shoes toward Betty, with a look that accompanied his completely justified reservations about traipsing through a friend’s mother’s things, taking her by the hand in a way they had done as friends many times before (‘you’re going to be late for the bus, come on!’ or ‘ it’s just a tilt-a-whirl, scaredy-pants! C’mon!’) Betty was, it had to be said, being childish. Except of course, she had a perfectly good reason to be skittish.

She tried to pull her hand away. “No! Let me go!” But the damage had been done. Eric was on the move, and having taken her by the hand, all he had to do was pull her off balance ever so slightly, which he did. Betty uncrossed her legs to catch her balance, and in doing so, freed the beast.

The thing sprang up, thick as either of their feminine forearms, criss-crossed in a vast, roiling network of veins, the angry magenta glans the size of a ripe plum. And if seeing a monster cock spring up from the crotch of the pastor’s daughter, literally the girl-next-door, wasn’t bad enough, the seemingly ever-present viscous drip of pre that had worked its way free of Betty’s piss-slit flew up with the freedom of the prick, and landed like a reverse tear drop on Eric’s beautiful cheek, scarcely an inch from her full, pouty lips which Betty had been so fixated on.

“NO!!!” Betty shrieked, bursting into tears, attempting to cover herself while running for the stairs. She had every intention of locking herself in her room until God struck her dead.

 

[DreamingOfMyEx]

It seemed like a million things all happened all at once, but in reality it was only a dozen or so things, and they all happened in a fraction of a second. First, that huge abomination of a monster cock sprang forth. Delaney was frozen in place by shock, as she imagined a person might be if struck by lightening. She wasn't sure of course, since neither she nor Eric had ever been struck by lightening. Eric had, however, been shocked by a 110 volt electrical outlet once, and his arm flew back involuntarily. In that regard, it was like being struck, only Delaney's whole body flew back - away from that huge ... thing. In flying backward she ran over a chair, which slightly deflected her path, but nonetheless she ended up her back plastered to the same wall she was aimed toward. Had she not been redirected, the drop of pre-cum flying in her direction might have hit her on the ear instead of the cheek - or maybe missed her altogether. Or it might have done something in-between, like landing in her hair. But instead, it did hit her on her lovely cheek, less than in inch from her beautiful sexy pouty lips.

Not that Delaney was aware of where it hit, or even what it was flying toward her. There was still too much going on. The decorations flying off the wall for instance. The framed embroidery saying "God Bless this House", the wedding photo, and the praying hands on the small shelf all went crashing to the floor - followed by the shelf itself, bursting the porcelain praying hands into a thousand pieces.

Perhaps most importantly, if there was any doubt of who was behind these changes, that monster cock Delaney saw was undoubtedly straight from the pits of Hell. Now she had to go back to that cursed machine - paying whatever it demanded, and hope she could remove the curse.

She was vaguely aware of Betty shouting "no", but it didn't register until she saw a portion of Betty's body disappear around a corner and up the stairs. Instead of running after her, Delaney simply slid down the wall until her ass was firmly planted on the kitchen floor. What could she say to Betty, anyway?

--

Delaney knew this would be a good time for prayer, but she didn't pray. It wasn't a case of not knowing what to pray for -- that was obvious. It just didn't seem to her that it would do any good. Not when Delaney - despite the obvious fact she needed to turn back into Eric and turn Betty back into Betty - wasn't sure she really wanted that. It made no sense, but then nothing made much sense at this point. There was too much happening, and it was all happening way too fast for her to process.

A minute later, to her horror, Delaney realized that instead of praying for her.. or rather, for Eric and Betty, she was instead obsessing over Betty's ... that thing between her legs. It was so wrong. So very very wrong. But all the wanted was just to see it again - to see it under different circumstances - to see it when she knew it was there, not as a huge surprise.

--

Upstairs, she easily found Mrs. Pryce's lingerie drawer and went through it looking for something that might fit - or for whatever might come closer to fitting than everything else in the drawer. The panties she selected were way too tight, but at least they pulled up to cover what they needed to cover. No such luck with the bras. Her breasts would not fit into the cups properly - at least not the way Delaney thought they should. Eventually she figured out that even though the bras would not clasp behind her back, with Betty's help she could make one work by connecting the two ends with a shoelace taken from one of Mr. Pryce's shoes. With her huge breasts, Delaney figured some support was better than none at all.

