Charles Matthews stared at the lab results on his computer screen, his heart hammering against his ribs. The numbers seemed to pulse accusingly: 1415 ng/dL. Just 85 points below the transformation threshold.

"Fuck," he whispered, running a hand through his dark hair.

At twenty-four, Charles had built his identity around two things: his brilliant scientific mind and his masculinity. As a biochemistry doctoral candidate at Westlake University, he'd earned a reputation as one of the most promising researchers in his field. His work on hormonal manipulation had already garnered attention from pharmaceutical companies.

But none of that mattered now. Not with transestrogen levels this high.

He closed the browser window and glanced nervously around the university lab, relieved to find it empty at this late hour. Nobody could know about this. Nobody could discover that Charles Matthews was a werewoman-in-waiting.

Charles had been monitoring his levels for months now, ever since he'd first experienced the dreams. They'd started innocuously enough—vague fantasies of having a different body. But they'd grown increasingly specific, increasingly feminine, until he'd wake up gasping, his body tingling with phantom sensations of breasts and curves that weren't there. Not yet, anyway.

He pulled out his private journal from his bag, flipping to the most recent entry:

Day 47 of monitoring. Symptoms intensifying. Spent 37 minutes on WereTransformation.net last night. Couldn't look away from the videos. The pleasure on their faces... is that what it will feel like? Caught myself lingering in the women's section at Target again. The fabric colors seemed so much more vibrant than anything in my closet.

Charles slammed the journal shut, disgusted with himself. This wasn't him. These thoughts, these... urges. They were foreign invaders in his consciousness, biochemical intruders preparing his mind for what his body was planning to do.

But he was a scientist, goddamnit. He understood the mechanics of werewomanhood better than most. The transestrogen hormone was the key—the unique compound that triggered transformation when it reached critical levels. If he could suppress it, control it...

Charles straightened his back, a spark of determination replacing his panic. He wouldn't be like the others, passive victims of their own biology.

He would fight this.

The lab was quiet after hours, just the gentle hum of equipment keeping him company as Charles began his research. As a doctoral candidate with special access privileges, he had the run of one of the best-equipped biochemistry labs in the country. If anyone could develop a transestrogen suppression method, it was him.

Over the next several weeks, Charles threw himself into his work with maniacal focus. By day, he maintained the facade of working on his approved doctoral research. By night, he pursued his real goal—the development of what he'd come to call the Lunar Suppression Serum.

His methodology was meticulous. Starting with known hormone suppressants, he began testing modifications specifically targeted at the unique molecular structure of transestrogen. The work was painstaking, requiring endless hours of molecular modeling, compound synthesis, and preliminary testing.

All the while, the symptoms continued, growing more insistent with each passing day.

One night, after a particularly frustrating lab session, Charles found himself standing in front of his bathroom mirror in his apartment, a pair of women's panties in his hands. He didn't remember buying them. He told himself that, anyway. But here they were, soft satin in his large hands.
"This is just research," he muttered to himself. "Understanding the enemy."

With clinical detachment, he stepped into them, pulling the delicate fabric up his legs. But as the satin settled against his skin, the detachment crumbled. A shock of pleasure ran through him, and to his horror, he felt himself harden instantly.

"No," he growled, tearing them off and throwing them across the bathroom. "That's not me."

But that night, his dreams were more vivid than ever—dreams of soft curves and sensitive breasts, of a body that moved with grace rather than power, of looking up into men's eyes rather than down at women's.

He woke drenched in sweat, his sheets sticky with nocturnal emission. In his dream, he'd been a woman, being taken by a faceless man, and he'd loved every second of it.

By the third month, Charles had developed a promising compound. His preliminary tests showed significant transestrogen suppression in tissue samples. It was time for human testing, and he had only one possible test subject.

On a Friday evening when the lab was deserted, Charles prepared his first injection of the Lunar Suppression Serum. The clear liquid seemed innocent enough in the syringe, but he knew the complex cocktail of compounds it contained—each one precisely formulated to interrupt the production and reception of transestrogen.

"For science," he murmured, and pushed the needle into his thigh.

The effect wasn't immediate, of course. The serum would need time to circulate, to begin its work. But as Charles cleaned up and prepared to leave the lab, he already felt a weight lifting from his shoulders. This would work. It had to work.

He had no idea that his brilliant scientific mind had just set in motion a chain of events that would lead to the very outcome he most feared.

Two weeks after his first injection, Charles received his latest blood work results. His hands shook slightly as he opened the file on his computer, but when the numbers appeared, a broad smile spread across his face.

Transestrogen levels: 600 ng/dL.

