swap

The Chronivac is a fictional reality-altering program popular in
stories on the CYOC (Choose Your Own Change) website, often used to
explore identity, gender, and transformation in playful or erotic
ways. In this story, it's been brought over as a narrative device for
fun--allowing characters to explore new bodies, relationships, and
truths about themselves in a world where reality can shift with a few
keystrokes.

Chapter One -- Christopher

I wasn't exactly looking for anything weird that night. I'd had a
couple beers, Ashley had gone to bed early, and I was just aimlessly
browsing on my laptop, drifting from Reddit to YouTube to some sketchy
old forums I used to haunt in college. One link led to another, and
before I knew it, I was on a dark web directory I hadn't seen in
years.

Most of it was the usual nonsense--old drugs, fake IDs, a hitman
listing I'm pretty sure was just performance art--but then something
caught my eye: Chronivac 3.0 - Reshape Your Reality.

I clicked.

The site was barebones. Black background, green text. No branding, no
images--just a list of features like:

- "Change your body or someone else's"

- "Rewrite memories to match the new reality"

- "Create alternate timelines"

- "Live your ideal truth--nobody questions it but you"

It read like some goofy CYOA fetish prompt, the kind of thing bored
teenagers would share on Discord. But it didn't scream scam either. No
big red flags, just a single note: Beta access available. $50 in
Bitcoin. No refunds.

I stared at the screen a little too long.

I mean... $50?

I don't know what possessed me. Curiosity, boredom, the promise of
something different. I already had a crypto wallet from a failed NFT
phase, so after twenty minutes of converting some cash and grumbling
about blockchain fees, I paid up and hit submit.

No confirmation. No receipt. Just a line of text that blinked on the
screen:

Your Chronivac unit will arrive within 6-8 weeks. Enjoy your new
reality.

I closed the laptop and forgot about it.

---

It showed up two months later, in a nondescript brown package the size
of a small laptop. I thought it might be one of Ashley's book orders.
But when I opened it, there it was: a sleek, matte-black tablet with
CHRONIVAC stamped across the bottom in raised silver letters. No power
cord, no instructions, just the tablet. It was heavier than it looked.

When Ashley got home, I held it up like a prize.

"What's that?" she asked, dropping her bag on the counter.

"Remember that weird thing I ordered forever ago?"

She blinked. "No?"

"Chronivac. Supposed to let you change reality."

She raised an eyebrow, then laughed. "Oh my god, that thing? You
actually got it?"

"I know, right?"

"How much did you spend again?"

"Fifty bucks."

She shrugged. "Okay, not the worst impulse buy. But if it steals our
identities or bricks our phones, I reserve the right to say I told you
so."

"I'll allow it."

She walked over, poked at it with one finger, and said, "Well, if it
is real... that could be really fun."

----

Chapter Two -- Ashley

Honestly, I thought he'd gotten scammed.

Not in a catastrophic way--fifty bucks isn't exactly make-or-break--but
still. Spending cryptocurrency on some weird gadget from the dark web
called the Chronivac? That sounded like the opening scene of a movie
where the husband disappears into the TV and the wife has to battle
demons using a spatula.

But when the thing actually showed up... I have to admit, I was
curious.

It looked sleek, like something Apple might design if they went
through a goth phase. Chris powered it on, and the screen flickered to
life with a low chime and glowing green text that said:

Welcome to Chronivac 3.0. Reality is yours.

I gave him a look. "Okay, so it turns on. That doesn't mean it's not a
scam."

"No," he said, tapping the screen. "But it's a very convincing scam."

The home screen loaded a full-body diagram--two, actually. One of me.
One of him. Stylized figures with sliders, buttons, and expandable
menus labeled things like Body Type, Hair, Voice, Memories, and Social
Perception.

"Jesus," I muttered, leaning closer. "That's... detailed."

Chris poked at a few buttons but didn't commit to anything. We stared
at each other, unsure how to test it.

Then I shrugged. "Okay, what if we keep it simple. Make my hair
curly."

"Curly?"

"Yeah, like the wavy blowout I pay for at the salon every six weeks.
You know, the 'I woke up like this' look that actually costs $140 plus
tip."

He grinned. "So we're going full magic hair machine on the first try?"

"Hey, if this thing can save me money and time, I'm all in."

He tapped on my name. The diagram zoomed in. He scrolled to Hair, then
to Texture, and I watched him swap "thin and fine" for "wavy with high
volume."

Click.

Click.

Apply and Save.

The tablet let out a soft hum, and a gentle pulse of light swept over
me like a scanner from a sci-fi movie. It didn't hurt--just a mild
tingle across my scalp, like static electricity mixed with champagne
bubbles.

And then... I felt it.

Not just in the mirror--on my head.

My hair had body. It had bounce. I reached up and ran my fingers
through thick, luxurious waves that looked exactly like my salon
photos, only this time I hadn't spent two hours in a chair reading
outdated fashion magazines.

I turned to Chris, wide-eyed.

He stared back like he'd just seen a ghost. Or a miracle.

"Holy shit," he whispered.

"It's real," I said, stunned.

I twisted a lock of hair around my finger. It coiled perfectly. No
product, no heat styling. Just... me.

"Okay," I said slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. "Now I really
want to know what else it can do."

----

Chapter Three -- Ashley

Okay... so yeah.

We did exactly what you'd expect people to do once they realized they
had a reality-altering device in their living room.

I'd love to say we sat down and had a serious conversation first. That
we talked about ethics and philosophy and the butterfly effect. But
no. What actually happened is we spent the next four hours making what
we later called Quality-of-Life Tweaks.

I fixed my skin.

That was the first thing.

I don't talk about it much, but I had really bad acne growing up.
Cystic, scarring, painful. I'd spent years trying to treat
it--dermatologists, prescriptions, laser therapy. Nothing ever
completely got rid of the scars. But now, here was this device just...
offering me the option. So I said yes. Just like that.

And then I looked in the mirror and saw my face, only clear. Smooth.
Healthy. Still me. Just... without the part that always made me feel
like I had to apologize for existing.

I cried a little. Not dramatic sobbing--just a quiet little gasp and a
tear that caught Chris off guard. He came over and put his hand on my
shoulder. "You look amazing," he said.

Then I made my boobs bigger.

Don't judge me.

I'd always been a small B cup on a generous day, and I was fine with
that. Mostly. But I'd always wondered what it would be like to fill
out a dress the way my friends did without needing a padded bra or
tape tricks. So I went to a full D--not cartoonish, not ridiculous.
Just... me, with a little more curve. The interface even adjusted my
clothes to fit properly. Bra size, support, balance--seamless.

Chris liked it. He didn't say it right away, but his eyes did.

I made myself a little more in-shape, too. Not magazine-fit. Not
marathon-runner-fit. Just the kind of body you get when you actually
have time and energy to exercise more than a couple times a week. A
toned stomach. Better posture. Knees that didn't ache when I squatted.

And Chris?

Chris filled in his hairline first.

He did it casually, like he was just checking a box. But I knew it
meant something. His dad and grandpa had both gone bald before thirty.
He'd held onto more than most of them, but I knew it still bugged
him--the slow creep, the way his hats had started to feel permanent.

Then he fixed his knee--the one he injured playing pickup basketball in
college and never quite rehabbed right. Said it'd never been the same
since. Said he always noticed it when he was walking stairs or
standing too long. Now, gone. Just like that.

He gave himself a little more upper body strength. Not a six-pack, but
enough definition that his old T-shirts hugged in the right places. He
looked good. Confident in a way I hadn't seen in a long time. And
still entirely him.

We didn't touch our jobs. We actually like what we do. But we did
tweak our finances--just enough to give ourselves a buffer. According
to the Chronivac's timeline editor, we had lucked into a killer stock
tip five years ago and invested modestly. Now we had enough saved up
that if we both lost our jobs tomorrow, we'd be fine for a few years.

Not life-changing money. But not-afraid money.

That's when it really hit me.

It wasn't about turning into superheroes or movie stars or perfect
specimens. It was about relief. From pain, from insecurity, from fear.
Just a little space to breathe.

I looked over at Chris as he scrolled through the settings again, and
I realized: neither of us looked radically different. But we both
looked... comfortable.

And for the first time in forever, I felt like I didn't need to
apologize for how I took up space in the world.

---

Chapter Four -- Christopher

We didn't touch the Chronivac again for a couple of weeks.

I think we were both a little scared of it. Not in a haunted-object
kind of way--just... the power of it. The sheer reality-warping scope.
It was one thing to fix a bum knee or give your wife the hair she
always wanted. But once you realize you have that kind of power, it
gets harder to justify using it casually. Like, should we really be
using something that can rewrite existence the same way we order
takeout?

So we didn't. We just lived.

And honestly? Life was good.

I didn't wince getting out of bed. Ashley had this quiet glow about
her--like she'd been carrying tension in her shoulders for twenty years
and only just let it go. We had money in savings. Sex was good. Work
was fine. Things felt easy, which was a rare feeling these days.

But then we had one of those weeks.

You know the kind.

Deadlines at work. Family drama. Cars needing repairs. Weird comments
from coworkers. Evenings filled with takeout containers and sighs. By
Friday night, we were both frazzled, a little drunk, and trying to
hold each other together with kisses and a little dry humping on the
couch.

And that's when the idea hit me.

I don't know why. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way Ashley
moaned into my neck. But the thought slipped into my brain like a dare
I couldn't shake.

"Hey," I murmured. "Wanna use the Chronivac to spice things up?"

Ashley blinked at me, breath warm against my skin. "What do you mean?"

I smiled. "Do you trust me?"

She hesitated--just a beat too long--and said, "Yes."

Then added, "...somewhat unconvincingly."

Close enough.

I slipped away and pulled the Chronivac tablet out from the drawer
where we'd tucked it. It still booted up with that eerie little chime.

Welcome back, Christopher. Reality is yours.

I called up our profiles. Side by side again--his and hers. Familiar,
after all this time.

I tapped on Ashley's.

? Primary Sex Characteristics ? Penis

? Testicles ? Yes

Then over to mine.

