I Asked to Be Another Man and Woke Up as Another Woman

The bass from the party thudded through the walls like a stranger’s heart. Friday night, and the whole campus pulsed with a life Bruno and Sergio knew only by hearsay.

—Listen to that —Sergio murmured without looking up from the screen—. The Omega Phi party. They say girls from other universities came.

—As if they’d ever let us in.

It wasn’t a complaint. It was a fact, as immutable as gravity. Bruno was thin in the wrong way: scrawny, with shoulders that seemed to apologize for existing. Sergio carried twenty extra kilos distributed cruelly across his abdomen. Together they formed the perfect duo of everything the university despised.

—Brett Vance threw a glass of beer over me yesterday —Bruno said in the flat voice of someone reporting the weather—. He said it was an accident. He laughed for five minutes.

Brett Vance. Six foot three of muscle and privilege, with a fraternity that treated him like a god. The entire world warped to make room for him.

—I wish we could be like them —Sergio whispered, something dark and hungry in his voice—. Just once. Be the ones who laugh. Be the ones who fuck the girls at the party against the bathroom wall.

Bruno paused the game and turned the laptop around. For weeks, he had been secretly reading the transformation forums: links that vanished, stories too specific to be fiction. And one name that appeared again and again, always in digital whispers.

—Madame Doll —Sergio said, and the word tasted like danger on his tongue.

An already-written email waited on the screen: “We want to be transformed. Both of us. We want to be like them, the ones in charge. We can pay.” The cursor blinked over the send button. Sergio nodded. Bruno pressed it.

The reply came three days later, brief and elegant, smelling of sweet perfume even through the screen: “Two for the price of one. Interesting. Beaumont Hotel, Suite 1612. Friday at midnight. She doesn’t wait.”

***

The Beaumont was black marble and chandeliers that cost more than a year’s tuition. When the private elevator opened directly into the suite, the two of them held their breath.

Everything was pink. Not the pastel pink of a little girl’s room, but an electric, vibrant shade that pulsed like something alive. And in the center, seated in an armchair that looked like a throne, she was waiting for them.

She was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. Curves wrapped in pink latex that gleamed like wet skin, platinum hair falling in a cascade, lips the color of blood. But her eyes were cold and calculating, the eyes of someone who saw exactly what you were and what you could become. Bruno felt his own balls draw tight against his thigh, half fear, half pure arousal.

—My little losers —she said, her voice poisoned honey—. Tell me what you want.

—We want to be like them —Sergio blurted in a torrent—. The popular guys, the Brett Vances of the world. The muscles, the attitude, everything. We want people to look at us with respect instead of disgust. We want chicks begging us to fuck them.

Madame Doll tilted her head, like a cat watching mice.

—You want power. You want to be feared. You want thick cocks that make college girls moan. —She stood; the latex creaked softly—. I can give you that. But transformation comes at a price, and I’m not talking about money.

—We’ll pay it —Sergio said too quickly—. Whatever it is.

—Oh, I know. You always do. —She extended a gloved hand—. Do we have a deal?

Somewhere in their brains, a little voice screamed warnings. But that voice had been drowned out for years by the laughter at their expense. They both reached out at the same time.

—Deal.

—Perfect —she whispered—. Remember, darlings: I always deliver what I promise. —And something in her eyes finished the sentence without words: but never in the way you expect.

***

The suite had become a temple. Two stretchers covered in pink silk, candles giving off an intoxicating scent.

—Take off your clothes —she ordered—. I need to see what I’m working with.

They stripped away their layers of protection until they stood exposed, underwear included, their cocks shriveled with embarrassment. She studied them like a sculptor examining a defective block of marble, her gaze lingering on both limp dicks with a contemptuous smile.

—Lie down. Close your eyes. Listen only to my voice.

Bruno felt heaviness in his limbs and lightness in his mind; his fears began to blur.