A dress that fit Mrs. Pryce modestly turned out to be very tight on Delaney, but at least - like the panties - they could be pulled up over the hips with some effort. All the while, Delaney was feeling a sense of urgency, even knowing Mr. and Mrs. Pryce would be away for the whole week. As luck would have it, her feet were close in size to Mrs Pryce, giving Delaney a choice of shoes. Being realistic, she chose some sensible flats. Then, being Delaney, she exchanged them for something with heels. Eric had never walked in high heels before, and neither had Delaney, but Delaney was determined to make them work. After all, she had a few hours to practice walking in heels before she absolutely had to leave. And if she didn't get to the carnival that evening, there would always be tomorrow.

--

Once Delaney was dressed and her hair brushed, she gently knocked on Betty's bedroom door.

"Betty.. can I come in? It's... it's Delaney." Like she really needed to tell Betty who was knocking? There were only two people in the house. "I mean, you know.. Eric.. but since I'm like this, I think I should call myself Delaney. Come on Betty - We, we really need to talk about this - and figure out what to do. Betty???"

She tried the door knob to see if the door was locked. There really was a ton of things they needed to discuss and figure out, but Delaney's first priority was to see if Betty could help her with her makeup. Sure, she was confident she would be Eric again in a few hours if not sooner, but while she was Delaney she was going to be the best Delaney she could be. And besides, wouldn't a women like her appearing in public without makeup draw undue attention?

Or ... maybe makeup was her second priority. She really wanted to get another look at that huge cock again. As she was brushing her hair, Delaney noted that drop of precum on her face. It had dripped down an inch toward her chin before drying, but having once been a boy she correctly guessed what it was. She should have been disgusted. She should have abhorred the very thought of that ... stuff ... being on her face. Instead of wiping it off with a tissue, she scooped it up with a fingertip - and tasted it. It didn't taste like much to her - but perhaps a larger sample would ... well. It's not like it would be a sin. Would it? It was all just a matter of ... curiosity. She was only slightly ashamed to realize she didn't care if it was a sin or not. It's not like Eric never sinned.

She lightly tapped on the door again.

"Betty? It's Delaney."

 

[DirrrtyDanny]

Betty (was she even really Betty anymore, the girl-woman asked herself through tear-filled eyes?) threw herself onto her twin-sized bed, the mattress and springs groaned as they always did, and cried into her pillow for what felt like a long time. The shame. The unmitigated shame of it. The one person she wanted to find her pretty, saw… that… instead. She wanted to die. There was no way Eric would ever want to go steady with her, or even go to a social with her now. She turned on her side, and looked at the family photo on her side-table, immediately slamming it face-down upon seeing the smiling young girl staring back at her. Who was she? What was she? Some abomination. She turned on her back, her massive tits swaying with her sudden movements. She did her best to quiet her sobbing, calm her tears, only to once more realize that her nipple, erect and on the upper slope of her breast, was mere inches from her mouth, and in that moment, the urge to soothe, overtook the grief over what she felt was the loss of Betty. Lifting her own firm, perfect (was that even possible?) breast to her mouth, the woman formerly known as Betty took her own nipple into her mouth, and sucked. The pleasure was indescribable. It went beyond soothing. The nipple was warm, and large, the nub of it bigger than the tip of her thumb, and she moved it around her mouth, rolling it in spittle, licking and sucking, tonguing and washing her own teat until it grew hard and swollen, puckered and erect.

The effect wasn’t lost on her girl-cock, either. The stimulation of her own tits caused a reaction down below, too. With every suck, every nibble, every squeeze, her cock grew, expanded, flared, until it rested, hard and heavy, against her belly, the tip coming to rest just under her sternum. Lost to her own balm of sensation, the woman lifted her mammoth appendage, wrapped fingers around it, and stroked a penis for the first time in her life. She gripped it, softened her grip, squeezed, worked her little hand around the bloated head, till a rivulet of fluid ran from the tip, down over her hand (she was surprised to find it was warm, like condensed milk, and a little thicker than water, like maple syrup.) This too, she worked into her ministrations, coating the vast, veiny shaft of her girl-cock with it.