? Primary Sex Characteristics ? Vulva

? Vagina ? Yes

There were a few warning prompts. Yellow triangles. Little tooltips
with more info. I didn't read them. I was horny and curious, and I
figured, how complicated could it be?

I hit Apply.

Then Save.

Then Confirm.

A pulse of light flickered across the room again, just like before.
Gentle, quiet. Almost polite.

Nothing dramatic happened. No fanfare. No special effects. We were
just... sitting there on the couch, fully clothed, hearts racing, and
different.

Ashley looked at me. "Did it work?"

I swallowed. "Yeah. I think so."

She stood up and looked down at herself. Nothing was visible. Jeans
and T-shirt. Same as before.

But I knew. She knew.

She stepped forward and put a hand on my chest. "You first."

I nodded, suddenly shy. Reached down. Undid my pants. Slid them down.
Slipped my underwear aside.

My heart pounded in my ears.

No cock.

No balls.

Just soft, unfamiliar folds.

Ashley stared, eyes wide. "Oh my god."

I laughed. "Your turn."

---

Chapter Five -- Christopher

It's strange how fast you can get used to something that would've once
shattered your entire sense of self.

I was standing there with a pussy between my legs, looking at my
wife--my beautiful, strong, wide-eyed wife--who now had a dick. And all
I felt was turned on.

Not confused. Not scared. Just... aching.

There was a wetness building between my thighs that was completely new
but unmistakable. I could feel the heat radiating from inside me, a
pulse of want that throbbed between every heartbeat.

Ashley shifted, clearly feeling it too. She fidgeted, rubbed her
thighs together, then finally hooked her thumbs into the waistband of
her jeans and pushed them down. Her underwear followed a second later.

That's when I saw it.

Her cock was thick and flushed and pushing hard against the fabric of
her underwear. The outline had been subtle while she was dressed, but
now it was front and center--undeniable and kind of... impressive.

It bobbed up once freed, heavy and eager, with a decent set of balls
swinging underneath. I didn't know if it was bigger than my old
one--mine wasn't there to compare anymore--but it felt bigger. And real.
And hers.

She looked at me, unsure.

I stepped closer and said, "What the hell," and knelt.

My hands slid around her thighs, feeling the softness that was still
so her, and I tugged her boxers the rest of the way off. Her cock
twitched, inches from my face. It was hard now, fully erect, the head
a deep pink and already glistening slightly.

I took a breath. Then leaned in.

I wrapped my lips around the tip and slowly, carefully, slid her into
my mouth.

It was my first time giving head. I'd been on the receiving end plenty
of times, but this... this was new. It was awkward at first--figuring
out the rhythm, the angles, the breathing. But Ashley gasped, her hand
going to my hair, and that gasp did something to me.

It made me want to keep going.

I bobbed up and down, tasting salt and heat and the weight of her,
getting better with each motion. She started to groan softly, hips
twitching, one hand braced against the wall.

"Chris..." she gasped. "I--fuck--I'm gonna--"

She didn't finish the sentence.

She came in my mouth, hot and fast and sudden.

And I swallowed.

Not because I'd planned to, not because I felt obligated--but because
in that moment, it felt right. Like sharing something secret and raw
and real with the person I loved most.

When she finished, she slid down the wall and caught her breath, eyes
glazed and chest rising and falling.

I licked my lips and sat back, watching her try to remember how to
breathe.

"Okay," she panted. "That was... a lot."

I nodded. "Yeah."

She reached for my hand. "Your turn. Couch."

We half-stumbled over, still laughing a little, and I laid back
against the cushions. Ashley knelt between my legs, pulled my pants
and boxers all the way off, and paused.

Then she looked at me. Like, really looked.

"I've always wondered what it was like for you," she whispered. "When
I'd go down on you. But now..."

She didn't finish the thought. Just leaned in and started.

Her tongue moved so slowly, so gently at first that I didn't even
register it as pleasure--just a kind of warm tingling that crawled up
my spine. Then she found the spot, the rhythm, and my brain melted.

I moaned. Loudly.

My hips bucked against her mouth without my permission. My hands
tangled in her hair.

It was electric. It was overwhelming.

And when I came--God--I saw stars.

It wasn't like anything I'd ever experienced before. It came from
somewhere deep inside me, a wave that started in my core and rolled
outward like a tidal surge I couldn't stop. I shook. I cried out. I
clutched at her like she was the only real thing in the world.

And then I collapsed back onto the couch, panting, sweat-damp and
trembling.

Ashley climbed up beside me, and we lay there side by side, not
speaking for a long time.

Eventually, she turned her head and said, voice full of quiet awe,

"Holy crap. I had no idea it was like that for you."

"Me neither," I whispered.

We both laughed softly.

Then fell asleep tangled in each other, entirely new and completely
ourselves.

---

Chapter Six -- Ashley

I fucked my husband in his pussy with my cock.

That's not a sentence I ever thought I'd say. Not even in a dream, not
even after a bottle of wine and a wild fantasy. But it happened. And
it was real. And... it was amazing.

After I finished eating him out--God, eating him out, another thing I
never imagined myself saying--we lay on the couch for a while, cuddled
up and quiet. His skin was warm and flushed. I could still taste him
on my lips, and he had this dreamy, exhausted look on his face like
he'd just touched something divine.

I should've been satisfied. I was satisfied.

But I started getting hard again.

It didn't feel forced or weird--it felt like the most natural thing in
the world. My cock was responding to the simple truth that I had a
cock now... and the person I loved most in the world had the sweetest
little pussy I'd ever seen. It pulsed with this quiet insistence, like
it wanted to be inside him. Like it needed to.

So I leaned over and kissed his shoulder.

"Hey," I murmured. "Do you want to try?"

Chris blinked up at me, still a little hazy, then gave this crooked,
amused smile. "May as well."

We moved slowly. Carefully.

He lay back on the couch again, and I climbed on top, straddling his
hips. I lined myself up, my heart pounding like it was our wedding
night. He reached down and helped guide me in. And when I slid inside
him--God.

It was tight. Warm. Wet in a way I'd never felt before, because I'd
never been on this side of it. His walls hugged every inch of me, and
I groaned--deep and instinctual and completely overwhelmed.

Chris moaned too, his back arching under me.

"Oh fuck," he gasped. "That feels so good..."

I didn't last long. It was only the second time I'd used this cock,
and the sensations were overwhelming. Every squeeze, every shift of
his hips, every twitch of his body around mine--it was like my nerves
were tuned to him and only him.

But I wanted to make sure he got off too.

So even as I fucked him, I reached between us with my right
hand--remembering everything I'd learned over years of touching
myself--and started rubbing his clit. Firm, fast circles, just the way
I used to like it. His eyes fluttered shut. He whimpered. And when I
finally came inside him, hips jerking and cock buried to the hilt, he
screamed with pleasure and came too.

I pulled out, breathing hard, and watched my cum start to drip from
between his thighs.

I'd cream-pied my husband.

That was a thing I had done now.

And it was hot as hell.

We collapsed into each other, sweaty and shaky and laughing in
disbelief.

"Jesus," he murmured, stroking my back.

"Yeah," I said, heart still racing.

We lay there for a while in the afterglow, fingers intertwined, the
room full of sex and soft breaths and stunned silence.

Eventually, he turned his head and said, "Hey. Let's keep these for a
while."

I looked down at my new body. The way it felt. The way he felt under
me.

I smiled. "Yeah. Let's keep them."

And we fell asleep like that, tangled together. Different. And more
ourselves than ever.

---

Chapter Seven -- Ashley

I woke up with morning wood.

That was a first.

The sensation was impossible to ignore--the way my cock was straining
against my underwear, half-stuck to my thigh with sweat. Not painful,
but present. Heavy. Insistent. It twitched a little as I shifted under
the sheets, and I couldn't help but smirk.

Chris groaned beside me, still half-asleep. "Ugh. I should've showered
last night."

I blinked over at him.

He winced and shifted uncomfortably. "I can feel it... your cum.
Just... in there."

I laughed softly, then reached over to stroke his back. "Yeah, I know.
That sucks. First time's always weird."

"Always?"

"Well, usually," I corrected. "You'll get used to it. Want me to walk
you through cleanup?"

"Please."

I sat up and stretched, feeling the weight between my legs shift
again. This dick came with presence, that was for sure.

"Okay," I said, rubbing my eyes. "You can either wipe carefully with a
warm cloth or just shower--shower's easier. But whatever you do, do not
put soap up there. It'll burn like hell."

Chris sat up gingerly, already moving toward the bathroom. "Noted."

He peeled off his shirt and gave me a very deliberate look before
stepping into the bathroom. I waited a few seconds, enjoying the
morning sunlight and the sounds of him getting the water going--then
decided: screw it. I wanted more.

I padded after him and slipped into the shower without a word.

He looked back at me over his shoulder, eyes dark and curious.

I reached around, ran my hand along his stomach, and pulled him gently
back toward me.

"I mean," I said, "you're already messy."

He laughed softly. "That's true."

Chris bent forward slightly, bracing his hands on the slick tile, and
I stepped up behind him, guiding my cock down and between his thighs.
It took a few tries to line up--water's not exactly a natural
lubricant--but once I found him, everything just clicked.

He gasped. I slid in.

It was hot. Wet. Tight. Perfect.

I grabbed his hips and started thrusting slowly, letting the rhythm
build as steam fogged the glass and the sound of water pounded around
us. He pushed back against me, groaning with every stroke, and I felt
him clamp down on me in these little waves that made it hard to hold
back.

I didn't last long. He didn't either.

When I came, I buried myself deep and held still, just breathing into
the crook of his neck. He shuddered and let out this soft, breathless
whine that made my stomach clench.

Afterward, I stayed inside him for a minute, just resting against his
back.

Then I pulled out gently and said, "Okay. Now really time to get
clean."

Chris leaned against the wall, still catching his breath, and I knelt
down in the spray of warm water. Carefully, I used my fingers to help
rinse him out--cupping water and letting it run inside, making sure
nothing felt too rough or invasive. He let me touch him like that,
quiet and trusting. Touching my husband's pussy and cleaning my cum
out of it was an experience.