It was working. The serum was actually working. His levels had dropped more than 800 points, well below the danger threshold. For the first time in months, Charles felt he could breathe easily. It was historic, once detected, transestrogen levels never went down. Until now.

The effect on his symptoms was remarkable. The dreams didn't stop entirely, but they became less frequent, less vivid. The intrusive feminine thoughts receded to occasional whispers rather than constant interruptions. He could walk past women's clothing without that peculiar magnetic pull. He felt like himself again—focused, rational, male.

Encouraged, Charles refined his formula, determined to drive his levels down even further. His second injection, a month after the first, contained a more potent version of the serum.

When the results came back showing 300 ng/dL, Charles celebrated by taking a female classmate to dinner—something he wouldn't have dared when his symptoms were at their height, fearing he might give himself away with some inadvertent feminine gesture or comment.
"You seem different lately," she remarked over dessert. "More relaxed."

"Just making progress on my research," he replied with a confident smile.

By the third injection, his transestrogen levels had dropped to essentially zero—undetectable in standard tests. Charles was elated. He'd done it. He'd beaten biology with biochemistry, outsmarted the lunar curse with human ingenuity.

Or so he thought.

Six months into his treatment, Charles began to notice something strange. Despite his nonexistent transestrogen levels, certain symptoms were returning—subtly at first, then with increasing insistence.

He caught himself watching werewoman transformation videos again, fascinated by the expressions of ecstasy on their faces as their bodies reshaped. Sometimes he'd find himself standing in front of the mirror, wondering how his face would look with softer features, how his body would change if the curse took hold.

"It's just curiosity," he told himself. "Scientific interest."

But deep down, a worrying thought was taking shape: what if transestrogen wasn't the whole story? What if his suppression of it was triggering some compensatory response in his body?

Charles designed a more comprehensive blood panel for himself, one that would measure not just transestrogen but related compounds and receptor activity. When the results came in, his blood ran cold.

His transestrogen levels were still zero, but his body was changing its response. Receptor sites were multiplying, becoming more sensitive. Other hormonal pathways were upregulating, as if his endocrine system was desperate to find alternate routes to a destination it was determined to reach.

It was like a dam holding back water—the pressure was building behind his artificial blockade.

Still, Charles refused to accept defeat. He modified his serum again, targeting these new pathways, adding compounds to downregulate receptor production. His next injection was essentially a complete endocrine suppressant, designed to shut down the entire system his body was using to push him toward transformation.

For a few weeks, it seemed to work. All symptoms vanished. Charles felt almost unnaturally calm, detached even, but he preferred this artificial equilibrium to the alternative.

Then came the crash.

Eight months after his first injection, Charles woke in the middle of the night, his body on fire. Not with fever but with sensation—his skin hypersensitive, his nipples tender, his groin aching with an arousal so intense it was almost painful.

He stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before he ejaculated violently, untouched. As the spasms subsided, horror dawned on him. This was rebound—his body fighting back against months of suppression.

An emergency blood test confirmed his fears: transestrogen levels at 4500 ng/dL, three times the transformation threshold. His body wasn't just resuming normal production; it was overcompensating catastrophically.

Charles immediately prepared another injection, a massive dose of his latest serum. It was dangerous, potentially toxic, but he was desperate. Within hours, his levels dropped to 900 ng/dL—below the transformation threshold but still dangerously high.

The relief was temporary. Within days, his levels began climbing again, his body apparently developing resistance to the serum. No matter how he adjusted the formula, he couldn't regain control. It was like trying to stop a tidal wave with a paper cup.

Nine months after beginning his treatment, Charles made a devastating discovery. His repeated suppression of transestrogen had triggered an adaptive mutation in his hormonal regulation. His body was now producing a slightly altered form of transestrogen that his serum couldn't effectively target.

Worse, his research suggested this new variant might be more potent, more transformative than standard transestrogen. And his body was now producing it at unprecedented rates.

His latest test showed levels at 6500 ng/dL and rising steadily. The transformation that he'd fought so hard to prevent now seemed not just inevitable but potentially more dramatic and complete than it would have been had he never interfered.

The irony wasn't lost on Charles—his scientific brilliance had created the perfect conditions for the very outcome he most feared.

Charles sat alone in his lab, staring at his latest test results with a sense of numbed inevitability. 9000 ng/dL. A level so high it was nearly off the charts, almost certainly unprecedented in medical literature.

All of his suppression efforts, followed by this massive overcorrection, had created a hormonal perfect storm. Based on his calculations, transformation wasn't just inevitable now—it would be irreversible. The standard dawn reversion that werewomen experienced wouldn't happen for him; his altered biochemistry had created a one-way path.