—Sergio —she said beside the other stretcher—, you first. You’re the kind of man who says “bro” all the time. You always have been. You’re the kind of man who thinks in short sentences. Long thoughts tire you out.

—Bro —Sergio murmured, and the word sounded strange at first. Then something clicked, like a piece sliding into place—. Yeah. Simple is... better.

Her footsteps approached Bruno. Her gloved fingers touched his chest, cold and electric.

—And you will be a physical-first kind of man. You’re the kind of man who goes to the gym every day. It’s your temple. You haven’t missed a day in months.

Bruno opened his mouth to protest—he hated exercise—but the words died. Hadn’t he gone yesterday? The image of himself lifting weights appeared as vividly as a real memory.

—I... go to the gym —he said, confused by his own certainty.

—Of course you do. You’re the kind of man who takes pride in his body. Now sleep. Your bodies have work to do.

***

The first week was a blur of sweat and iron. Bruno woke before dawn with an energy he had never known, and his body carried him to the gym without his mind questioning it. In the mirror, after only five days, he saw changes that defied all biology: broader shoulders, defined arms where there had once been only bone.

But his mind was still the same. He looked at that new body and felt as though he were wearing a disguise. It was like living inside someone else.

—Bro —Sergio said, appearing behind him.

Physically, he was still just as skinny, but something in his eyes had changed: harder, colder. The intimacy of years of friendship had mutated into something that looked like appraisal.

—Your chest looks kind of soft, bro. Machines are for weaklings. I’ve always said that. Free weights or nothing.

Always? Bruno thought. A week ago you didn’t know the difference between a dumbbell and a phone. But the conviction in Sergio’s eyes was absolute. He genuinely remembered always thinking that way, as though Madame Doll hadn’t changed who he was but revealed who he had been all along.

That afternoon, in the locker room, three freshmen came in talking. Sergio looked at them with something Bruno had seen only in Brett Vance.

—Keep it down —he barked.

They fell silent at once. Bruno recognized Ethan Soto, from the chess club, who now looked at him with the same fear Bruno used to feel. I’m one of them, he thought. I’m still one of them inside. But his body no longer reflected it, and Sergio didn’t see him that way either.

***

The sessions multiplied. Every “you’re the kind of man who...” was a chisel striking marble, sculpting something new from the raw stone. Bruno felt confident shirtless. Sergio now spoke only in monosyllables, laughing at people who were like he used to be.

Three weeks later, standing before the gym mirror, Bruno saw a muscular stranger who was beginning to resemble someone he had always wanted to be. But it wasn’t enough. They returned to the suite with a new kind of greed.

—We want more —Sergio said, simple and direct.

—It isn’t enough —Bruno added, startled by the hardness of his own voice—. Brett Vance is still bigger. We want to be more.

Madame Doll remained motionless for a long moment. Then she began to clap slowly, latex against latex sounding almost sarcastic.

—Wonderful. I gave you the gift of transformation, and in three weeks you think you deserve the world. —Her smile sharpened—. You wanted to be like Brett Vance. Well... I’m going to teach you a lesson he never learned.

She turned toward Sergio.

—You will continue as you are. Fratboy. Exactly what you asked for. —Her eyes returned to Bruno, gleaming with cruel amusement—. But you wanted more. So I’m going to give you more. You will be perfect.

The word sank into him like a hook. And in that instant, with the frozen terror of someone watching a knife fall, Bruno understood that his greed had cost him everything.

She placed a gloved finger against Sergio’s neck.

—You’re the kind of man who completely supports his friends. Whatever Bruno chooses to be, you will celebrate it. You will never interfere with his... evolution.

—I support him —Sergio repeated in a hollow voice—. Always.

Madame Doll approached Bruno. She didn’t take him to the stretcher; she didn’t need to. Standing in the middle of the pink light, she began to work.

—Look at me. You’re the kind of man who takes care of his skin. A complete routine, every night, every morning.

No, Bruno thought with sudden clarity. I’m not that kind of man. But he felt something turn like a rusty hinge. His mind resisted—I chose to remember; this isn’t real—and the resistance was like trying to push water.