"This okay?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yeah. Weird. But good."

And then, when I was done crouching there, he reached down and cupped
my cock. Not jerking me off--just holding it. Getting a feel for it.
Exploring.

"God," he murmured, "it's so different."

I smiled. "Yeah. I know."

We finally washed our hair, soaped up for real, and stepped out of the
shower a little dazed but smiling.

The rest of the day was, strangely enough... normal.

Chris didn't even change clothes. Same jeans, same T-shirt. But as he
was getting dressed, he paused and looked down at his pants. "It feels
weird having so much room in here," he said, adjusting the crotch.

I laughed. "Welcome to our world."

Me, on the other hand? Not so lucky.

Most of my jeans and underwear weren't made for someone with this much
going on. My cock wasn't obscene, but it definitely made its presence
known. I had to dig around to find some boyshort-style underwear that
could contain me and a pair of looser cargo pants I hadn't worn in
years.

After a bit of adjusting and some strategic waistband placement, I
looked mostly normal.

"Passable?" I asked, turning to Chris.

He gave me a once-over. "Unless someone's staring at your crotch?
You're good."

"Guess we're going to the art fair after all."

And we did.

We walked hand-in-hand through rows of pottery and paintings, browsed
food trucks, listened to buskers on the corner. It felt easy.
Familiar. No one noticed anything strange, and we weren't acting like
anything was strange.

Well--except when we had to pee.

Chris grimaced when he saw the port-a-potties. "I have to sit, don't
I?"

"Yup," I said brightly.

He sighed. "Guess it's your turn to get smug."

I shrugged and grinned. "Don't worry. I can stand now."

Watching him walk toward the row of green boxes, shoulders slumped and
grumbling under his breath, I couldn't help but laugh.

And that was our day.

New bodies. Same marriage.

And honestly? Things had never felt better.

---

Chapter Eight -- Christopher

Porta potties suck.

Sitting on a questionably clean plastic seat with my pants down,
hoping I didn't get pee on the bottom cuffs of my jeans, was not a
pleasant experience. The inside smelled like warm urinal cake and
regret. Fortunately, there was toilet paper--shocking, honestly--so I
could wipe properly. And even more fortunately, I didn't accidentally
dip anything I cared about into that hellhole.

Still. I made a mental note never to give the women in my life a hard
time again about porta potties.

They're awful. And I get it now.

We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering through the art fair,
sweating through our shirts in the late afternoon sun, and splitting
cold drinks and shared snacks. We grabbed some greasy dinner from a
food truck, sat in the grass, kissed once or twice. It was a good day.

By the time we got home, we were full, sticky, and tired--but also
still buzzing from the quiet thrill of our new bodies. We hadn't done
anything sexual since the morning, but the tension was there. Every
time I looked at Ashley and thought about what was under those cargo
pants, my pulse kicked up a bit.

Apparently, she felt the same.

As soon as the front door clicked shut, we were stripping--lazy,
smiling, half-drowsy but definitely still horny. We fell onto the bed,
limbs tangled, laughter soft and tired.

This time, I climbed on top.

She lay back, her cock already hard and twitching. I swung one leg
over, reached down, and guided her inside me.

It still felt new. A little awkward.

But fuck, it felt good.

I rode her slowly at first, grinding down, letting the angle shift
until her cock dragged against exactly the right spot inside me. She
gasped. I moaned. The pace built naturally--like we were dancing, not
fucking. Her hands slid up my thighs, then gripped my hips.

We moved together.

Sweat pooled in the small of my back. Her eyes stayed locked on mine.
My pussy clenched, tighter and tighter, and when we came--together--it
was like being hit with lightning. My whole body shook. She cried out.
I collapsed onto her chest, panting, laughing breathlessly into her
neck.

Afterward, while she stroked my back and I slowly came back to
reality, I found myself thinking--again--that nothing I'd ever felt with
a cock came close to this. The depth, the way the pleasure bloomed
through my whole body, how it stayed after the orgasm.

Later, out of curiosity, I pulled up our files on the Chronivac again.

Sure enough: Ashley's cock was about an inch longer than mine had
been. And thicker too.

I blinked at the screen, unsure how to feel.

But then I looked over at her, sprawled out in bed with her arm behind
her head, smiling at nothing in particular.

I didn't even have a dick anymore.

So, jealousy? Not really an option.

It was more like... well.

It's just more of her for me to love.

After laying around for a while, we both agreed we needed to shower.
Again. The heat, the art fair, the sex--none of it was conducive to
feeling fresh.

But this time, the shower wasn't about getting off.

We took turns gently washing each other, more intimate than erotic.
She shampooed my hair. I rinsed hers. I helped her wash under her
cock, carefully cupping it out of the way so I could clean her thighs.
She helped me rinse between my legs again, this time with practiced
ease. I liked having her touch me there.

By the end, we were both pink and squeaky clean.

Pajamas came next.

Ashley frowned at her underwear drawer for a while before sighing and
tossing a pair of loose pants on. No underwear--none fit. She shrugged
and said, "I'll buy something that can actually hold this thing
tomorrow."

I reached for my usual boxers and slipped them on. But now? They
felt... weird. So much space. Too much material for what I had left.

I glanced at her. "I think I'm gonna try briefs tomorrow."

She raised an eyebrow. "Briefs?"

"Yeah. Boxers feel like a tent now."

We both laughed and padded into the living room for a few minutes
before winding down.

While brushing our teeth, I glanced at her in the mirror and said,
"So... are we keeping these?"

She spit, wiped her mouth, and shrugged. "I'm down to keep mine for a
while."

"Same," I said. "Let's see where it goes."

She grinned. "Just give me time to buy real underwear first."

We crawled into bed, still a little damp from the shower, but relaxed
in the way only a really satisfying day can make you feel. I curled
into her chest, and she wrapped her arms around me. Our bodies fit
together like puzzle pieces--different shapes now, but the same perfect
connection.

We fell asleep that way.

Still ourselves.

Just... better.

---

Chapter Nine -- Christopher

Ashley had morning wood. Like, epic morning wood.

Her pajama pants were tented out like she was smuggling a flashlight,
and since she still wasn't wearing underwear, the outline was...
pronounced.

I blinked awake, glanced over at her stretched out beside me, and
couldn't help but grin. "You know," I said, rubbing the sleep from my
eyes, "you're not very subtle."

She cracked one eye open. "It's your fault."

"Is it?"

"You climbed on top of me last night and did that thing with your
hips."

"Ah. Right." I slid down the bed, pushing the covers aside. "Well...
can't let this go to waste."

She smirked but didn't argue.

I pulled her waistband down, revealing her cock, already flushed and
twitching with need. I kissed her stomach, then the head of her shaft,
then slid her into my mouth slowly. She was hard--thicker than I
remembered her being yesterday--and the way she sighed made it very
clear just how much she appreciated the gesture.

It wasn't long before her fingers gripped the sheets and her hips
twitched, her whole body tightening.

"Chris..." she gasped, warning me.

I kept going.

When she came, I swallowed. Like always now, the taste didn't bother
me. Not when it was her. It felt like an exchange--like something
tender, even if it left my throat coated and my jaw a little sore.

She sat up afterward, hair wild, looking dazed and happy. "You're way
too good at that now."

"I'm a fast learner."

"Your turn."

She slipped her fingers between my legs, slow and gentle. Her touch
was confident now, practiced. And when she curled her fingers just
right and pressed up into that glorious, impossible spot inside me, my
whole body locked up.

I saw stars.

I came fast and hard, clutching at her wrist, panting into her neck.
My pussy pulsed around her fingers, wet and messy in the best possible
way.

"I could live in this body," I said, after catching my breath.

"You might have to," she replied, still smiling.

---

After that, we made breakfast. Scrambled eggs, toast, sliced oranges.
We stayed in pajamas, casually brushing up against each other in the
kitchen, laughing like teenagers with a shared secret.

Once the plates were cleared, it was time for wardrobe
evaluation--again.

Ashley pulled on the same boyshorts from yesterday and started testing
pants.

Some jeans she could barely get over her crotch. Others made her cock
painfully obvious, either because of how tight they were or where the
seams hit. But a couple of looser shorts worked. And she could just
make my tighter boxers fit comfortably enough to get through the
morning.

She shook her head. "I'm gonna need new work pants."

"And more of those boyshorts?" I teased.

"Definitely more of those."

My clothes all technically fit, but I was still done with boxers. The
baggy fabric just felt weird now--like wearing a parachute with no
cargo. I decided to switch to briefs, preferably something soft and
stretchy, maybe moisture-wicking. Something that would cradle, not
sag.

We showered--quick and practical this time--then dressed for errands.

Ashley borrowed another pair of my tighter boxers and paired them with
a loose pair of her old shorts that had just enough crotch room. I
went with jeans and a slim-fit T-shirt, nothing fancy.

---

Walmart wasn't glamorous, but it got the job done.

I found a pack of men's briefs with spandex in them--soft, fitted,
perfect. I tried a pair on in the fitting room and turned to check
myself out in the mirror. They hugged my hips, cupped my pussy neatly,
and made me feel... good. Masculine. Sexy. Comfortable in a way I
hadn't expected.

And then I saw them.

Tight black bike shorts.

Curiosity got the better of me.

I tried them on, and--wow. They left nothing to the imagination. My
pussy's outline was clearly visible. If I wore these in public, it
would be obvious. But in private? For Ashley?

I smirked and folded them up, slipping them into the cart while she
browsed.

Ashley had her own luck. She found a set of men's boxer briefs that
were essentially just boyshorts with a fly. Perfect fit. Roomy enough
for her cock, tight enough to stay in place. She grabbed two more
packs without hesitation.

Then came pants. A couple pairs of men's chinos in muted
colors--casual, but passable for work. Nothing flashy. Nothing crotch-
strangling. She also found some men's skinny jeans that hugged her
legs but left enough room for everything up front. With a long top or
untucked shirt, she'd be fine.

----

Shopping success in hand, we stopped by the grocery section and got
what we needed for the week--milk, eggs, veggies, snacks, the kind of
food that always feels boring to buy but crucial to have.

