First, he shrank. Not dramatically so – this wasn’t like Honey I Shrunk the Kids or Alice in Wonderland or anything. He was very far from Dwarf height, either. At most, he lost a foot and change in stature, enough so that his eye line was now below the picture mounted on the wall in front of him, whereas just moments before he could look directly at it without having to crane his neck back.

The picture, for what it’s worth, was a rather bland painting of the blurry, indistinct form of a woman, wearing a red dress and spread out on an elegant couch. It was the kind of benign, unimpressive image you’d see hanging in any given hotel room, of any level of quality, from a seedy motel to a 5-star resort. One probably would barely notice that it was there at all, honestly. You’d practically see right through it, as if it hadn’t even been there.

This is all to say, that this common piece of mass-produced art probably had nothing at all to do with the very uncommon thing that was happening to the person who was, currently and ironically, using it as a way to measure the progress of this very same not-at-all-common event.

Probably.

Okay, it had nothing to do with it at all. I was trying to build up some sort of mystery as to what was going on here, but doing so has already tired me out only four paragraphs in. So, I
confess: “It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me,” to quote that absolutely irritating song. I, your humble narrator, am responsible for this transformation of the transgender variety, but I’ll get more into the “hows” and “whys” later. Maybe, if I feel like it, and you haven’t put me off too much before then.

This, fear not, had only been the first stage. If one were looking at this man, one would
immediately notice how out of proportion his arms and hands were. If one had any knowledge of the animal kingdom, one might compare him to a Gibbon, with how absurdly long they appeared compared to his now-shortened torso and legs. His feet, too, were comically out of place - they now stuck out to the point where he looked like as if he were wearing fleshy clown shoes.

“Naturally”, these particular parts of his body were the next to change: his arms shortened, and his feet retracted, with the digits of each quickly following suit. They also feminized, though that is a much more subtle and thus harder-to-describe change than the others that preceded it, I confess. However, since I understand that these particular parts of the body are very important for some of you, especially the feet, I can reassure you: all now looked sufficiently small and dainty.

With that, he now resembled nothing more than a shorter man. That’s far from insignificant, of course, especially since we now live in a country where an increasing amount of men are undergoing (painful) surgery to make themselves even just a few inches taller. This particular man, too, had always taken pride in his height as well, not having much else to be proud of, so this sudden loss of it was causing him a significant amount of distress as well.

Not that what would follow would be any better for him.

Before we go any further, I think it is important that I tell you that this man deserves what is happening to him. In fact, were I to detail his many, many heinous crimes to you, you might even think that he has earned an even worse fate than the one that I am presently crafting for him.

I just think you should know that.

And I’m not a sadist, either. Search your memory: did I say anything about these changes being painful? No, right? And, believe me, I could have made them absolutely agonizing. I could have made him feel every inch of shrinking bone and muscle. He would have surely passed out from the pain by now, if I had wanted him to.

But I didn’t, because, again, I’m not a sadist, brute, or barbarian. That was not the way I was bred or raised. But still, having said all that, if I had made his transformation an excruciating one, he would have earned it. Because of the aforementioned heinous deeds, that I dare not utter aloud, such is their heinousness.

Let’s get back into it now, shall we?

The next thing to change was his hair. Not only did it lengthen, now reaching down to
the small of his back, but it shifted colors too, turning from a light brown to a stark blonde. Just as the leaves change color in the transition from Summer to Autumn –

Alright, I need to stop this. I don’t know what I was thinking. I sound like an asshole. Actually, I sound like that old British guy who narrates seemingly every nature documentary ever made. Come to think of it, he always came off as an asshole to me too, so that tracks.

Jesus, why was I talking like that? Did I think that was how I was supposed to narrate something like this? I have read my fair share of transformation “literature,” and I suppose that is the sort of formal tone that those stories usually take, but, fuck, I sounded so pretentious, I was even making myself cringe!

“His bosom grew prodigiously…” – yeesh! Who did I think I was?