—You’re the kind of man who removes all the hair from his body. You like smoothness. —She walked around him like a snake—. You’re the kind of man who prefers tight clothes, clothes that show every curve.

Curve? Men didn’t have curves. But the protest died before it was born. She stopped in front of him, her eyes boring into his.

—You’re the kind of man who notices when another man is attractive. Who fantasizes about other men. Who imagines a hard cock sliding into his mouth. There’s no shame. It’s part of who you are.

The images appeared without permission: Sergio shirtless, sweat shining on his arms; Brett Vance, muscles moving beneath bronzed skin, the bulge outlined in his training shorts. Men. So many men. Bruno felt his own cock swell in his pants against his will.

—And you’re the kind of man who feels comfortable being feminine —she whispered against his ear—. It’s simply who you’ve always been.

Feminine. The word should have caused panic. What Bruno felt was relief, as if a door locked for years had finally opened.

—Feminine —he repeated, and his lips curved into something like a smile—. Yes. That’s okay.

***

The following days were strange. His skin looked smoother, hairless. His clothes had migrated toward bright colors, tight, very tight. And the men... Bruno couldn’t stop looking at them: the way Sergio’s biceps flexed, the smell of male sweat that had once repulsed him and now ignited something in his belly, the bulges of cocks outlined in the team’s Lycra shorts.

One night, alone in his room, he touched himself for the first time while thinking about a man. He pulled down his boxers and took out his cock, smaller than he remembered, pinker, almost delicate between his fingers. He closed his eyes and the image appeared at once: Sergio, that deep voice saying “bro,” pushing him against the locker-room wall, one callused hand squeezing his neck, the other pulling down his pants. Bruno spat into his palm and began to masturbate slowly, imagining Sergio’s thick fingers going into his mouth, forcing him to suck them as if they were a cock.

“Suck them properly, bro,” the Sergio of his fantasy whispered. “Get them nice and wet, because I’m going to stick them up your ass.”

Bruno moaned aloud, alone in the room, and with his free hand reached down behind himself, between his buttocks. He licked one finger and brought it to his asshole, testing it, pressing the tip against the closed ring. He had never touched himself there. The sensation was electric, forbidden, delicious. He pushed, and the finger slid in to the knuckle. His breath caught. He felt the walls of his ass closing around his finger, warm and tight, and for a moment he understood why women liked being penetrated so much.

He began jerking his cock faster while the finger entered and withdrew from his ass in the same rhythm. The fantasy became more graphic: Sergio behind him, his friend’s thick, veiny cock forcing its way into his virgin ass, hands gripping his hips, hot breath on the nape of his neck. “Take it, bro. I’m going to put the whole thing in.” The orgasm hit him with an intensity he had never experienced. His cum shot out in streams, spattering his stomach and chest with thick ropes of semen that cooled on his depilated skin. He lay there gasping, his finger still inside his ass, feeling the internal contractions that continued to squeeze rhythmically. When it was over, he felt no shame. He felt hungry for more. Hungry for a real cock, not a finger.

At the gym, the leggings he now wore outlined wider hips, a rounder ass, increasingly feminine. A trainer in his thirties approached, looking him over without trying to hide it, his gaze stopping on the pert ass now molded by the spandex.

—Your form on squats is good —he said, his gaze dropping shamelessly between his cheeks—. You have potential. Feel like we could work on something... more intimate? In private.

Bruno should have rejected him. Instead, the word came out before he could think:

—I’d love to.

The trainer—his name was Marcos—took him to the private staff locker room, locked the door, and in less than a minute had Bruno on his knees in front of him, his sweatpants pulled down. The cock that emerged from his underwear was thick and dark, with a swollen, shiny glans wet with precum. Bruno stared at it, hypnotized. It was the first strange cock he had seen so close. It smelled of sweat and man, and instead of disgust he felt his mouth water.