"I was so fucking clever," he muttered bitterly, running his hands through his hair.

He had one last hope—a final version of his serum that directly targeted the mutated transestrogen his body was now producing. It was a long shot, probably futile, but he had to try.

Charles prepared the injection with trembling hands. As he filled the syringe, he caught his reflection in the polished steel of a nearby cabinet. His face was flush, a building arousal began to take hold of him and his skin began to tingle faintly. It briefly crossed his mind that this might be the last time he beheld his male reflection, but chased the impossible thought away.

"Not tonight," he told himself, and plunged the needle into his thigh. “Not ever!”

Almost immediately, he knew something was wrong. Instead of the cool spread of the serum he was accustomed to, a warm flush raced through his body. His skin tingled with increased vigor, and a strange lightness filled his head.

"No," he gasped, grabbing the edge of the lab bench for support. "No, no, no..."

Charles staggered to the lab door, fumbling with the lock. He had to get somewhere private before it started, somewhere safe. But even as the thought formed, he felt the first wave hit him—a surge of heat that made his knees buckle.

Moonrise. It had to be moonrise. The moon's gravitational pull activating the now-overwhelming levels of transestrogen in his system.
Charles barely made it to the small private bathroom attached to the lab. He locked the door behind him, then collapsed against it, sliding to the floor as the second wave washed over him.

"Oh god," he moaned, his voice already sounding strange to his ears.

The kick hit him like nothing he'd ever experienced—a pulse of pure pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, radiating from his core outward to the tips of his fingers and toes. His back arched involuntarily, a guttural sound tearing from his throat that was half groan, half whimper.

This was it. The transformation had begun.

With the detached part of his mind that remained analytical even now, Charles noted the time: 7:47 PM. Moonrise. Right on schedule.

The first changes were subtle—a tingling across his skin as the coarse body hair on his arms, legs, and chest began to recede, sinking back into the follicles and leaving smooth, unblemished skin in its wake. The sensation was like thousands of tiny electric pulses, not unpleasant but intensely distracting.

"Oh shit! It’s happening! I’m… ch ch changing…," he whispered, but his body paid no attention to his denial.

Next came his hands—the fingers seeming to narrow and elongate slightly, the knuckles becoming less pronounced, the skin softening visibly before his eyes. His nails, previously trimmed short and practical, began to extend, taking on a naturally oval shape. “No… no no no no please! I don’t want this! I’m not ready!” he whimpered, tears rolling down his defoliated cheeks.

A strange warmth concentrated in his face, and Charles scrambled to his feet, desperate to see what was happening. The bathroom mirror revealed the changes beginning to reshape his features—his jawline softening, his cheekbones becoming more pronounced, his lips fuller, especially the upper lip which had always been rather thin.

"No… don’t be a girl! Stop changing!" he commanded his reflection, but the face looking back at him continued its inexorable journey toward femininity.

The pleasure was the worst part—or the best, his body seemed to think. Each change brought a new wave of it, making it impossible to maintain his clinical detachment. As his brow ridge flattened and his eyes seemed to widen slightly, a surge of pleasure made him gasp.

Charles tore at his clothes, suddenly unable to bear their confinement. His skin had become hypersensitive, every brush of fabric against it sending shocks of sensation through his changing nervous system. Buttons went flying as he ripped his shirt open, then frantically kicked off his pants and underwear.

Naked, he could see the changes spreading across his body. His chest had begun to tingle intensely, the nipples darkening and expanding, becoming more pronounced. The areolas were widening, forming perfect circles as a subtle swelling began beneath them—the first hint of breast tissue beginning to develop.

"No, no, no. Please God, don't let this happen!" Charles chanted, but his cock told a different story, standing rigidly erect as waves of pleasure continued to wash through him.

His shoulders were narrowing, his waist beginning to cinch inward, creating the beginnings of an hourglass figure. At the same time, his hips were widening, the bones actually shifting configuration with a strange internal pressure that wasn't painful but profoundly disconcerting.

Charles watched, horrified yet unable to look away, as his thighs began to reshape themselves—slimming slightly but taking on a more rounded contour, with soft flesh redistributing to create feminine curves. His calves followed suit, becoming more shapely, more elegant.

All the while, the pleasure built, coiling tighter and tighter in his groin. His cock twitched, a bead of pre-cum forming at the tip as the transformation continued its relentless progress.

Suddenly, his voice changed. One moment he was breathing heavily in his familiar baritone; the next, a distinctly feminine moan escaped his lips. The sound shocked him, his hand flying to his throat where he could feel the Adam's apple receding, the vocal cords reshaping themselves.

