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Today was just another ordinary, unremarkable day. I was speeding through morning traffic on my way to work, stuck in the usual weekday gridlock. The radio droned on about something meaningless—hosts discussing the weather forecast and vegetable prices—while I, out of boredom, had already counted every billboard along the road.
— God, I’m so sick of this… this job, this stupid traffic, — I muttered under my breath, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel.
For some reason, I thought about Stephanie. We broke up nearly a year ago. Stephanie… When we met, she had just started freelancing. Back then, I thought she had potential. She was vibrant, charismatic, and could charm any client. But all that faded into the background pretty quickly.
I had to admit, though, she was one hell of a package—long red hair, big chest, a dazzling smile, and, as I later realized, a complete lack of interest in taking responsibility for anything. Steph lived life like it was a never-ending vacation. No worries about money, work, or future plans. Her biggest "talent" was knowing how to kick back. Weed, parties, random meaningless projects that she’d always start but never finish.
When we met, she was already running a website she’d inherited from some ex. Something about interior design, I think. Naturally, I was the one maintaining the site—for free, of course. And let’s not forget her spiritual growth practices, meditation retreats, and all that crap I was footing the bill for.
It all ended after nine months, when I finally got fed up with carrying her carefree lifestyle on my shoulders. But honestly? Sometimes, I envied her. She lived as though tomorrow didn’t exist. No obligations, no responsibilities. The exact opposite of my dull, monotonous life. Like now—here I was, stuck in this damn traffic, wondering what the hell I’d done with my life.
— Damn it, — I muttered louder than I intended. — I wish I could live like that, just once. Carefree and easy! — I growled, slapping the steering wheel in frustration. — Screw work, screw traffic, screw everything… Just live it up like Stephanie. Nothing ever fazed her!
When my thoughts—and the radio hosts’ babbling—were interrupted by a phone call, I was actually relieved. But the number on the screen was unfamiliar. Spam, probably. Still, curiosity won out—traffic boredom was worse. I pressed the button on the steering wheel, and a raspy, annoyed voice filled the car.
— Hey! What the hell? Why aren’t you saying anything?! — the voice barked, sounding like I owed him money.
— Uh, excuse me, I think you have the wrong number, — I said, frowning.
— Wrong number? Are you messing with me? Macy, are you always this dumb in the morning? — he growled.
— Listen, you’ve definitely got the wrong number, — I said, irritation creeping into my voice as I glanced at the unmoving line of cars ahead. — I’m not Macy, and you…
I stopped mid-sentence. A strange, pulling sensation hit my stomach, as though something was squeezing me from the inside. I took a deep breath, trying to shake off the discomfort, but instead, a wave of heat rippled through my body. My fingers on the wheel suddenly looked thinner.
— What the… — I gasped, staring at my hands. The skin was smoother, the lines more delicate. My bones seemed to shrink, and my nails grew longer right before my eyes. "Maybe I’m imagining things," I thought, while the guy on the phone kept yelling.
— Macy, what the hell are you mumbling about? Playing dumb again? Or are you just high, like always? — he barked.
— I’M NOT MACY! — I shouted back, but the voice that escaped my mouth was… higher? Softer? It wasn’t mine. It sounded like I was speaking through someone else’s throat. Panic rose as the heat spread further down my body.
My shoulders narrowed, and my chest suddenly felt heavy, as though something was swelling, pushing against my skin. I grabbed at my chest, trying to understand what was happening, and my fingers landed on something… soft. Very soft.
— No, no, no, what the hell is this?! — I gasped, feeling my shirt stretch, morphing into a tight-fitting top. Forcing myself to glance down, I saw… two massive breasts, perfectly nestled in the new top, which was clearly designed for a woman.
— Macy, have you completely lost it?! — the voice from the phone now sounded much closer, as if the guy were right next to me. I flinched, glancing at the empty passenger seat…
— What the… hell? — I croaked, my voice growing even higher and thinner. Desperately, I reached for the sun visor mirror, and the second I looked, I regretted it.
In the reflection, I didn’t see myself. Instead, I saw a young woman with vibrant red hair styled into two playful pigtails, framing a stunningly beautiful face with large eyes and full lips. The chest I had just been grappling with was undeniably there—huge, perfectly shaped, and snug in a lacey top I had definitely never owned.
I screamed—or at least I tried to. The sound that came out was a high-pitched, girlish shriek.
— Hey, hey, chill out, doll! What’s your problem? — A guy suddenly leaned over and jabbed a finger into my chest. Into those cursed, fleshy mounds that were now part of my body.
I jerked back—or tried to—but realized I was sitting in the passenger seat of some beat-up car.
— What the hell are you doing?! — I squealed, but my voice was again high and clear, with no trace of masculinity left. My hand instinctively shot up to cover my chest, which only made things worse. The sensation of my hands pressing against the soft, heavy flesh was undeniable. They were real. Huge, soft, heavy—and right there in my hands.