—Open it —Marcos ordered, gripping his jaw with two fingers.

Bruno opened his mouth and Marcos slowly pushed his cock inside, letting it rest on his tongue. The taste exploded in his mouth: salty, dense, mingled with the texture of hot skin. Bruno closed his lips around the dick and began sucking instinctively, pulling his head out and taking it back in, letting the cock fill his throat until he nearly gagged. Marcos groaned and grabbed the back of his neck.

—Fuck, you suck like you’ve been doing it for years.

Bruno sucked him hungrily, wetting the shaft, licking the big, hairy balls hanging beneath it. He felt his own cock hard inside the leggings, pathetically small compared with the one in his mouth. Marcos began fucking his face, thrusting into the back of his throat until tears sprang to Bruno’s eyes and saliva dripped down his chin.

—Turn around —Marcos growled—. I’m going to split you in two.

Bruno turned around onto all fours on the wooden locker-room bench, pulled his leggings down to his knees, arched his back, and offered his ass. Marcos spat between his cheeks twice and ran the tip of his cock over the tight asshole. Bruno moaned, trembling with anticipation.

—Put it in —he whispered—. Put the whole thing in, please.

Marcos pushed. The cock entered with difficulty, opening him for the first time, and Bruno let out a strangled cry. It hurt as if he were being split apart, but the pain mixed with pleasure so intense that his vision blurred. Marcos was not gentle: he pushed all the way in, until his balls struck Bruno’s buttocks, and began fucking him with hard, dry thrusts, each one pulling a higher moan from him than the last. The bench creaked. Skin slapped against skin. The locker room filled with the smell of sex, sweat, and a freshly broken-in ass.

—Squeeze that cunt, faggot —Marcos panted, gripping his hips—. Squeeze tight.

Bruno squeezed, and felt the cock brush something inside him that made him see stars. His prostate. His own, still. He began pushing his ass backward, meeting the thrusts, fucking himself on the trainer’s cock. He reached between his legs, grabbed his own cock, and stroked it in time with the thrusts, coming in less than a minute almost without touching himself, shooting his load against the wooden bench while his ass contracted in spasms around the cock filling it.

Marcos lasted a couple more thrusts before coming inside him. Bruno felt the cock swell and unload stream after stream of hot semen deep in his guts, so deep he could have sworn he felt it in his stomach. When the trainer pulled out, Bruno remained on all fours, gasping, feeling the other man’s cum begin to run down his thighs.

That night, in his room, he put his semen-stained fingers in his mouth and licked them clean. Madame Doll had broken him, and the worst part was that an ever-growing part of him enjoyed it.

***

Against all logic, they went back. Not because they wanted to, but because the suite called to them like a siren song.

—I knew you’d come back —she purred—. Hunger always brings you back.

She laid Sergio on the stretcher and completed his descent. When she rose, he was a fratboy straight out of a textbook: gleaming muscles, granite jaw, eyes empty of complex thought, and an obscene bulge beneath his pants. The boy who had once drunkenly quoted Sartre had disappeared beneath layers of simplicity.

—Your turn —she said, turning toward Bruno.

He wanted to run. But his body stayed, and the velvet voice wrapped around him while the last of his resistance dissolved. He felt his hips round out, his chest fill with two large, firm tits that pushed up beneath his skin, his waist narrow beneath the gloved hands. He felt his cock retract inward, a wet slit opening between his thighs, a new, virgin pussy throbbing. When it was over, the person before the mirror was a stunning woman with impossible curves and shining lips, pink nipples showing beneath the latex now wrapped around her.

—Ah, Bruna —Madame Doll purred, appearing in the reflection although the doors had never opened—. My masterpiece. Do you like what you see?

Bruna looked at herself. And for the first time she felt no horror, but recognition, as if she were finally seeing the person who had always been waiting beneath the surface. She touched her tits, squeezing her nipples between her fingers, and a moan escaped her lips. She slid one hand down her flat stomach and slipped her fingers between the folds of her new pussy. She was soaked. The sensation was completely different from jerking off her cock: deeper, more enveloping, as if her entire body were an erogenous zone.