She didn’t even hear the first knock, the calling of her old, useless name. So lost was she to the evils of her sinful masturbation. She realized a pressure was building in her. A good pressure, one she yearned for. One she wanted to give in to. But was this additional sin? Was this the devil himself? She slowed in her stroking, enough to realize her heart-rate and breathing was heavy, intense, quickened. It looked… magnificent. Towering. Dwarfing her hand, making her wish she had two more to add to the occasion.

And then came the second knock on the door. “Betty? It’s Delaney.” She thought for a moment. Delaney? Who? Oh… right… she had been so lost in her affections, that she had barely taken in what Eri… Delaney, had said before. Now she wondered, would she want to see it? It was so stately. So magnificent. So strong. ‘Betty’ shook her head. What was she thinking? She climbed under the covers, pulling them up to her neck.

“Yes? Er, yes, come in Delaney.”

 

[DreamingOfMyEx]

Delaney was happy to find the doorknob turned a little - meaning it wasn't locked. She wouldn't, however, open it without permission. At least not right away. A locked door might have meant Betty was thinking of doing something ... unthinkable. Too horrible and unchristian to consider. Not only would it mean the loss of her best (and at the moment - only) friend - but how would something like finding Betty in her current state be explained? They couldn't even identify the remains as Betty.

But enough of that kind of silly thinking - Betty was alive and well (if being in that body could be considered "well") and she just invited Delaney into her room.

"I don't know what to say .... Betty." It felt strange calling this creature by the same name used as her plain little 18 year old friend. "I ... I don't think this is something God would do to us, but then again, I can't say for sure. But we've always been there for each other - sometimes you're the strong one and sometimes I'm the strong one. I think - I feel - like maybe I need to be the strong one, and tell you what we need to do. We need to go back to the Carnival and that machine and tell it to - no, and make wishes - to get our old selves back. Something tells me we have to do this for ourselves. It's not something I can do for you, or that you can do for me. Do you agree?"

(Betty)

Her throbbing penis, for the moment safely hidden under her blanket, disagreed. The throbbing in her guts, that need for release, to push, to thrust, to touch and yank and squeeze… definitely disagreed. In that moment, she did not want any part of the machine, or the carnival, or any ‘cure.’ She did not care if ‘her old self’ ever came back. This was an unexpected turn for the woman formerly known as Betty, and she acknowledged that it was likely rash of her to take so hard a line in her mind. There were her parents to think of (but since when had she ever been anything but a burden, a disappointment, an unfortunate tag-along, to them? When was the last time her mother had told Betty she loved her? When was the last time Father had hugged her, told her how proud he was?) There was Jesus to consider. Her father’s teachings, and those she had read over and over in the Bible since she was old enough to turn a page (but had Jesus ever tugged on a penis like this? Had he ever experienced something so powerful, so of-the-flesh? Of course he had. Temptation. Sin. She thought of the merchants at the temple. Of Mary Magdalene. Of course Jesus had known sin. He had turned away from it. Could she?)

She grudgingly mumbled, her sultry voice barely a conversational tone. “Yes. I… I agree. You’re right, we should go back to the carnival.” But then, like a whisper on the wind, a thought stole into her mind’s eye. And she couldn’t help but give voice to it, adding as much of the new, sultry voice as she could muster. This intrusive thought made her more excited than the thought of Betty making a return ever could. Maybe Delaney would make the choice for both of them. “Delaney… do you want to see my penis again?”

(Delaney)

“Do you want to see my penis again?”

“Ewwww - no” Delaney responded to a question which, from her point of view, came in from way out in left field and totally unexpected. What made Betty think she would want to see that thing again???

The irony, however, is that she did want to see it again, and she knew before coming into the room that she wanted to see it again. Was it curiosity - or something else? Regardless, Delaney just didn’t know how to ask - the timing was all wrong - or … something like that.