We went home, unpacked, started laundry, and did our weekly
cleaning--taking turns with the vacuum, wiping down counters, changing
sheets.

Just... normal stuff.

Except now? I had a pussy.

And my wife had a dick.

And neither of us had ever felt more like ourselves.

---

Chapter Ten -- Ashley

I went to work with a dick, and nobody noticed.

Seriously.

After all the shopping, the laundry, the cleaning, and the general
transformation into people with completely different genitals, it
turns out... the world just kept turning. Nobody blinked. Nobody
stared at my pants. No one even noticed that they were men's pants.
Probably because I wore a long blouse over them and moved through the
day like I always did.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The night before that wonderfully anticlimactic Monday, Chris and I
decided to have a little fun before bed. We'd done our chores. We'd
earned it.

So I had him get on all fours, ass up, face turned toward the
headboard. And I took him doggie style.

It was... great. For me, anyway. I loved the angle, the grip of his
body around my cock, the way my hands fit on his hips. He made all the
right noises, gasping and pushing back into me, body writhing under
every thrust.

But afterward, while we lay tangled in the sheets, he admitted, "It
was good. But I like seeing you."

That made sense. Chris is a soft romantic under the sarcasm and
muscles. Eye contact matters to him. And I liked that.

So we decided doggie style would be a special-occasion thing--fun,
dirty, a little wild--but not our go-to.

Also, Chris wasn't going to make that mistake again. He got up and
waddled to the shower before the cum inside him had a chance to become
an issue. I followed. We cleaned up, warm water washing away the sweat
and sex, and then got into pajamas.

I have to say--these new boxer briefs I bought? Absolute game-changer.
They cradled my cock, kept it restrained but comfortable, and made my
pajama pants hang like they always used to. I felt contained.
Confident. Good.

Chris had put on his new briefs too--soft, spandexy, and just form-
fitting enough that while they didn't show a camel toe, they
definitely made it clear he didn't have a cock anymore.

And I loved that.

The curve of him in those briefs made my mouth water. But once he put
on pajama pants, it was all smoothed over. Unless someone was really
looking, they'd never guess anything had changed.

We slept well that night--deep, restful, easy.

---

The next morning was surprisingly... normal.

We did our usual routine: shower, coffee, toast, grabbing our
respective bags and heading off to our very different jobs. Chris
works a warehouse job, moving inventory and climbing ladders. I work
in an office, talking to vendors and wrangling the printer.

And yeah--no one noticed a thing.

I talked with the usual admin staff, shared an awkward laugh about the
broken Keurig, responded to emails. And not one person suspected that
beneath my flowy blouse and slacks was at least eight inches of cock.
We hadn't measured, but based on experience and comparisons to my old
one... it was at least that.

And God, I loved being able to go into the single-stall bathroom and
stand to pee. No seat to wipe down. No awkward hovering. Just unzip
and go. It was freeing in a way I hadn't expected.

At lunch, I texted Chris:

"how's it going?"

His reply came a minute later:

"pretty good. it's kinda nice not having to adjust myself going up
ladders.

sucks to sit in the staff bathroom tho. not the cleanest."

Fair enough.

After work, we met at a little restaurant halfway between our jobs. It
was happy hour, so we ordered apps and mocktails and shared a booth in
our own little world. No one looked at us funny. No one guessed. And
honestly? That felt kind of powerful.

On the way home, we talked about it.

"I thought people would notice," I said.

"Me too," he replied. "But I guess our lives weren't really about what
was between our legs."

"Yeah," I said, smiling. "So why would that change now?"

---

When we got home, we decided to go for a bike ride. It had cooled off
a little, and the evening breeze felt good through the windows.

I threw on a pair of Chris's athletic shorts over my boy shorts--loose
enough to manage, even with my cock. He came out a minute later
wearing a T-shirt and... those shorts.

Tight. Black. Spandex. And very revealing.

"Chris," I said, blinking. "You know you can't wear those in public."

"I know," he said, grinning. "I'll put something over them. But I
thought you'd like them."

I stepped forward, placed my hand gently against the outline of his
vulva, and rubbed in slow, lazy circles.

"Oh, I like them," I murmured. "But if you go out like that, you're
gonna get yourself arrested."

He laughed and pulled a pair of looser shorts over them. "Happy now?"

"Very."

We hopped on our bikes--me adjusting to riding with a cock, and him
learning to ride without one. It was surprisingly intuitive. Bodies
adapt.

---

That night, we made love again--this time in missionary. Face to face,
hands clasped, eyes open. It was soft and slow and full of everything
we'd always been, plus everything new we were learning to love.

Afterward, we showered one last time, got into our comfy pajamas, and
climbed into bed.

We had settled into something real. Something steady.

A routine.

A rhythm.

Ours.

---

Chapter Eleven -- Christopher

The next couple of weeks were a blur of fun.

Ashley and I fell into this rhythm of discovery, of experimentation,
of... honestly, just joy. It was like we'd both been handed new bodies
and told, "Have fun with it," and we really, truly did. We played.
Explored. Had more sex than we'd had in years. Laughed a lot. Teased
each other constantly. Compared notes. It was like being newlyweds
again--but with toys we'd never expected to own.

We still went to work. Still folded laundry. Still grocery shopped.
But in the quiet hours, the private moments, it was like we were
dating new versions of each other. Same souls, new shapes. And it was
so good.

And then one morning... I woke up with a weird pain in my lower
abdomen.

It was dull but sharp. Achy. Sort of like a muscle cramp, but deeper
and pulsing in a way that made me feel weirdly... heavy? Not injured.
Just off. I took some Advil with breakfast and went to work, figuring
I'd overexerted something the night before.

It eased up for a bit. Then got worse.

By mid-morning, I was sweating under my work shirt. Not because of the
pain exactly, but because I kept feeling this wetness in my underwear.
And when I finally climbed down off a ladder and got a second alone in
the bathroom, I pulled my briefs down and--

There was blood.

Not like a little streak. Blood. All over the white cotton. Sticky,
dark, unmistakable.

I'd started my period.

----

We hadn't even considered it. I mean, we'd changed our genitals,
yeah--but the rest? We hadn't looked closely. I hadn't checked the
deeper settings on the Chronivac. And this? This was confirmation that
I hadn't just grown a pussy. I had the whole system.

Fortunately, my work pants were black.

I cleaned myself up as best I could with the scratchy paper towels and
grabbed one of the complimentary pads from the little metal box on the
wall. I peeled the backing and stuck it into my briefs, blinking down
at it like I'd just been handed a foreign object and told it was mine
now.

Then I pulled out my phone.

Me:

"I think I just got my period.

How do you put this thing on right? I stuck it to my underwear and I
think that's what I'm supposed to do??"

Ashley:

"oh shit

I didn't know the changes were that deep"

Me:

"I didn't either."

Ashley:

"well, I guess it's a good thing you got your period

otherwise you could be pregnant ??"

Me:

"THANK YOU FOR THAT

I WOULD RATHER HAVE A PERIOD

THAN BE PREGNANT

RIGHT NOW

EVER"

Ashley:

"??

I'll pick up supplies on my way home

hang in there babe"

---

The rest of the day wasn't terrible, just... clammy. The pad felt
weird. The bleeding wasn't gushing or anything, just enough to make me
feel constantly aware of it. My pants stuck slightly to the backs of
my thighs when I sat down. I kept checking myself for leaks.

Nobody noticed.

It was just another Monday at the warehouse.

When I got home, Ashley had a little brown bag from the drugstore in
one hand and Thai takeout in the other.

"You are so hot when you're thoughtful," I said, hugging her with my
cheek pressed to the crinkly bag.

"Don't get too excited. I got like four kinds because I didn't know
what you'd like. Some pads, some tampons. Wipes. Midol."

We sat on the edge of the bed while I rifled through it all. I tried a
tampon.

It was a no from me.

Not physically uncomfortable, but mentally? I just couldn't do it.
Something about the idea of stuffing something inside me that I
couldn't see or feel until it was too late? Nope. Not for now.

Pads were fine. And thanks to the briefs I'd been wearing lately, they
actually held them in place just right. I changed out of my work
pants, cleaned up again, and sank into the couch with a heating pad
and my smug, well-supplied wife.

Later that night, once things had calmed down and we were both curled
up with tea and a sitcom playing in the background, Ashley said,
"Maybe we should check the Chronivac."

So we did.

And what we found hit harder than I expected.

It wasn't just a surface-level change. I hadn't just gained a vulva
and lost a cock. According to the settings we pulled up, I was now:

? Genetically female

? Hormonally female

? Chromosomally XX

? Fully capable of menstruation

? And yes--fertile

Ashley was the same, in reverse:

? Genetically male

? Hormonally male

? Chromosomally XY

? Fully functional sperm production

? And yep--fertile too

I stared at the screen for a long time.

"I changed us more than I meant to," I said.

Ashley nodded slowly. "Yeah."

We sat with that for a while. The room was quiet except for the hum of
the air conditioner and the soft laugh track of the TV we weren't
watching anymore.

"This doesn't feel bad," I said. "Just... more real than I realized."

She reached over and took my hand. "We'll figure it out."

And we would.

Because whatever our bodies looked like--whatever they were made of--we
were still us.

We just had a little more to learn now.

---

Chapter Twelve -- Ashley

I hadn't realized the changes went that deep.

I mean, yeah--Chris and I had swapped parts. That much was obvious.
We'd had plenty of fun exploring the surface-level stuff. But standing
there beside him, both of us staring at the Chronivac screen
confirming genetic changes--chromosomes, hormones, fertility--it hit
different.

He hadn't just given himself a pussy. He'd made himself female in
every way the body could measure. And I... I was male. Not just
packing a dick. But hormonally, chromosomally, reproductively... a man
now.

I blinked at the screen and exhaled. "Damn."

Chris nodded slowly. "Yeah. I didn't mean to. But... I guess it
happened."

We sat with it for a while, knees touching, neither of us freaking
out. Just thinking.

And then we looked at each other.

"So... do we want to stay like this?" I asked, cautiously.

Chris chewed his lip. "I mean... I'm curious."

"Me too."