So, from here on in, I’m going to talk all-regular-like, capiche? Well, maybe that’s going too far, but I’ll try to find some kind of middle ground. I’m not a mob boss, after all. Or Italian.

Can we get back to the fucking story, please?

His face began to contort. His chin sharpened, while his nose narrowed and became rounder at the tip. Each hair follicle on his face receded back into its individual pore, and both his cheeks and lips plumped-up, as if both were experiencing a mild allergic reaction to bee stings (though his lips swelled far more than his cheeks, it should be noted).

Understandably, he rushed to the dirty, smudged, floor-length mirror on the other side of the room to inspect the new features he could sense had taken shape. After the initial shock wore off, an ever more disturbing thought crossed his mind: it might sound fucked-up, but he couldn’t help thinking that the unfamiliar female face that stared back at him from the scuffed reflective surface was cute, maybe even downright hot!

However, he didn’t actually want to be a girl. Yea, this isn’t one of those situations,
if you catch my drift. If that’s a deal-breaker for you, the “Back” button should be available somewhere on your screen, probably in the top-left corner. I suggest you use it.

So, panic finally really setting in, he rushed to the decrepit wooden door, only to find it locked. That should have been impossible. The door didn’t lock from the outside! So he punched it, kicked it, shoved his (petite) body at it, and all to no avail!

Yes, that was all my doing as well. How? Magic, of course, same as what’s causing our friend here to undergo his changes. Oh, please – don’t roll your fucking eyes at me. What else could be at work here, if not magic? Hormones? Not that fast, and they don’t cause you to get shorter, either. Surgery? I don’t see a doctor around, do you? Does this even look like a hospital? It’s certainly not an American one, at least.

That leaves, what, Nanomachines? Last I checked, it was 2024, and that kind of technology just doesn’t exist yet. Or, if it does, I definitely don’t have access to it. I don’t work at Area 51, though that be dope as shit.

So, yeah, it’s magic. Which, I know, begs the question: how did I get so goddamn magical in the first place?

Well, that’s a tale unto itself. You see, it all started about 20 years ago. There I was, a pitiful orphan boy living in the cupboard under my comically abusive Aunt and Uncle’s stairs, and not a single CPS agent in sight. School didn’t offer any respite either, as I was mercilessly bullied there for my glasses and the lightning-shaped scar on my forehead. My luck all changed, however, when, one day, an owl came to the living room window, bearing a letter that informed me that I was to attend a boarding school with a really, really dumb name…

Okay, that was Harry Potter. What, did you think I was going to spill the beans to you? No way, Jose. You see, I intend to use my abilities to live my life to the absolute fullest. So, I don’t need any other magical motherfuckers around, potentially messing things up for me. All I want in my future are duplexes, not duels, you get what I’m saying here?

But if you like the Harry Potter explanation, by all means: take it. Or, if you prefer, you can instead believe that I was a gifted and renowned surgeon who was trained by magical monks in the Himalayas after breaking my hands in a car accident. Or maybe I was just simply born with my abilities, the latest in a long genetic line of wizards and witches. Or maybe I made a deal with the Devil at a backcountry crossroads on a moonlit night.

Pick whatever backstory you like. You could even mix them up, remix and recombine them into whatever answer you find most satisfying or titillating. Or can just make up your own: it’s all the same to me.

Because I ain’t telling. Or maybe I just did, and you’ll never know the difference. Ha!

What’s next for our boy? We got all of the boring transformations out of the way, so now it’s time for the main event. The meat and potatoes. The big enchilada. That’s right: primary and secondary sexual characteristics. You know what I’m saying: tits, ass, and pussy!

You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if you skipped to this part. I know this is what a lot of you really came here to see. But, I admit, I would be mildly offended. You missed out on a lot of really great prose, probably my finest ever.

So, first things first: hips. Now, maybe that’s not a big deal to you, but it is to me. A woman with narrow hips isn’t even really a woman as far as I’m concerned. And there they are, getting wider and wider and wider. Damn, my babies will be doing cartwheels out of her!