Almost immediately, Delaney remembered that her friend was going through as much or more emotional trauma than she was - and that response might have hurt her feelings. But how do you say “Yes, I want to see that obscene monstrosity with which you’ve been cursed by Satan” without sounding like … like … like what? A total slut? And why would Betty think she wants to see it again? To verify it’s an abomination? Is she actually proud of it? Well, the guys in the locker room seemed to be proud of what they had, if what they had was bigger than everyone else’s - and Eric had never seen one as big as what Betty was sporting.

“I’m sorry - I … I don’t mean … I didn’t mean it to come out like that. Actually, I … I do want to see it. I just … everything is so confusing right now.” She eased her way toward Betty’s bed, and slowly sat on the edge, whispering “If you want me to see it … I used to be a guy, you know. Maybe … I dunno … if you have any, ummm, questions, or ... whatever?”

 

[DirrrtyDanny]

Yes… Yes! Questions. She did have questions. So many questions. For the first time since Delaney’s arrival, the woman who used to be Betty Pryce showed something other than anguish and distress on her (actually, quite beautiful) face. Was it hope? Relief? Understanding? Comfort? Regardless… it was a look that ‘Eric’ had seen before from ‘Betty.’ Friendship. Togetherness. Not something she shared with many (if any – and certainly in this new form) others.She was glad Delaney had chosen to sit at her bedside, like her mum had done when she was small. Behind the comfort, though, was an excitement, building. A pressure in her chest, her heart pounding. A door had been opened here, and she was going to step through – though under the guise of clinical ‘questions.’ Like a shadow in her mind, she had known all along that she wanted this. Wanted Eric… Delaney. And that somehow, what he had asked for, he had received. And she, was somehow a part of that. They were connected. And if it was sin, so be it. She wanted to see where it all led. So, with her cheeks burning, ‘Betty’ nodded, and began to roll onto her back.

“Ok, Delaney…” she nearly whispered. “Be kind, please. I know, it’s difficult to look at.” Even as she rolled onto her back, the great thing came into view, at least partially. The tent of her sheet and blanket was almost comical, pulling huge quantities of the blanket material up from what had been hanging over the edges of the mattress. Once settled on her back, she drew the blanket and top sheet aside over her midsection, exposing the behemoth. The questions were all honest, and some were legitimately perplexing her. But yet others were meant to guide, to lead… to provoke.

“So, is this, uh, normal?” she asked, watching with doe eyes as Delaney beheld her monster. She already knew the answer, but it seemed a good one to lead with. “Are they always so rigid? This one, seems to be. And do they all drizzle like this? So much?” The head of the mighty thing was already glistening with pre, but to illustrate the point she squeezed the thick shaft at its mid-point, and a drool of pre-come oozed from the tip, as much as a normal phallus’ full discharge at orgasm. “It often pulses and throbs. Is that normal, Delaney?” She squeezed again, and in answer, the flared head of the thing went crimson, fully engorged, and terrifying to behold. Her hand covered maybe half the thing’s girth. “And do these – testes – churn so violently all the time? Sometimes they actually hurt…” And once more to illustrate her question, ‘Betty’ lay her slab against her toned abdominals, and hefted her nutsack where, sure enough, the huge nuts seemed to actually be roiling and churning. What ‘Betty’ didn’t even realize, and what Delaney got an eyeful of in this moment, was that beneath the phallus, and nutsack, Betty likewise had what looked to be a fully-functioning pussy, tucked away, but likewise glistening with need. ‘Betty seemed completely ignorant of this as she spoke.

 

[DreamingOfMyEx]

Questions. Questions. A million questions. What was she expecting from Delaney, an expert on penises? It was one thing to say it’s big, but Betty seemed to be going overboard with all the questions. Or maybe it wasn’t the number of questions, but the excitement she seemed to be experiencing. Not the excitement that came from being transformed, but the excitement over having a penis. Eric never got excited at the thought of having a penis.

Delaney almost told her to calm down, that by tomorrow morning it would be gone and none of this would matter. But suddenly, she got the feeling that would be like telling a kid there was no Santa Claus. It began to make sense to her.

