Just Chilling

I’m Trey, sprawled on my couch, legs wide like I own the place, sipping a grape juice box like it’s a damn beer. It’s Saturday, my day to do fuck-all, and I’m half-watching some basketball highlights on my 75-inch TV. The apartment’s quiet, just the hum of the AC and the faint smell of the pizza I demolished last night. I’m in my zone, faded tee and basketball shorts, not a care in the world. 

Then—pop—the window’s open, and before I can even look up, there’s this blinding pink flash, like someone set off a neon firecracker in my face. My skin buzzes, hot and prickly, and I hear footsteps bolting away outside. “What the fuck?!” I shout, dropping the juice box. It splatters on the floor, purple shit everywhere, but that’s the least of my problems.

I blink, trying to clear the spots from my eyes, and my body feels… wrong. Light. Soft. I look down, and my heart damn near stops. My chest’s ballooned out into two perky tits, straining against a flimsy white sundress I sure as hell wasn’t wearing a second ago. My arms are slim, pale as fuck, with delicate little hands tipped with pink nails. My legs—spread wide like I’m still chilling like a dude—are now smooth, creamy, and way too short. The sundress is hiked up, and I’m flashing a pair of white panties, stretched tight over a pussy that’s definitely not mine. I can feel the air on it, cool against the damp heat already building there, and the scent hits me—sweet, musky, like some chick’s perfume mixed with raw arousal. “No fucking way,” I mutter, my voice still deep, still me, but sounding all wrong coming from this tiny, curvy body.

I slam my legs shut, but the panties rub against my new clit, and a jolt of pleasure shoots through me, making my tits jiggle. “Shit!” I yelp, grabbing at them, feeling their soft weight, the nipples hardening under my fingers through the thin fabric. My whole body’s buzzing, like it’s wired for something I don’t understand. I stumble to my feet, the sundress swishing around my thighs, and catch my reflection in the TV screen. My head—dark skin, short fade, goatee—looks fucking ridiculous on this petite white chick’s frame, all curves and smooth skin. My ass is round, filling out the dress, and every step makes it bounce, sending sparks straight to my crotch. I’m sweating now, the room smelling like grape juice, my cologne, and this new, feminine musk that’s driving me nuts.

I rush to the window, my bare feet slapping the floor, tits swaying like they’ve got a mind of their own. Nobody’s out there—just the empty street, a stray dog sniffing around. “Who the fuck did this?!” I yell, my voice echoing, but there’s no answer. My phone’s still on the couch, so I grab it, fumbling with these dainty fingers, and try to call my boy Marcus. Maybe he’ll know what’s up. But when I unlock the screen, my lockscreen’s different—not my usual pic of my car, but some selfie of a white chick in this same sundress, smiling like an idiot. My head looked photoshopped onto it, and I drop the phone like it’s cursed. “Nah, nah, nah, this ain’t happening,” I mutter, pacing back and forth. The friction’s too much, and I’m fighting not to moan, my new pussy throbbing like it’s got its own heartbeat.

I flop back on the couch, legs spreading again without thinking, the sundress riding up to flash those panties. I can smell my own arousal now, thick and heady, and it’s fucking with my head. My tits are heaving, the dress clinging to my sweaty skin, and I’m torn between freaking out and… touching myself. 

All I can think is now is, how is this possible and what the fuck do I do now?