“Her.” Alight, I think it’s time that we can officially do the ol’ pronoun switcheroo. At this point, she now fully looks almost fully female, if you ignore the dick and balls. Actually, I think some of you would probably prefer if I kept them, wouldn’t you? I think I’ve seen some “art” to that effect, at least. “Fupa” or “futna” or some shit like that, I think it was called.

But I’m not about that life. So let’s go ahead and do ‘em now. Testicles retract into the body and become the fertile ovaries, while, at the same time, the penis retracts until it becomes a tiny, cute clitoris.

Hold on, give me a second, because now I have to make a decision: innie or outie vagina? I’ve never really had a preference, and can even see the benefits of both. I would be lying if I said a nice, meaty vagina didn’t appeal to me. But, in this case, I think I’ll give her smaller labia. There’s always the next one, after all. And the one after that.

Tits. Titties. Boobs. Breasts. Hangers. Honkers. Hooters. Melons. Knockers. Jugs. Breateses. Bazongas. You know ‘em, you love’em, and now, look at them grow! Bigger, Bigger, Bigger….Big! Let’s stop there. We wouldn’t want them to hang too low now, would we? She’s not a grandma (yet). But those have got to be double Fs, if my, ahem, trained eyes don’t deceive me.

But, just to be real with you for a moment, even such glorious boobs as these aren’t the most important physical feature for me on a member of the fairer sex. I like big tits just as much as the next red-blooded American male, don’t get me wrong, but, at the end of the day, in my opinion, it’s all about that ass, baby, the bigger the better! The best has indeed been saved for last!

20 inches…25 inches...30 inches…35 inches…40 inches…45 inches…46….47…48…49…50! 50 inches of ass! Excuse me for a second while I spout off every crass cliché I can think of: You could bounce a quarter off that fucking thing! You could serve dinner off of that ass It’s so big it needs its own zip
code!

If were a character in a cartoon, my eyes would have turned into hearts and be popping out of their sockets right now, my tongue would have rolled out of my mouth and now be literally dragging on the floor, my actual heart would be almost beating out of my chest, and steam would be coming out of my ears. I’d also probably be saying something like: “Awooga!” or “Humana humana humana!!!”

I hope you’re not one of those guys that’s not “into” ass. I know there’s a good chance you are. I’ve seen the studies and charts. I know there are a lot of “men” out there that would prefer we went back to the 80’s when the ideal female form was a stick-thin broad with a pair of bolt-ons and a small butt. Well, if that is indeed the case for you…too bad, so sad. My girl here is going to have an absolute dump truck, and you can fuck off back to the cry closet if you don’t like it.

But now we’re right back to that issue of proportionality again, aren’t we? She’s got huge tits, a giant ass, big hips…and a completely flat stomach and chicken legs. It just don’t look right! She looks like she had a BBL, actually, and I hate those fucking things!

So let’s pack on the goddamn pounds. There we go, let’s watch as that belly and those legs get bigger and bigger, thicker and thicker…. Now let’s add some weight to the face, give her a nice double chin…sausage fingers…cankles…biceps the size of Christmas hams….

Alright, I think we’re good now. Okay, okay, I admit, I was always planning on making her nice and fat. That was in no way spontaneous decision. What can I say, that’s how I like my women: BBW (“The kind you kind to suck you dry then eat some lunch with you”, as a wise man once said.).

That reminds me: I once went to this boring-ass museum, and in the “Ancient Mesopomania” wing or whatever they had this little statue some hick farmer found buried under a pile of cow shit. The face was kind of weird looking, but she had huge tits, big hips, and a thick gut. I actually remember wondering if the caveman who carved it wasn’t one of my ancestors, because that ancient fetish depicted my perfect woman!

Oh, she’s fucking crying now? Well, I did say that he didn’t want to be a girl. But, listen, don’t go feeling sorry for him - I mean her - okay? Like I said before, he’s lucky this is the worst he’s getting!

Listen, I can sense this is starting to kill the vibe, so I’ll tell you what he did: he tripped me! He fucking tripped me! Way back in middle school, this asshole, who I had never said a goddamn word to, put out his fucking foot and tripped me right there in the hallway when I was walking to my next class (probably Math or some horrible shit). Unprompted! Unprovoked! Undeserved!