Eric’s parents never really explained the facts of life to him – it was something he just sort of figured out on his own. The pictures in National Geographic. The carefully constructed biology lessons. A passing knowledge of animal husbandry. Crude comments from bullies and other guys in the locker room. It was the penis, and the testicles, that made guys obsess over sex. When Delaney woke up without penis and testicles, she didn’t immediately look for something to shove inside her pussy because of overwhelming horniness. No, it took her a while to even begin to explore. There were more important things to consider than groping and fondling her new body. Now it was “sensible Betty”, for whom making her bed in the morning was as high a priority as morning devotional, who was suddenly obsessed with her penis, not only wanting to show it off, but wanting Delaney to want to see it!

And now – now Delaney suddenly felt like the older sibling, teaching the younger one all about all the parts the parents left out in their talk of birds and bees. Patience was required – and affection – and trust.

“Okay, whoa, slow down there cowgirl. I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Yeah, yours is big, and that’s a good thing. Guys with big ones take a lot of pride in showing off what they have.” Of course Betty’s was beyond big, it was huge. HUGE. But Delaney only got a glimpse, and her memory of what she saw was clouded by shock, a little physical trauma, and some praying hands shattered into a thousand fragments on the kitchen floor. And – her face turned a bit red when she remembered this part – that drop of … she didn’t even know what it was called … she later found on her cheek.

Then Betty rolled over, and Delaney’s eyes got as big as saucers.

“So, is this, uh, normal?”

Delaney couldn’t even speak for a moment.

“It’s uhh.. it’s.. it’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen. That might even be the, uh, the biggest one in the world.” Was she shocked? Was she abhorred? Was she fascinated? Was she mesmerized?

Yes, to all the above.

But the questions kept coming. Rigid. Pulsing. Throbbing. Dripping. Churning. Before Delaney could figure out the proper way to answer one question, another one was hurled at her. Then came the pièce de résistance – Betty’s pussy. Eric had never even seen one. Delaney couldn’t even get a good look at her own. It was all a bit much for her to deal with at the moment, but she took in a deep breath – reminded herself she was acting in the role of big sister – and smiled at Betty.

“Now you know why boys act the way they do.”

There would be a lot more explaining to do, and in explaining Delaney tried to put Betty’s vagina out of her mind. That was an added level of complication she didn’t want to deal with – that monster penis was enough for the moment.

“Imagine a small banana. No wait, imagine a hot dog. Not the whole thing, just the wiener. No, maybe a little bigger than that. And imagine a banana. And then a big banana.” She was trying to educate Betty on “normal” and “big” sizes. Delaney was saying things to her that Eric would never confess in a million years to anyone.

“It’s called … masturbating. Guys usually call it something else, like jerking off, or … tossing off, I think. And once you do that, I mean, when you do that, something spurts out. I mean, not just dribbles like you’re doing now – it comes out with more of a spurt. And it feels – incredible. Indescribable. I … when I was Eric – started doing it about – well, I don’t remember for sure how old I was, but, like … every day. Once a day. Sometimes I’d go a day or two without, but after two days, oh my god, I felt about like you do now. And a few times I did it twice in one day, but usually after one time the feeling – the need – goes away for a while. At least that’s my experience. It’s not like guys talk to other guys about stuff like that, ya know?”

“And oh yeah, one more thing. After it.. you know.. spurts .. then it gets soft and, smaller. It might take a couple of minutes, though.”

At first, Delaney couldn’t even look at that … thing … while she spoke. By the time she was telling Betty that feeling might subside for a while, she was not only looking, but feeling the need to touch it.

“I always feel guilty about it. Like it’s a sin. But it’s really confusing, because if I didn’t do it I’d go crazy. It’s like every guy, I think, needs to do it. So how is that a sin? It feels wrong, but it’s something I can’t not do. And it’s not like you can talk to anybody about it.”

Then she smiled at Betty again and repeated “Now you know why boys act so weird, right?”

So, time to “fix” the problem?

“Do you have some .. lotion? Like hand lotion, or baby oil, something slick? When I started, I just rubbed it against the bed – it wasn’t something I was taught or anything, it was just instinctive – it needed to be rubbed. Later on I figured out to use my hand …” Oh god! How she wanted to touch it! “with lotion on it, and just rub up and down till it spurted.”

Suddenly, “worldly big sister’s” demeanor changed entirely, to that of “shy innocent virgin”. She looked away, her eyes focused on the bedroom floor, as her cheeks turned red again.