We both laughed softly. It felt a little like making a bet with
fate--but in a good way. Not reckless. Just open.

We talked it through. We both knew what that meant.

Chris would probably start growing breasts over the next few months.
His body would soften even more. His skin already looked different in
certain lights--smoother, maybe? I'd probably start growing facial
hair. My voice would deepen. My shoulders might broaden.

It wasn't just the parts that were shifting now. It was everything.

"We can always undo it," Chris reminded me.

I nodded. "We're not stuck."

That night, he crawled into bed and curled up beside me like he always
did, the heat of his body warm against mine, his scent familiar. But
when I reached for him, he shook his head gently.

"Not tonight," he said. "Not this week, probably."

I understood immediately. "Period?"

"Yeah." He wrinkled his nose. "I just don't want anything in me right
now."

"Totally fair."

"But," he added, glancing up at me with a sly smile, "you're not going
to bed frustrated either."

And he made good on that.

Blowjobs. Handjobs. Stroking me slowly while looking up with that same
mischievous glint I'd always loved. He just didn't want his vulva
touched, and I didn't push it.

---

By day three, though, he was clearly getting stir-crazy.

He kept pacing the kitchen. Cleaned out the junk drawer. Reorganized
the Tupperware. I caught him halfway through re-labeling the spice
rack before he stopped mid-sentence and said, "Okay, maybe we can try
something."

"What kind of something?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Not there," he said, pointing vaguely downward.
"But... maybe back there."

I blinked. "You sure?"

He shrugged. "I've never tried it. Could be fun."

So, we pulled out the lube--an almost untouched bottle from a couple
birthdays ago--and took things slow.

I prepped him gently, fingers slick, voice soft, giving him space to
back out at any point. But he didn't. He was curious, playful,
relaxed. And by the time I eased into him, he was already gasping.

"Jesus," he muttered, "this feels amazing."

And it did. For both of us.

It was different--less frantic, more intimate, weirdly vulnerable. But
the rhythm worked. His body welcomed me, and the sounds he made turned
my bones to jelly.

For the next few days, while his period lingered, that became our
solution.

A different hole. A new way to have fun.

By the time day five rolled around and the bleeding finally stopped,
we'd found a new groove. And while we did eventually go back to
vaginal sex, we both knew anal was there when we wanted it again.

---

That weekend, I brought up something that had been nagging me.

"Have you thought about birth control?" I asked, curled on the couch
with him under a shared blanket.

Chris glanced over. "You think we could actually get pregnant?"

"Well... we're fertile. So yeah."

He sighed. "Yeah, good point. I really don't want that surprise."

So we booted up the Chronivac again and gave Chris the Nexplanon
implant--virtual edition. No needle. No scar. Just a line of code
telling his body to shut that whole system down. Fast, painless, and
effective.

"Done," he said, exhaling.

----

After that, it was back to life as usual.

Grocery runs. Laundry. Dinners. Weekend errands. Netflix marathons.

Except now, it was different--because we knew. We weren't just messing
around with bodies for fun. We were becoming these people. Slowly.
Surely.

We'd set something in motion. And we were both curious to see where it
would lead.

Chris kept joking that his boobs were going to show up on schedule
like a subscription box. I caught myself checking the mirror in the
morning for new stubble. And in quiet moments, we'd both find
ourselves looking at the other like, God, I love who you're becoming.

And we did.

Still us.

Still in love.

Just... evolving.

---

Chapter Thirteen -- Christopher

About a month and a half in, my chest started to ache.

It wasn't sharp or scary--just this constant low-level soreness, like
I'd done a bunch of pushups wrong or someone had flicked me there too
hard the day before. At first, I ignored it. I chalked it up to
sleeping weird, or maybe how I was lying on my side at night. But it
didn't go away.

So I did what anyone would do. I poked at it.

And that's when I felt it.

Little lumps, just under the skin, right behind the nipples. Firm,
tender, and unmistakably new.

Breast buds.

I stared at myself in the mirror shirtless that night, hands gently
cupping the subtle swell that hadn't been there before. Not big enough
to see under clothes--at least not yet--but big enough to feel. Big
enough that I knew: something was happening.

I pulled on a soft hoodie, padded out to the living room, and found
Ashley curled up on the couch scrolling through something on her
phone.

"Hey," I said.

She looked up. "Yeah?"

"My chest hurts."

She raised an eyebrow. "Like... bad?"

"No. Just kind of... achey. Sore." I sat down next to her, chewing my
lip. "I think I have breast buds."

Her eyes widened. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

She blinked, then grinned slowly. "Show me."

I pulled my hoodie and T-shirt off, heart thumping a little harder
than I expected. She reached out and ran her thumbs over each spot
gently, watching my reaction as I winced just slightly.

"Yep," she said. "You totally do."

"Guess I'm growing boobs," I murmured.

Ashley didn't say anything for a second--just looked at me. Not with
judgment, not even surprise. Just this soft, curious expression like
she was seeing me bloom in real time.

Then she kissed me.

And we were off to the races.

----

That night, the sex was electric.

There was something about the change--about knowing this was new and
real and happening--that made everything ten times more intense. She
started slow, her fingers tracing the curve of my chest like it was
something sacred. When she cupped it gently and rubbed the buds with
her thumbs, it sent little lightning bolts straight to my spine. They
were so sensitive. Almost painfully so. But also... amazing. My back
arched without me meaning to. I could feel myself slick and needy, my
body fully alive under her touch.

She kissed my neck, just under my jaw, her breath warm against my
skin. I whimpered before I could stop myself. Then she whispered into
my ear--You feel so good like this--and pushed inside me.

I gasped.

It wasn't just the size--it was the stretch, the pressure, the way her
cock filled me in a way that made every nerve ending light up. I
clenched around her, my thighs trembling, and she groaned low and deep
in my ear, like the tightness of me had caught her off guard. Her
hands stayed on my chest, still rubbing, still teasing, her palms
grazing the sensitive new skin as she began to move.

The rhythm we found was slow at first, exploratory, like we were
learning each other all over again. But it didn't stay slow for long.
I was already moving against her, chasing the friction, the heat, the
fullness. I couldn't get enough of it. Her body over mine, her cock
buried inside me, her hands rough and reverent at the same time. I was
soaked, trembling, panting--and so far gone in the pleasure that I
barely recognized my own voice when I cried out her name.

We moved together like we were made for this--because, in a way, we
kind of were now.

Afterward, lying together under the sheets, slick with sweat and still
catching our breath, she ran her fingers lightly over my chest again.
Just a casual sweep, like she was reacquainting herself with every
inch of me.

"Still no bra required," she murmured.

"Yeah," I muttered. "But I'm definitely aware of them now."

She grinned and gave one a lazy, affectionate squeeze. "They're cute."

I didn't even argue. Because honestly? They kind of were.

--

She'd been changing too.

Ashley mentioned earlier that week that her throat had been sore for a
while. Not sick-sore. Not strep. Just... different. Tight, a little
dry. Like her vocal cords were doing something under the hood.

"I think it's getting ready to drop," she said. "Like I'm about to
sound like a teenage boy with a cracking voice."

I shrugged. "Could be hot."

She also noticed that her leg and arm hair was coming in darker and
thicker. Not dramatically--just enough that she pulled out a razor and
shaved it all down one night while I was making dinner.

"No harm, no foul," she said. "Just maintenance."

There was a tiny line of stubble starting to form along her jawline,
too. Just a whisper of facial hair. She shaved that off too without
much fanfare.

"It's weird," she told me, "but not bad. Just feels like... me. On a
different timeline."

I couldn't stop looking at her when she said that. The jawline, the
slightly different way she carried herself now. The way her shirts fit
differently. She was still my Ashley--but shifting, subtly,
beautifully.

---

So yeah. A month and a half in, and things were definitely changing.

I had breast buds. She had a new voice on the way. And somehow, we
were both okay with it.

Not just okay--kind of excited.

We weren't rushing it. We weren't locking anything in. But we were
letting it happen. Seeing where it led.

And so far?

It felt like a pretty incredible ride.

---

Chapter Fourteen -- Christopher

Three months in, I definitely had boobs.

Not huge ones. But not subtle either.

Small, high, full A-cups--maybe even pushing a B. Not the kind that
bounced dramatically when I walked, but enough that going down stairs
too fast hurt and hugging Ashley without a shirt on felt very
different than it used to.

I'd been kind of pretending it wasn't a big deal. Telling myself I
didn't need to do anything about it. But the truth was, my chest ached
a lot. Not bad pain--just the constant, sore-throbbing awareness of
growing tissue, tender skin, and nipples that seemed to think the
entire world was cold.

Ashley noticed me wincing one night while pulling on a shirt and just
raised an eyebrow. "You know, you don't have to be a hero."

"What do you mean?"

"You need a bra."

I froze. "I don't--"

"Babe," she said gently. "I have boobs. You've got boobs. Let me help
you."

So she took me shopping.

We didn't go to the mall or anything dramatic--just a local department
store. She steered us toward the sports bras without a hint of
awkwardness. I followed her lead, let her help me grab a couple
different sizes and styles, and we slipped into a side-by-side set of
changing rooms.

She passed one over the top of the door. "Try this one first."

I pulled off my T-shirt, looked at myself in the mirror--soft new
breasts, the faint start of a curve at my waist, thighs slightly
fuller than they used to be--and I felt... curious. Not ashamed. Not
confused. Just ready.

When I got the bra on, I sighed out loud.

"Oh my God," I muttered.

"Right?" Ashley said from the other side of the wall. "So much better,
huh?"

"Why didn't I do this sooner?"

"I've been wondering that for weeks."

It was simple, black, stretchy. Hugged me tight without hurting. It
didn't hide anything, but it also didn't show. Under my regular shirt,
no one would guess I was wearing anything new.

And I felt... held. Like my body had finally been given permission to
relax.

---

Physically, I was still me. Just... rebalanced.

My upper body was a little less strong now. Ladders at work weren't
harder, exactly--but I noticed I didn't hoist things around quite as
easily. And my waist was slimming while my hips quietly widened.
Nothing dramatic. Just enough that certain pants fit differently. I
was starting to get a real hourglass silhouette.