"Oh my god," he gasped, his new voice higher, softer, but still recognizably his own.

That was the trigger. The sound of his feminized voice pushed him over the edge, and Charles cried out as his cock began to pulse, semen shooting forcefully across the bathroom floor as the first transformation-induced orgasm tore through him.

But his cock didn't soften afterward. If anything, it seemed even harder, more sensitive, as the changes accelerated.

His hair was growing longer now, spilling past his shoulders in chestnut waves, the texture changing to become silkier, more lustrous. His eyebrows thinned into delicate arches, his eyelashes lengthening dramatically.

The transformation was perhaps a third complete, and Charles—or whoever he was becoming—could only hold onto the sink for support as pleasure continued to crash through his changing body.

The breast development accelerated, moving quickly from subtle buds to clearly defined mounds. A-cups formed, then swelled further to full B-cups, the flesh firm but yielding, capped with large, sensitive nipples that hardened at the slightest brush of air.

"Fuck," he moaned in his new feminine voice, unable to stop himself from reaching up to touch them. The sensation was electric, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to his groin and forcing him to brace himself against the sink to keep from collapsing.

His waist continued to narrow as his hips and ass expanded, creating the classic feminine hourglass. The proportions were perfect, as if some master sculptor was deliberately crafting an ideal female form rather than randomly feminizing his male body.

Another orgasm built, this one centered strangely in both his cock and a new place deeper inside—a hollow space that seemed to be forming within him. When it hit, Charles screamed, his back arching as semen erupted from his still-rigid cock, the contractions more intense than anything he'd ever experienced.

"Please," he begged, though whether he was pleading for it to stop or continue, he couldn't have said.

As if to mock his increasingly pitiful pleas, the still smallish breasts continued to slowly balloon into the C cup range.

The changes to his genitals began in earnest now—the most dramatic and intimate part of the transformation. His testicles began to retract, drawing up toward his body and then seemingly inside it, the scrotal skin thinning and reshaping into the delicate folds of labia.

His cock, still erect, began to shrink, the shaft tissue repurposing itself, some forming the walls of a new vaginal canal that was tunneling into his body, the rest consolidating into a sizeable clitoris. The head of his penis, with all its sensitive nerve endings, reconfigured into that clitoris, while the urethra repositioned itself.

The sensations were indescribable—neither painful nor precisely pleasurable, but overwhelmingly intense, as if every nerve ending was firing simultaneously. Charles felt another orgasm building, but this one was different, deeper, more all-encompassing.

When it hit, his entire body convulsed, a wordless cry tearing from his throat. Even as he came, the C cup breasts continued to inflate on his chest, past D cup, DD cup and finally ceasing their expansion at E cups. He could feel the last of his cock reshaping, the final configurations of his new female genitalia taking form.

And then it was complete. Where Charles's male genitalia had been, there was now a perfect female vulva—a pea sized clit incapable of penetrating anything sat hooded in delicate flesh, her labia majora and minora perfectly formed, and a vaginal opening glistening with natural lubrication.

Inside, he could feel new organs—a vagina, cervix, uterus, fallopian tubes, and the testicles-turned-ovaries, all arranged in proper female configuration.

The transformation had taken exactly thirty minutes—faster than the typical first change, driven by the unprecedented levels of mutated transestrogen in his system.

Charles—no, that name no longer fit—stared at herself in the mirror, taking in the beautiful woman who gazed back. Chestnut hair fell in waves past her shoulders, framing a lovely face with high cheekbones, full lips, and expressive blue eyes. Her body was stunning—magnificent E-cup breasts perfectly proportioned to her slender frame, narrow waist flaring to generous hips, long legs that ended in delicate feet.

"Charlene," she whispered, the name coming unbidden to her lips. It felt right, a feminine echo of her former self.

Though the transformation was complete, the sensations weren't fading. If anything, they were intensifying. A new kind of hunger was building within her—a craving unlike anything she'd experienced before.

Charlene's hands moved across her new body, exploring the unfamiliar terrain with trembling fingers. Every touch sent shocks of pleasure through her heightened nervous system. Her skin was incredibly soft, sensitive in ways that Charles had never imagined.

Her breasts demanded attention, the nipples stiff and aching. When she finally cupped them, testing their weight and feel, a moan escaped her lips. The sensation was nothing like what she'd felt as a man touching a woman's breasts—this was direct, immediate, the pleasure loops contained entirely within her own body.

"Oh my god," Charlene gasped as she rolled a nipple between her fingers, the sensation shooting straight to her core.