“I .. I can help .. I can show you, if you want. If it’s okay if I … touch it.”

Betty already asked if she wanted to touch it, but somehow it only felt right to ask. Like maybe if she heard it twice, after making it a more clinical thing, it wouldn’t feel as slutty as jumping at the first invitation.

 

[DirrrtyDanny]

So much of what Delaney said made such perfect sense. Of course that's why guys acted so strangely sometime. Hers was big. Delaney had said so. And it seemed, big was good. Did girls like penises this big? (but more to the point, did Delaney like penises this big?) The biggest she had ever seen. (was it odd that 'Betty' really no longer thought of, or referred to her former friend Eric, as Eric? She had only been introduced to Delaney a few minutes ago, but like so much else about the past day, so much was just accepted at face value. It just made sense. (Of course you're not Eric. Eric was a thin, average boy. Delaney is a gorgeous, out-of-this-world gorgeous woman.)

Her brow furrowed when Delaney began speaking about wieners and bananas. Her penis didn't resemble either of those things. Maybe a Kielbasa. A hard, throbbing, attractive kielbasa. (Could polish sausage be considered attractive? Maybe to a butcher...)

Masturbation (jerking it, or pulling pud, tossing it... she had heard these vulgarities before) seemed to make sense, except for the part about it being soft. She had scarcely seen it soft since she had been cursed with it. In the shower, briefly. Before Delaney had arrived, for a short time. It just didn's seem likely to her. But who was she to judge, she had only been possessed of the male genitalia for a day. And the part about once a day. She had likewise wrinkled her nose at that. This... thing... seemed like it would need once an hour. But she let that go.

At the mention of lotion, of Delaney actually considering... doing... touching... it... 'Betty' nodded vigorously, reaching for her nightstand, and produced a small bottle of baby oil. "p-p-please..." she mewled, and unscrewed the cap of the oil, holding it out to Delaney. At the mere insinuation that Delaney would condone such behaviour, her penis surged to fully-erect, and another short spurt of clear, viscous liquid drizzled from the slit, drooling down the underside of her shaft. 'Betty' moaned at the idea of Delaney touching it, and she drew her blanket to her mouth, biting it. This pulled the soft fabric up, finding the path of least resistance between her full, pert breasts, the tips pointing skyward like twin thimbles. 'Betty' grabbed one, the right, closest to where Delaney was seated on the bed, and held it, running her nipple between thumb and middle finger. "please, Delaney... touch me. You're so beautiful..."

 

[DreamingOfMyEx]

Delaney’s trepidation at the thought of touching Betty’s penis grew with each passing moment as that moment of truth grew closer. So did her fascination. A fascination that was turning to obsession. She wanted to explore its contours and textures, to help her friend understand the immense pleasure it could bring – and to show herself she was a real woman. A woman of unearthly beauty and sex appeal who could pleasure the most magnificent penis in the world.

Just as Eric had needed a new name to go with the new body - and the new persona - just plain Betty needed a new name to reflect she was no longer the good little studious flat-chested never-been-kissed Christian girl next door.

“Dakota” she whispered.

“Perfect”, Delaney responded. Dakota and Delaney - what a formidable team they could make. Two women of unearthly beauty, breaking hearts - breaking bodies?

It was possible, but all this would end soon enough. Too soon. As soon as they returned to the Wishing Machine. Delaney didn’t want to do it, but she knew it had to be done. Meanwhile, she was going to enjoy being Delaney - enjoy it to the maximum extent possible.

Dakota had called her “beautiful”. Delaney knew she was beautiful, of course - she had looked in a mirror, both at herself and with the mind of an 18 year old boy - and both were blown away by what they saw. But the mirror - in a million years - could not give Delaney anything as meaningful as Dakota asking for her touch, telling her she was beautiful. For that, she would gladly give up all the mirrors in the world.

Delaney touched the huge cock with the tips of her fingers – this small gesture spanning the great chasm which divided what was and was not appropriate for good Christians. Once that was done, it could never be undone. There was no going back, only going forward – as Delaney’s smaller, softer, more delicate palm flattened against the huge god-like cock and her delicate fingers tried to wrap around – only covering a small fraction of its circumference.