Meanwhile, Ashley's voice was officially in teenage boy mode. Some
days she sounded exactly like she used to. Other times she cracked
mid-sentence like a cartoon character. She took it in stride, laughing
it off or repeating the word in a deliberately squeaky tone until we
both lost it.

She definitely had facial hair now. Nothing wild--just consistent.
Enough that shaving had gone from occasional maintenance to a twice-a-
week thing. Except... she'd stopped shaving anything else.

I noticed in the shower one morning. Her legs, her arms, her
breasts--hairier than I'd ever seen them. Dark, thick, unapologetic.

I raised an eyebrow, and she just shrugged. "Kinda feels right. My
family's full of hairy dudes. Guess I'm one now."

"Fair enough."

That got me curious.

If she wasn't shaving anymore... maybe I wanted to try it.

So one lazy Sunday afternoon, I asked her, "Hey... can you show me how
to shave my legs?"

She lit up. "Of course!"

And just like that, I was sitting on the edge of the tub, legs covered
in shaving cream, while my technically-a-man-now wife guided me
through the process. It was surprisingly soothing. Meditative, even.

Later that week, she helped me try a wax kit for my chest. I wasn't
particularly hairy, but I liked the smoothness. She handled it like a
pro. She waxed; I yelped. We laughed a lot.

Fun fact: I was never a super hairy guy. But Ashley? Ashley's genetics
were going hard. Within a week, she had more body hair than I did.

And we were both kind of into it.

---

Nobody at work seemed to notice the changes. Or if they did, they
didn't comment.

I went to my warehouse job every day with A-cup breasts under a polo
shirt, a pussy in my briefs, and a waist that curved gently in a way
it never used to. And it felt... fun. Like I was getting away with
something. Like my body was doing its own thing and I was just letting
it.

I loved it.

So did Ashley.

Every time we had sex now, she spent time cradling my breasts. Rubbing
them. Pinching my nipples just enough to make me gasp. It sent shocks
straight to my clit every time. They were so sensitive--so alive--and I
couldn't get enough.

I also noticed something interesting. She didn't want hers touched as
much anymore.

Not in a sad or ashamed way--just in a my body's changing and I'm
listening to it way. Her breasts had deflated a bit, down a cup or
two. Still C-cups, technically, but sitting differently now. Hairy.
Less soft. She didn't mind them being there, but when I tried to touch
them, she'd usually guide my hands somewhere else.

I didn't mind.

She was still Ashley. Still strong, still loving, still the person who
kissed me every morning and pulled me close every night. But her body
was changing too--her hips narrowing, her jaw sharpening. She had this
quietly square, solid presence now that I found really sexy.

And I knew she saw me the same way.

Not despite the changes.

Because of them.

----

Chapter Fifteen -- Ashley

It was six months after we used the Chronivac to change our genitals.
I was midway through helping Chris wax the backs of his thighs when he
sighed and said, "You know... why don't I just use the Chronivac to
get rid of all my body hair?"

I blinked. "Like, all of it?"

"Yeah." He squirmed a little as I pressed the next strip down. "This
is getting ridiculous. I'm sick of shaving. Sick of waxing. I just
want to be done."

I paused, strip in hand. "Well. Okay. If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

We finished the wax job, cleaned up, and pulled out the Chronivac.

While Chris adjusted his profile, I sat beside him on the couch, legs
stretched across his lap, still in my gym shorts and tank top. I'd
just shaved my face, again. The hair was coming in fast these days,
and every time I looked in the mirror, I could see my jawline squaring
off. My shoulders looked broader too.

And sitting there next to him, watching him erase the last traces of
body hair--arms, legs, chest, even the soft little trail under his
belly button--I realized I'd been circling my own next step for weeks.

"I think," I said, carefully, "I'm going to give myself a male chest."

Chris looked up, surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"That's kind of a big change."

"I know. But..." I trailed off, pressing a hand against my shirt. My
breasts were smaller now--probably down two cup sizes--but still there.
Still heavy. Still in the way. "They just don't feel like they belong
anymore. They haven't for a while."

Chris nodded. "I get that."

So we took turns.

He finished first--clicked Apply, Save, Confirm. A pulse of light
shimmered over his body. Within seconds, his skin was perfectly smooth
from the ears down. No leg hair. No armpit hair. No pubes. No stray
beard hairs. Just clean, soft skin and the long dark hair on his head.
That was it.

He blinked and ran a hand down his side. "Whoa."

"You good?"

He smiled. "I really like this. Like... a lot." He slipped his hand
between his legs, brushing his newly bare pussy. "This feels amazing."

I agreed. Honestly, he looked gorgeous. Sleek. Clean. His already soft
skin looked airbrushed. His whole vibe was radiant, like a fantasy
from some very specific queer Pinterest board. My strong, handsome
husband with a soft, hairless pussy and little B-cup breasts. Hot as
hell.

Then it was my turn.

I took a breath and toggled the setting:

Chest Tissue ? Male / Flat

Nipple Appearance ? Masculine

Hormonal Alignment ? Maintained

Apply. Save. Confirm.

The now-familiar shimmer passed through me, and just like that--my
chest felt lighter. I tugged off my tank top and stared at my
reflection in the dark window.

Flat.

Not totally muscle-bound, but solid. Defined. My pecs had taken over
where my breasts used to be. The hair on my chest was still there--fine
and dark--and with my square jaw, scruff, and cracking voice, I now
looked like a teenage boy.

Chris stared at me. "Damn. You really did it."

"I did."

"Are you... okay?"

I took a breath and smiled. "Yeah. I think I really am."

Then he tilted his head. "Aren't people at work starting to, like...
notice?"

I sighed. "Yeah. I'm definitely getting looks. People keep asking if
I'm doing okay. One woman asked if I had an eating disorder. Another
asked if I'd gotten my hair cut shorter again."

"Yikes."

"I know. I think this might be a point too far."

"Same," Chris said, tugging down his hoodie and glancing at the swell
of his breasts under his T-shirt. "I'm kind of rocking a full B cup
now. The guys at work are starting to... well. Look."

We sat in silence for a moment. Then Chris said, "So... Chronivac
fix?"

"Yeah."

Together, we pulled up the shared settings and added one more tweak:

Perception Filter: Maintain prior gender presentation regardless of
current physical form.

Chris = perceived as male

Ashley = perceived as female

And just like that, it clicked. I felt the social tension lift like
someone had hit a mute button on the background noise.

Now, we could be who we were--becoming who we were--without questions.
Without eyebrows raised. Without the awkward silences that had started
creeping in at work.

While we were at it, we changed our wardrobes too.

Chris's became more androgynous--stretchy fabrics, flowing lines,
tighter shirts with room for his breasts, soft bralettes, athletic
leggings that hugged his thighs. But still masculine enough to pass at
a glance.

Mine went the other way. Men's jeans, flat sneakers, T-shirts and
polos. Collared shirts with space in the shoulders and tighter arms.
Boxer briefs and even a couple of slim-fit suits that made me grin
like an idiot when I tried them on.

---

That night, something shifted again.

Chris stepped out of the bedroom like a dream--tall and still a bit
angular and wearing one of his new crop tops that clung to his toned
frame like it had been tailored just for him. The fabric hugged his
hips, skimmed over the soft rise of his B-cup breasts, and left just a
strip of his smooth, flat stomach exposed. No hair, no curve out of
place. Just sleek, pale skin and the quiet confidence of someone who
knew exactly how good he looked.

His chest rose and fell gently, nipples pushing against the cotton.
His thighs were bare. His pussy, barely concealed by the stretch of
his boxer-briefs, was clearly wet already.

He looked like a question I wanted to spend hours answering. Boy?
Girl? It didn't matter. He was Chris. He was mine. And he was
stunning.

I crossed the room without a word, sliding my hands under the hem of
his shirt and up along his waist. My palms glided over his completely
hairless skin--soft and warm--and my thumbs lingered just below the band
of the crop top, tracing the edge of his ribs.

"You like the new look?" he asked, voice low and teasing.

"Like isn't the word," I murmured, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.
"You're perfect."

He smirked and lifted his arms, letting me pull the crop top off in
one slow motion. His breasts spilled free, perky and delicate, nipples
already hard. I bent and took one in my mouth briefly, just enough to
hear him moan before pulling back. My pants dropped to the floor as he
reached out and ran his hands over my chest. He let me pull his pants
off bringing into view his hairless pussy.

There was wonder in the way he touched me now. His fingers brushed my
pecs--newly sculpted and flat--and his thumbs traced over the chest hair
that my genetics had given me. His hands slid up and down, mapping me
like he hadn't quite believed I was real until he touched me.

"You look so young," he said softly. "Like a boy who never had to grow
up. It's hot."

"Good," I whispered, grabbing his hips. "Because I'm about to make you
ride me like I'm your teenage boyfriend."

He gave me a wicked grin and climbed onto the bed, straddling my lap.
I could feel the heat of his pussy. It was dripping, already hungry,
and when he reached down and guided me in, it felt like coming home.

"Fuck," he breathed as he sank onto me. "You feel so good."

His pussy gripped me tight, slick and hot, his walls fluttering around
my cock as he adjusted to the fullness. I reached up and cupped his
breasts, rubbing my thumbs over his nipples while he began to move.
Slow, rolling grinds at first. He was controlling the pace, making me
watch every inch of his hairless body shift and ripple as he rode me.

He arched his back, hands behind him on my thighs, giving me the full
view--his breasts bouncing gently, his stomach flexing with each
motion, his pretty little pussy swallowing my cock again and again.
Every time he dropped down onto me, it sent sparks up my spine.

I ran my hands along his sides, over his stomach, back up to his
chest. The smoothness of him was driving me wild. So soft on the
outside, but tight and demanding where it counted.

"You're gorgeous like this," I groaned.

"And you're mine," he shot back, leaning in to kiss me hard, still
grinding on my cock.

I was close already, and I knew from the way his clit throbbed against
my pelvis that he was too.

"Don't stop," I gasped, pulling him down onto me and thrusting up into
him as he rode me faster.