Luckily, I didn’t fall down, but I did trip, and could do nothing afterwards but give him an impotent, albeit dirty, look. I still remember that shit-eating grin he gave me back, too. I can
remember it like it was fucking yesterday.

I should have lunged at him. I should have socked him right in his smug, ugly fucking face. But I didn’t, obviously, and have seethed over it for two decades now. In my defense, I went to one of those “zero-tolerance” schools where you could get expelled for going “pew pew pew” with your fingers, so it wasn’t entirely an irrational decision on my part to not stand up for myself.

Maybe you think that’s just cope. Maybe you think that’s pathetic, and maybe you’re right. But I’m the one with the supernatural abilities, so fuck you, and fuck him too.

But he did other shit, don’t get it twisted. This was one anti-social individual. Slapped his ex-wife around a few times, blew his kid’s college money on sports betting. This piece of shit even killed a poor stray dog with a few of his scumbag buddies not long after the tripping incident. So he got what wascoming to him, even if I’ll admit that what he did to me personally is why I’m doing this to him now.

So don’t feel bad for her, even though she may seem sympathetic now, blubbering naked on the floor. In fact, we can put an end to all of this crying right now, with one simple, easy fix! Wow!

Has a pit formed in your stomach? Is your jaw clenched? Is it because you know what I’m talking about … and you hate it more than anything?

Are mental changes really that bad? Can’t we all just get along?

I mean, let’s slow down for a second and really think about it. Let’s say I didn’t do anything to her mind. How do you think that would actually work?

We’ve already established that she doesn’t want to be female. So, logically, why wouldn’t she just kill herself, or even just run off and get corrective surgery to “fix” what I’ve done to her?

You might have pieced it together by now, but here’s my grand plan. Basically, I’m going to use my abilities for entirely selfish gain. End war? Solve hunger? Cure Cancer? Fuck that shit. If I do that, I’m responsible for all humanity after that point, the way I see it, and, frankly, that just sounds like way too much goddamn stress.

I am going to reshuffle reality like a deck of cards, and when they’re dealt out, I’m going to have a royal flush. Translation from the Poker metaphor: a ridiculously big mansion. Sports cars. Pools and hot tubs. Private chefs. A full staff waiting on me hand and foot. A king-sized bed. Exotic pets. A private movie theater. A bowling alley. Golden toilets.

And a harem of big fat bitches, of all races, all of whom will have once been my former
enemies, sleeping on said king-sized bed with me in the center, all us stinking of sex, every night.

So, tell me, how this is going to work without mental changes? Because, honestly, I’m really not seeing it. How can she ever be a good mother when she has all of these old memories of being a guy swirling around in her beautiful head? How can she ever be a good wife? For God’s sake, how can she ever throw it back?!?!?

I don’t even know why I have to defend myself to you. This is my show, and you’re just along for the ride. So you know what? Boom. It’s over. Identity Death is complete, just like that. See how she’s stopped crying, and is now just wondering how she ended up in such an awful place, naked? All of those nasty, old remembrances are gone for good, replaced by an all-new backstory: Helena is the only child of rich parents…we don’t need to go into all of this now. You get the point.

But this is no place for a high-class woman like my Helena, and naked to boot! She will have tight, stylish, expensive clothes that accent every prodigious curve. Jewelry, too: pearl earrings, a gold necklace, and the outrageously big engagement ring I used to propose to her just a few years ago (along with a nearly as decadent wedding ring).

Let’s fix up this room, too, while we’re at it. Soiled carpet becomes a polished wooden floor. The beaten-up coach turns into a leather loveseat, just dropped off that morning. Piles of discarded clothes, accumulated over years, will be pieces of art, and the scratched floor-length mirror is now an 8K television. And out goes the peeling wallpaper and faded posters for old Pinko meet-ups, and in comes freshly painted walls.