—Yes —she whispered, and it was true—. I like it.

—Of course you do. Because you were always yourself. I only helped you remember. —Madame Doll slid a gloved finger along Bruna’s cheek and down to her nipple, pinching it—. Now go and be what you are. Sergio, my dear fratboy, why don’t you welcome your new best friend?

Sergio, his eyes glassy with pure hormonal simplicity, already had a hard cock outlined beneath his pants. He pulled them down without ceremony, and an enormous, thick prick sprang free, its veins swollen, much larger than the one Bruno remembered from the high-school locker room. Bruna lost her breath.

—Bro —Sergio murmured, with no recognition in his eyes, only hunger—. Come here, pretty girl.

Bruna approached, dropped to her knees on the pink carpet, and gripped his cock with both hands. She licked it from balls to tip, tasting the salt, feeling it pulse against her tongue. She took the glans into her mouth and sank down slowly, swallowing inch after inch until her nose touched his pubic hair. Sergio groaned and grabbed her platinum hair.

—Fuck, you suck better than any of them. Suck that cock, pretty girl. Suck your bro’s cock.

Bruna sucked it as if she had been training for years. She hollowed her cheeks, played her tongue beneath the frenulum, and spat saliva over the shaft so it would slide. With one hand she massaged his heavy balls; with the other she touched her new pussy, finding the swollen clitoris and rubbing it in circles. She came while sucking him, his cock buried in the back of her throat, and the orgasm shook her entire body in a way no male ejaculation had ever come close to matching.

Sergio lifted her, threw her onto her back on the silk stretcher, and spread her legs with one sweep of his hand. He positioned himself between her thighs and ran the tip of his cock over her pussy lips, soaking it. Bruna moaned, arched her back, and tugged at her own nipples. She was empty. She needed to feel full.

—Put it in, bro —she panted, imitating his simple vocabulary—. Put the whole thing in.

Sergio pushed, and the cock entered in one hard thrust, all the way to the hilt. Bruna screamed. Her virgin pussy opened around the hot shaft, stretching and throbbing. Sergio began fucking her with hard, brutal thrusts, making her tits bounce against his chest. Every blow tore a moan from her. Every withdrawal left her empty for an instant before the cock filled her again.

Madame Doll watched them from the armchair, crossing her latex-clad legs, smiling with an owner’s satisfaction.

—Harder, Sergio, my love. Fuck her like you fucked the chicks in your fantasies.

Sergio grabbed her by the hips and put her facedown, on all fours at the edge of the stretcher. He buried his cock in her from behind, gripping her hair with one hand and a buttock with the other. The sounds were obscene: the squelch of her soaked pussy, his balls striking her clitoris, Bruna’s high moans, Sergio’s guttural grunts. Bruna felt used, possessed, owned by that cock, and there was no sensation in the world she liked more.

She came twice more before Sergio, with one final roar, emptied his balls inside her. Bruna felt the hot cum flood her guts, stream after stream, and the heat made her come for a third time, squeezing her pussy around the cock emptying itself inside her. When Sergio pulled out, a thick string of semen ran down her thigh. Bruna gathered it with two fingers and brought it to her mouth without thinking.

As the elevator descended toward a new life, her legs still trembling and her pussy still dripping cum, Bruna understood that the past had been rewritten around her, soft and complete, like water filling every crack. No one remembered Bruno anymore. Only Bruna. Always Bruna. And anchored to her memories by her own choice, she was the only one who knew the truth of what she had been.

She discovered that she no longer cared. After all, she had always been the kind of woman who enjoyed being exactly what she was.

Deep within the campus, a fratboy named Sergio smiled without knowing why, his cock still half-hard in his pants, sensing that something important had changed, unable to remember what. Madame Doll delivered what she promised. But never in the way anyone expected.