"I'm not stopping," he growled. "You feel too fucking good."

And then we came--together, messy and loud, his body clenching down on
me like it never wanted to let go.

When we finally collapsed onto the bed, our chests rising and falling,
slick with sweat and cum, I pulled him into my arms and kissed his
forehead.

"You," I whispered, "are my favorite version of you."

He smiled, eyes heavy and satisfied. "Same, babe. Same."

--

The next morning, we both went to work like normal.

Me, with a flat chest, scruff, and a voice still cracking. Still
treated like the same woman I'd always been--thanks to the perception
filter.

Chris, with B-cup breasts, a vulva, and smooth, hairless skin. Still
treated like a man.

And for now? That was enough.

We got to live our lives as they were--quietly shifting into something
new--without having to explain.

And every night, we came home to each other.

To the truth of our bodies.

And the beauty of becoming.

---

Chapter Sixteen -- Christine

It had been nine months since we started changing. And by now, the
effects weren't subtle.

I had C-cup breasts. Real ones. Full, soft, round, and very clearly
not going anywhere. My waist had narrowed, my hips had widened, and
when I looked in the mirror, there was no question about what kind of
body I had. I wasn't just someone who used the Chronivac to swap
parts--I was a woman. Hormonal, chromosomal, biologically female in
every way that counted.

And Ashley?

Ashley looked like a man. A handsome one. His voice had dropped, his
jaw had squared out, and his chest--now flat and lightly haired--no
longer bore any trace of the body he used to have. He'd filled out
just enough to look like a guy who ran every day and lifted on
weekends. Stocky, strong, with a little softness around the middle
that was pure comfort.

We looked like a queer dream couple.

But we still hadn't updated how people saw us.

Which is why dinner with my parents had been both hilarious and deeply
weird.

I looked like a tall, fit, masculine woman in a black turtleneck, my
short dark hair slicked back and my breasts clearly visible under my
jacket. Ashley looked like a short, compact, clean-shaven guy in dark
jeans and a Henley shirt.

And yet...

My mom still called me "Chris," and my dad still referred to Ashley as
"she."

We didn't correct them. The Chronivac filter was still in place. But
that night, on the walk home, I exhaled slowly and said, "I think I'm
done."

Ashley glanced over. "Done?"

"Pretending to still be a man," I said. "I'd like to just rip the
band-aid off and have people perceive me as a woman."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're sure?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I'm totally fine with people thinking I'm a very
tall, masculine woman with a lower-than-average voice. I like what I
look like now. And I want to share it honestly with the world."

Ashley smiled. "Okay. If you're sure..."

He paused. Then added, "I may as well rip the band-aid off too. I've
looked male for the last, what, four months? I think it's time I was
seen that way."

So we booted up the Chronivac again, side by side on the couch.

I typed in my update first:

Change name: Christine

Retcon: I have always been female

Perception: No longer filtered

Legal documentation: Update accordingly

Family memory: Adjust

Asher followed suit:

Change name: Asher

Retcon: I have always been male

Perception: No longer filtered

Legal documentation: Update accordingly

Family memory: Adjust

We didn't mark the changes as permanent. Not yet. But we wanted to try
living this way--for real. No illusions. No edits. Just truth.

And when the settings applied and the glow faded from the screen, we
felt it ripple through everything.

My phone photos updated. I was Christine in all our memories, always
had been. My license updated instantly in my wallet--different photo,
same ID number. And in every picture of us together, I was the tall,
sharp-featured woman with a cool, androgynous edge. Like Carrie-Anne
Moss in The Matrix, if she had hips and a little softness under her
eyes.

And Asher?

He looked like a very cute husband. Five foot six, scruffy, warm, just
a little shy-looking in photos--like he couldn't believe his tall, sexy
wife loved him so much.

It was perfect.

---

Later that night, as we curled up in bed, I rested my head on Asher's
chest and said, "There's one more thing."

He shifted, brushing my hair behind my ear. "Yeah?"

"We talked about kids before we ever started playing with the
Chronivac. And... well, we're not getting any younger. I'm thirty-
three now."

His breath caught. "You want to try?"

"I think I do," I said. "I don't know how long we'll stay like
this--but I do know I don't want to miss out on having children because
we were too busy experimenting. I have the uterus now. I may as well
get it ready."

Asher's eyes welled up just a little. "You're sure?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I really am."

So he reached for the Chronivac, found my entry, and toggled off the
Nexplanon implant we'd added months ago. In a couple months, I'd be
ovulating again.

We closed the tablet, set it aside, and just... looked at each other.

For the first time, the world saw us the way we saw ourselves. And it
turned out--sex felt different when you weren't hiding from anything.

---

I straddled him slowly, his cock already thick and twitching under me
as I kissed down his jaw. His hands slid up my thighs, fingers tracing
the curve of my hips. I reached behind to guide him in, and when he
pressed up inside me, I moaned--a deep, full-body sound that poured out
of me like honey.

He filled me so perfectly now. Like he was meant to.

I rode him gently at first, grinding my hips in little circles,
letting him feel every pulse and squeeze. My breasts bounced softly
with every motion, and his hands found them, cupping them like he
always did, thumbs brushing my nipples just right.

I gasped. "Fuck--Asher..."

He groaned, hips twitching up into me. "You feel so good like this."

I leaned down and kissed him, rocking faster now, chasing that rising
pleasure that lit me up from the inside out. He held me tightly, hips
lifting to meet every movement, breathing harder, whispering my name
like a prayer.

I came once--trembling, clenching around him with a cry--and then again,
almost immediately, my whole body flushed and shaking. And finally,
when he couldn't hold back anymore, Asher gripped my hips and came
deep inside me, face buried in my neck, both of us gasping together.

Afterward, I collapsed on top of him, our bodies tangled, skin slick,
heart full.

He kissed my shoulder and whispered, "Hi, Christine."

I smiled. "Hi, Asher."

And we fell asleep that night knowing the world finally saw us the way
we felt.

Christine and Asher.

Wife and husband.

Maybe... soon-to-be parents.

And whatever came next?

We were ready.

---

Chapter Eighteen -- Asher

Turns out... being a man isn't that different.

At least, not in the day-to-day stuff. Same morning coffee. Same
emails. Same weird tension in the office when the printer jams and no
one wants to be the one to fix it. But walking through the world as
Asher--really being seen as a man for the first time--it hit me in
small, unexpected ways.

People listen a little differently. My jokes land differently. I get a
nod from the guy behind the deli counter now, where before I got a
polite smile and "ma'am."

And at work?

I used to be closer to the women in the office. The support staff. The
schedulers. We had our little watercooler chats, shared memes, talked
about skincare and HR drama.

Now?

They're still nice. Still friendly. But there's a new... distance.
Like I crossed into a slightly different orbit.

The guys, though?

They talk to me like I've always been one of them. Like something
invisible just clicked, and now I'm in the club. I get looped into
football talk. Invited to stand at the grill during work picnics. They
ask me what kind of truck I drive, even though I don't have one.

It's surreal. But kind of nice.

That night, while Christine and I were cleaning up dinner, I brought
it up.

"Hey," I said, rinsing a plate. "You noticing anything different with
people?"

She looked up from the sink, arched an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Like... how they treat you. Now that they see you as a woman."

Christine thought about it for a second, drying her hands. "A little,
yeah. I still get along with the guys okay. But I talk more with the
women now."

I smiled. "Same. In reverse."

She shrugged. "I mean, it makes sense. I'm a woman in a warehouse. And
not just a woman--a strong woman. Stronger than most of the guys there,
honestly."

"You've got those Amazon vibes now."

She grinned. "I kind of love it."

And she did. The way she stood taller now. The way her tank tops clung
to her shoulders and her breasts. Her hips swinging with purpose.
Christine wasn't just feminine--she was masculine and feminine all at
once. And the confidence that radiated off her?

It stunned me. Every time.

---

And then... there was the sex.

Every night, I'd find myself either on my back or between her thighs,
watching this tall, strong, lean-bodied woman move like she was born
for it. It was still Christine. Still my wife. But sometimes I had to
remind myself--this powerful, confident woman had been my husband just
nine months ago.

And now?

Now she had smooth, hairless skin that seemed to glow in the dim light
of our bedroom. Perfectly sculpted legs that wrapped around me like a
vice. A muscular back I could trace for hours, following every line
and dip like it was a map of who we'd become. And between those legs--a
soft, wet pussy that I could never get enough of. Stroking her was a
privilege. Licking her was an addiction.

I'd wrap my arms tight around her hips and pull her down over my
mouth, burying my face in the warmth of her. Her scent filled my nose,
heady and sweet. Her thighs tightened around me, strong and shaking,
while her fingers threaded through my hair, holding me there. She
moaned--low, breathy, and broken--and I gave her everything I had. My
tongue circling her clit, dipping lower, teasing her entrance, then
back up again. Slow at first, then faster as her hips bucked and
rolled against my face.

I loved how she moved--like she owned the space, the rhythm, and my
body. And every time she came apart on my tongue, trembling above me,
I felt like the luckiest man alive.

Because I got to be this woman's husband.

She'd slide down afterward, eyes half-lidded, mouth open, her body
flushed and humming with pleasure. And she'd kiss me--tasting herself
on my lips--before shifting her hips forward and lowering herself onto
my cock.

God, the way she took me in.

That perfect stretch, that tight, wet heat, the way she gasped when
she bottomed out--it undid me every time. She rode me slow and deep,
chest to chest, my hands cupping her ass as she moved, our foreheads
touching. Her breasts brushed against my chest with each rise and
fall, her breath hot in my ear as she whispered my name. She'd roll
her hips just right, clenching down on me, grinding in small,
devastating circles that made me throb inside her.

Sometimes she leaned back, bracing herself on my thighs, putting her
whole body on display for me--strong arms, hard stomach, that soft
pussy swallowing me over and over. Her eyes never left mine. There was
fire in them.

And respect.

Because Christine never stopped treating me like a man. She gave me
blowjobs that made my toes curl, took my cock like she was starving
for it, and looked at me like I was her prize. Her husband. Her match.

And I loved her more every time she did.