What’s left? Oh, right, that boring little painting. That can be a portrait of my new wife,
painted by a world-famous artist. Okay, I’m not sure what their name is, but I know I’ve seen their style…around. Maybe on T-shirts, or in a magazine? Well, whoever they are, I think I’ve done a pretty good job emulating their style, don’t you think? Who would have guessed how easy it is to paint well when you DON’T have to use a brush!

But this is a subtle, yet important, detail. In the new picture, Helena is lying back on an elegant fainting chair, and unlike in its previous iteration, she is completely naked. Let me spell it out for you: she doesn’t just accept being fat, she likes being fat. She embraces being fat.

Like me. Oh, did you assume I accidentally made myself fat just by eating too many cupcakes? No, I used my powers on myself to give me this big ol’ gut (along with some other modifications). I always thought being big was hot, but never wanted to deal with the, you know, health problems and shit that comes with it.

Well, with magic, you don’t have to worry about any of that bullshit. Helena and I’s arteries will never be clogged. We’ll never get winded going up the stairs. We won’t have BO. We don’t have to worry about dying prematurely.

Ozempic? Who needs it? My wives and I will be obese and healthy. You can get so much more out of life when you aren’t bound by those pesky laws of Physics.

It’s kind of cramped in here now, isn’t it? Especially for big ‘uns such as myself and Helena. Let’s expand those walls outwards. One room becomes a penthouse that takes up the entire top floor. On second thought, let’s change the whole building! Hanging chandeliers! Priceless works of art on every wall! Marble floors! Golden toilets!

This will be my “little” place in the city, when I want to take my old ladies out to a show or a fancy restaurant (before taking them back and having an big orgy with them, naturally).

But weren’t there other people in the building? Yet bet! But considering how much of a shithole this place was, I doubt any of them were exactly upstanding citizens. But I’m feeling generous, so I’ve made them into my new servants, and no, I won’t gender-bend any of them this time. I don’t want to overindulge and burn myself out on that little trick, as, like I said, I still have many more concubines to create.

But I have given them a full mind wipe, on top of correcting most of their physical imperfections. I don’t need ugly maids and butlers around killing the mood I’m trying to cultivate here. And, with the mental rewrites, I will be ensuring that none of my stuff gets stolen or any of my harem gets raped. Shit, I’ve probably helped to lower the crime rate for the entire city with this latest move!

My 6th grade bully. My roommate in my sophomore year of college, who cockblocked me on multiple occasions. My old boss, who gave me my walking papers when he knew the economy was in the tank. That fucker that rear-ended me that one time, and then had the nerve to yell and scream and blame me for the accident. Soon I will track them all down, and they will be my fat Black, Asian, and Arab wives, respectively.

Still with me? I guess we’re on the same wavelength, then. We’re vibeing, as the kids these days like to say. We get each other, to put it the way my grandparents might have.

I suppose, then, that there’d be no harm in getting you in all this, too, if that’s the
case. I don’t think I’d have to worry about you, even if you were as powerful as I am. Which, you’ve seen, is pretty fucking powerful.

Hell, we can be neighbors! With houses as big as ours we won’t be right on top of one another or anything, but we’ll be neighbors nevertheless! On Sundays, I’ll bring my wives over for dinner, and you can host for the Holidays! Our kids can be friends with each other. We can even swap transformation ideas!

“Hey, where did you buy your newest wife that big diamond ring?”

“Well, actually, I turned that horrible politician into it! Her body became the band, and her head became the stone! You should have heard the screams!”

Yes sir, I think there are good times in both our futures, my friend!

So you want powers? You want to run with the big dogs? Well, come closer, and I’ll tell you where to go and who to talk to to get the hook-up. Closer…closer…a little closer…. Nah, I’m just kidding. Still too risky: I don’t know you that well. What, you think just because we have similar tastes in women, and the process to make them, that that makes us friends or something? Bro, fuck outta here with that shit.

And besides, I don’t have the time for all that right now: I’ve got a hot date tonight, which is sure to be followed by hours and hours of hot, sweaty, fat sex. Now fuck off before I make I decide I need a nice big Latina wife to add to my collection!