With scientific curiosity not entirely extinguished by her transformation, she explored methodically, discovering how different pressures and movements created different sensations. A gentle pinch made her knees weak; a circular motion with her palm made her vagina clench and moisten further.

Her hands moved lower, over the flat plane of her stomach to the flare of her hips. The feeling of her waist indentation, the feminine curve that had replaced Charles's straight male torso, was strangely thrilling. This was her body now—soft, curved, feminine.

Finally, her fingers drifted between her legs, hesitating just a moment before making contact with her new genitalia. The first touch of her clit nearly buckled her knees—the sensitivity was off the charts, far more intense than her penis had ever been.

"Fuck!" she cried out, bracing herself against the sink with her free hand.

Experimentally, she traced her fingers through the folds of her labia, marveling at the silky wetness she found there. Every movement sent new shocks of pleasure radiating outward. This was female arousal, she realized—diffuse, full-bodied, building in waves rather than the linear progression she'd known as a man.

Charlene staggered to the small bench in the corner of the bathroom, unable to remain standing under the onslaught of new sensations. Sitting, she spread her legs, continuing her exploration with more deliberate movements now.

She circled her clitoris with gentle fingers, already learning that direct pressure was too intense, while indirect stimulation built the pleasure without overwhelming. Her other hand returned to her breast, kneading the soft flesh, pinching the nipple in rhythm with her clitoral stimulation.

The orgasm built differently than male climax—rising in rolling waves that seemed to recede just as she thought she'd crest, only to build higher with the next wave. Her breathing became ragged, her movements more urgent.

When release finally came, it was unlike anything Charles had ever experienced—a full-body explosion that seemed to start everywhere at once, muscles she didn't even know she had contracting in spasms of ecstasy. Charlene cried out, her back arching, toes curling, as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her.

But unlike male orgasm, it didn't end with a single climax. Before the first had fully subsided, she felt another building. Almost instinctively, Charlene slid a finger into her vagina, encountering no resistance as it glided into wet heat.

"Oh!" she gasped, discovering an entirely new kind of pleasure—a fullness, a pressure against sensitive internal walls that created a different sensation than clitoral stimulation.

Curving her finger forward, she found a spot that made her see stars—the G-spot, she realized, the scientist in her still naming and categorizing even as the woman in her writhed in pleasure.

Charlene added a second finger, establishing a rhythm between her internal stimulation and the circles she was drawing on her clit with her other hand. The dual stimulation created a synergy of sensation that built toward something even more powerful than her first climax.
This time, when orgasm hit, she actually screamed, her internal muscles clamping down on her fingers, rhythmic contractions pulsing through her core as pleasure radiated outward to the tips of her fingers and toes. It went on and on, aftershocks of pleasure continuing long after the peak had passed.

When she finally came back to herself, Charlene realized she was crying—not from sorrow but from the overwhelming intensity of everything she'd just experienced. Her body felt both foreign and more intimately her own than ever before.

But alongside the physical pleasure, a new sensation was making itself known—a hunger, a craving for something her body needed that she couldn't provide herself. She recognized it immediately from her research: the hunger for male sexual energy that all werewomen experienced.

Charlene knew she should be horrified by this development, should be frantically searching for a way to reverse what had happened. But the scientist in her recognized the futility of that path. The transformation was permanent—her altered biochemistry had seen to that.

With trembling hands, she reached for her phone, which had fallen from his pocket when he'd stripped off his pants. The screen illuminated her transformed features as she scrolled through contacts, looking for someone who might understand, someone who might help.

Her finger paused over a familiar name—Dr. Jones, the endocrinologist whose research on werewoman physiology had been a cornerstone of Charles's work. She'd warned him once about the dangers of interfering with transestrogen production, a warning he'd arrogantly ignored.

Charlene pressed the call button, bringing the phone to her ear. As it rang, she looked again at her reflection—at the beautiful woman who had emerged from Charles Matthews's scientific hubris.

"Dr. Jones? It's Charles Matthews," she said, her feminine voice catching slightly. "Or... I suppose it's Charlene now. You were right about the suppression techniques. I need your help."

As she waited for the response, Charlene's free hand drifted absently to her breast, the touch sending ripples of pleasure through her still-sensitive body. The hunger continued to build within her, a fundamental biological need that would have to be addressed.

Her transformation wasn't just physical—it was the beginning of an entirely new existence, one she had fought so hard to prevent but now had no choice but to embrace. The irony wasn't lost on her: in trying to outsmart biology with brilliance, she had ensured that Charles would become Charlene—not just for the night, but forever.