It felt as if there was a little voice in her head - a little accusatory voice - screaming at her: “Sinner!” It reminded her that sex between people who weren’t married was a sin. It reminded her that she wasn’t really Delaney, she was Eric, and that made this kind of sin a hundred times worse. It even pointed out that even if she was Delaney, it would still be a heinous sin because the penis was attached to another woman. Any way you look at it, it’s a sin.

Delaney didn’t care.

She knew the voice was not just her conscience speaking, but it was coming from God, or a guardian angel, or something. Vaguely aware that she should have spent the last few hours praying for some deliverance from this - whatever it was that happened - Delaney finally uttered her first and most fervent prayer to God. It was a silent prayer, but she knew He could hear: “Shut the fuck up!”

Delaney didn’t care if this was a sin or not. If God didn’t want her sinning, then he should have stopped that devil in the machine from giving her a body like this.

Only a slight repositioning was required to bring her other hand into play, and as exciting and arousing as it was for Delaney to look upon the beast of a cock, there was something which held an equal fascination for her: the rest of the body the cock was attached to.

“You touch it too” she whispered to Dakota as their eyes met. “It’s big enough for all our hands.” She wanted to be a part of Dakota discovering the pleasure of bringing herself to orgasm. Then, suddenly, Delaney realized she didn’t want Dakota’s hands on her own cock, she wanted Dakota’s hands all over her.

“Then when your hands get baby oil all over them, touch me. Touch me anywhere. Touch me everywhere. Every place you can reach. I need you to touch me Dakota. My beautiful beautiful Dakota. I need … you.”

Delaney had been sitting on the edge of Betty’s bed - Dakota’s bed. She turned slightly to touch Dakota’s cock with one hand, then turned a bit more to bring both hands into play. Now she was perfectly positioned to do what naturally came next: Delaney leaned down to give Dakota her first kiss. Their first kiss. The first of many, she hoped.

Delaney thought back to the image in the mirror. That beautiful face with the mesmerizing eyes and the puffy pouty kissable lips.

Just imagining this from Dakota’s point of view was as arousing to Delaney as touching Dakota’s huge monster cock. Her god-cock. No … her goddess cock.

Eric had never kissed a girl. He had watched people kiss on television and in the movies. He had imagined it. And something he would never admit, but in bed at night he would practice hugging and kissing a pillow - wanting to be ready for when the time came. In truth, if it was Eric kissing a girl, his lips would have remained rigid and quite possibly as cold as stone. But this wasn’t Eric kissing a girl, it was Delaney, kissing a woman. Kissing Dakota with lips that were made for kissing. Delaney wanted to kiss everything Dakota had to offer - her neck, her nipples, her fingers, her toes - and of course her goddess-cock - but despite her overwhelming sense of lust, she was perfectly aware of what was more important than all that.

Love.

Her lips approached Dakota’s very slowly, and the first slight, almost imperceptible brushing of their lips was so light, one might have wondered if it really happened. Was it nothing more than a strong desire she fantasized might have really happened? Delaney wanted their first kiss to be gentle. To be soft and romantic and … loving. Future kisses could be wild and passionate – but their first kiss would be the one most worth remembering – it came when Delaney whispered “I love you” and their lips touched again.

It was like nothing that neither Eric or Delaney had ever imagined. There was no awkward fumbling, nor hurried urgency. This time, they pressed harder. They moved. They were warm, and they tried to envelope both her lips and her heart with their warmth. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a slow dance to the music playing in their hearts. A re-puckering here, a minor adjustment of the angle there, and before long, a little tongue. Just the tip. Just a little tease. Any more than that would just feel wrong - like a horny boy invading her mouth with no respect for the girl he was kissing.

The first time Delaney’s beautiful sexy pouty kissable lips touched another person, it wasn’t the result of some wild and crazy sexual act driven by pure lust. That would certainly come later. But now … There was no doubt then that Dakota had been kissed by someone who knew the difference. By someone who truly loved her.

That isn’t to say that a few seconds later Delaney wouldn’t be ravaging her friend in a manner that would make a school of sharks in a feeding frenzy look docile and boring - but that first kiss - it needed to be ... just right.

It needed to be perfect.

 

[DirrrtyDanny]

Dakota’s little hands, slender alabaster hands with long fingers, capped with those beautiful, unbitten fingernails that she couldn’t quite get over, held the bottle of baby oil just so, and squeezed a few drops onto her friends’ similarly feminine, oh so gorgeous fingers. The oil made Delaney‘s hands sparkle, shimmer as the drop dead gorgeous woman in front of her worked the fluid over her own fingers and palms. Dakota couldn’t stop staring at Delaney‘s face, her crystal clear blue eyes, and her lips, those twin pillows that looked so soft, so kissable, so unlike Eric. Cheekbones carved out of raw sex appeal. It was as if Eric had been taken apart and reassembled from first principles, by a master craftsman, and then handed over to Venus herself for testing.

Seemingly granted an unspoken permission, Dakota let her eyes drift south, past the delicate collarbones, to the place where Delaney‘s gravity defying round orbs hung like ripe fruit. Dakota was no expert, having only been possessed of tits for the better part of the day, but she wasn’t sure who was bigger… herself or Delaney. Her gorgeous friend certainly had tits that seemed to ride higher on the chest, rounder, and possibly perkier while her own had more of a teardrop shape, still jutting out from her frame to an impossible degree. How she longed to press them together, to feel their nipples press together.

When her gorgeous companion let her fingers gently touch the flesh of her penis, Dakota thought she might die right then and there. She moaned deeply, arching her back. This was no time to be demure. Delaney had something to show her, and Dakota desperately needed to be shown. “yes, please…” her voice whispered. Dakota didn’t know what to do next. The overwhelming sensations were tugging her mind and her spirit in 1000 different directions, and she didn’t want to do something wrong. Not now. When her ‘carnal knowledge 101’ teacher instructed her to put her hands on it as well, Dakota nodded obediently. There were those dainty hands again, squeezing, perhaps a little too much oil. Hesitant now, unsure… trepidation.

She approached her cock as if it might strike her, an eastern diamondback rattlesnake poised to inject a lethal dose of venom. But when her fingers finally closed around her monstrosity, Dakota let free a sound that was equal parts, whine and moan. Their fingers met around her beastly club, slick and feminine, lovingly questing, seeking, testing, Delaney leading, Dakota following. Discovering what felt good, what would tame the beast. As if on auto pilot, Dakota grasped her own left breast with her free hand, finding its peak, gripping her engorged, aroused nipple between thumb and forefinger, again extracting a whine from her bratty lips.

When their mouths met it was liquid fire, just the most gentle pressing of their perfection. Betty had never kissed a boy before. Dakota was almost certain that she never wanted to. Not after feeling the way Delaney‘s lips melted into her own. Nothing could have fed the flames of passion within her more than this.

The slit of her massive member drooled pre-cum in a small rivulet that ran down over both of their hands, occasionally spurting droplets that came to rest on Delaney‘s hands, and Dakota‘s abs… while simultaneously Dakota’s pussy twitched and sent shockwaves of pleasure up through her length making her grown deeply into Delaney‘s mouth. Again, on auto pilot, just following what felt right, Dakota let her tongue graze against the tip of her beautiful partners’ tongue, and her eyes opened wide in surprise. That was good. It felt electric. And she immediately sent her tongue for more. “Oh God… God help me, I Love you too, Delaney.”

When the most beautiful woman she had ever seen directed Dakota to explore her body as well, it was almost too much to bear. Dakota didn’t have enough hands. The feeling of their fingers working together on Dakota‘s cock meant she would never remove that hand from its busy and compulsory work. And her other hand, tugging and stroking her own nipple, was magnifying the effects of the pleasure she was experiencing, so she was loath to quit. But the invitation to experience Delaney’s body was too exquisite to ignore. Dakota slicked her hand with more of the baby oil, again, probably too much… Traced a line from Delaney’s neck, down over her statuesque form (artists should be carving her out of marble) and slid under the neckline of her shirt to find the space between her bare, clinging breasts, leaving that delectable, mesmerizing oily film on perfect skin in her wake. They were perfect. And Dakota needed to see more…