----

Which brings me to the thing I haven't stopped smiling about since
last night.

She wants to try for a baby.

Christine--with her sharp jawline, her short dark hair, her muscular
frame and smirking lips--has a uterus now. And she's choosing to use
it. Choosing to bring a child into the world with me. Not because it
fits some neat little gender box, but because it's what we want.

And God, that's beautiful.

----

So yeah.

Today wasn't dramatic. I didn't get misgendered. I didn't feel like I
lost anything.

I just lived.

Asher.

A man.

A husband.

And I came home to my tall, powerful, masculine wife, Christine, and
kissed her hard at the door, grateful that somehow, this is where we
landed.

----

Chapter Nineteen -- Christine

Well... as it turns out, Asher and I may have tried a little too hard
for a baby.

I never had a period.

Three months after we removed the Nexplanon implant, we were lying in
bed, watching TV, and I said, "Hey, I think I should've gotten my
period by now."

Asher sat up like I'd triggered an alarm. "Wait. You haven't?"

I shook my head. "Not even spotting."

He grabbed his phone, opened up a browser, and within two minutes had
his answer. "Babe. You should've had one weeks ago."

And that's how we found ourselves in the car at 10:30 p.m., driving
way too fast to the nearest drugstore, trying not to freak out.

We bought three pregnancy tests. Just to be sure.

And when I peed on the first one and saw that little pink plus sign? I
froze.

I peed on the second one. And the third.

Positive.

Positive.

I walked out of the bathroom and just looked at Asher. "I think I'm
pregnant."

His jaw dropped. "Seriously?!"

"I mean, you saw how hard we tried..."

We pulled up the Chronivac. Checked the stats. There it
was--confirmation.

Pregnancy: Confirmed

Gestational Age: 4 weeks

Fetal Sex: Male

I sat down slowly, staring at the screen. "I'm a pregnant woman."

My hands drifted to my stomach--still flat, still my own. But inside
me? A son. Our son.

I was both thrilled and terrified.

Asher was just ecstatic. He pulled me into a hug so tight I nearly
cried. "We're having a baby," he whispered, like the words might
shatter if he said them too loud.

--

That night, we made love slowly.

There was no rush, no teasing or games--just the quiet gravity of being
close, the reverence of knowing what we were doing had already changed
our lives. It wasn't frantic. It wasn't adventurous. Just soft,
deliberate kisses in the missionary position, the kind that melt into
you like warm water.

Asher moved above me with the kind of focus that made every thrust
feel intentional. His hands rested on my belly--not pressing, just
there, steady and grounding. Like he wanted to be reminded, to
acknowledge the quiet miracle we were already carrying between us.

My hands curled in his hair, fingertips slipping through the soft
strands at the back of his neck as he kissed me. Again. And again.
Slow. Lingering. His lips traced over my mouth, my jaw, my cheek, as
though trying to memorize the shape of my pleasure.

His hips rocked gently into mine, his cock sliding deep with an easy,
perfect stretch that filled me and made me feel adored. Loved.
Worshipped.

I moaned into his mouth as I came--quietly, but completely. A slow,
shuddering orgasm that built behind my ribs and radiated through my
limbs, leaving me trembling and breathless beneath him. My body arched
to meet his. My walls fluttered around him, clutching him tight,
unwilling to let go.

He followed moments later, his voice catching on a soft gasp as he
spilled inside me, filling me even more. He whispered praise into my
skin--things I can't even remember now, not word for word, but they
wrapped around my heart and held me there. Things like you're
beautiful, and thank you, and I love you.

And for the first time... I didn't rush to clean up.

The damage was kind of done, right?

I was pregnant.

Instead, I just pulled him closer. Wrapped my arms around his back and
let him sink down into me. We curled up under the covers, our bodies
still connected, sticky and slick and warm. My thighs cradled his
hips. His breath tickled my neck.

Everything about it felt intimate and perfect.

"I'm so happy," I whispered, nuzzling into the soft skin beneath his
ear.

"Me too," he murmured, kissing my shoulder.

And we stayed like that, tangled together in the afterglow, holding
the future between us.

---

My body is already changing again.

My breasts, which had grown steadily over the last year, are now just
a little fuller. My figure has softened slightly--just enough to feel
different in the mirror. More curve. More weight in my hips and
thighs. A little extra tightness in my bras.

Asher, meanwhile, has gone full bear.

He's got a light dusting of fur across his chest and stomach now, arms
and legs included. And the beard? Thick, full, and perfectly shaped.
He keeps it neat--still looks like my handsome, slightly bookish
husband--but now he has this raw, masculine gravity that makes me
throb.

He's only 5'6", but he fills every room he walks into. And I love him
just as much now that I did when he was my wife.

I never thought I'd be into men. But Asher isn't just any man. He's
the person I've loved through everything. Watching him become himself
hasn't distanced me--it's brought me closer.

---

I haven't had any symptoms yet. No morning sickness. No fatigue.
Just... the knowledge.

And sometimes that's scarier than the symptoms.

I catch myself in the mirror--naked or wrapped in a towel--and I see
her. A tall, strong, masculine woman. My jaw's sharp. My hips are
wide. My breasts are round and full. My body is hairless and smooth.

And somewhere inside me, a tiny new life is growing.

I stare at myself and whisper, "You're pregnant."

Sometimes I smile.

Sometimes I tear up.

I'm both excited and terrified.

But I'm ready.

---

Chapter Nineteen -- Asher

I always thought I'd be the mom.

Even before all this started, before the Chronivac, before the swaps
and tweaks and name changes--I think part of me had always imagined
cradling a newborn in my own arms... and knowing they came from me.

But that's not how life worked out.

Instead, my husband got pregnant. My tall, strong, sharp-jawed,
beautiful wife--Christine--is the one carrying our baby.

And that's okay.

More than okay, actually.

It's... perfect. In a way I never would've predicted.

---

The day we confirmed it for real--three tests and a Chronivac check
later--I couldn't stop smiling. I think I scared her a little,
honestly. Christine was stunned and silent and scared, and I was
pacing the kitchen like I'd won the lottery.

But now that it's real, and we're in it, I've had more time to
reflect. And I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a pang there. A
little thread of mourning.

I'd always seen myself as the one who'd carry our child.

Now I'm going to be a father instead.

But I look at Christine, hand on her belly, hairless and glowing, with
just a little more curve every week, and I know one thing for sure:

I wouldn't trade this life for anything.

---

Of course, reality hit hard about two weeks later.

Christine woke me up at 4:30 a.m. by bolting for the bathroom. I heard
the sound of retching, then the toilet flushing, then a miserable
groan.

"Morning sickness," she mumbled from the floor. "This fucking sucks."

I sat with her on the cool tile, brushing her hair back, offering sips
of water, holding her until she felt steady again. It became a bit of
a routine--early mornings, crackers on the nightstand, peppermint tea,
and me googling the safest anti-nausea tricks at 5 a.m.

She's strong, but even strong people need support.

I just kept telling her, "You're doing amazing. I'm so proud of you."

---

The first prenatal appointment was surprisingly emotional--for both of
us.

Christine fidgeted the entire way there. She was quiet, biting her
lip, clearly tense. When I asked her what was up, she just muttered,
"Pelvic exam. I hate them."

And she did hate it.

She winced the entire time, squeezing my hand like she was trying to
snap my fingers off. But afterward, when the doctor showed us the
ultrasound and we heard that tiny, flickering heartbeat...

She cried.

And I did too.

---

By three months in, it's undeniable.

Christine has a bump. Small, but there. Soft and curved and absolutely
real.

Her breasts have gone up another cup size--something that has her
alternately amused, annoyed, and turned on depending on the day.

She's also traded in the warehouse job for a desk in the admin office.
She still works for the same company, but now she's helping with
logistics and scheduling instead of hauling pallets. It's a relief--for
both of us. We know things will only get harder as she gets further
along, and having her safe, seated, and air-conditioned is a massive
win.

We started planning maternity leave. And I applied for paternity leave
too.

Because we're doing this together.

---

Last weekend, we told our families.

We didn't even have to fake a surprise pregnancy announcement--because
as far as they knew, Christine had always been a woman, and Asher had
always been her husband.

They were overjoyed.

Christine's mom immediately offered to stay with us after the baby was
born. My mom sent us baby clothes that she crocheted herself--tiny
little booties in neutral colors. Christine looked like she might cry
again when she opened them.

It's starting to feel real now.

---

We've started clearing out the second bedroom.

It used to be our study-slash-storage room. Now? It's the nursery. We
picked out paint samples last night and argued (lightheartedly) over
names. Christine's nesting instincts haven't kicked in fully yet, but
she's definitely been poking around baby furniture websites more and
more.

And I...

I've been adjusting to being a dad.

Not a mom.

Not the one who'll carry or breastfeed or go through labor.

Just the father. The partner. The support. The anchor.

---

We talked about it a few nights ago.

Lying in bed, her head on my chest, her belly resting against my hip.

"I always thought you'd be the one to carry our kid," she said softly.
"I still can't believe it's me."

"Me neither," I admitted. "I always imagined I'd be the mom."

She tilted her head up, looking at me. "Does it bother you?"

I took a breath. "It did. For a while. Not in a bitter way--just...
like I had to let go of something I'd always pictured. But now? No.
I'm happy. You're carrying our baby. You're still my person. And I'm
honored to be your husband. And our child's father."

Christine smiled. "I love you."

"I love you too."

---

Chapter Twenty -- Christine

By the sixth month of pregnancy, I wasn't glowing.

I was huge.

I was uncomfortable.

And I was finally, suddenly, overwhelmingly aware that I was a woman.

Not just androgynous.

Not just curvy or soft.

A woman.

And a very pregnant one at that.

It hit me in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. I was working from
home that day. I'd walked into the kitchen to grab a smoothie, caught
a glimpse of my reflection in the microwave door, and just... froze.

There I was.

Bigger belly. Bigger breasts. A maternity top hugging me in all the
roundest places.

And for the first time since we'd started using the Chronivac, I
couldn't see even the ghost of the man I used to be.

I shuffled back to bed, curled up with my body pillow, and cried.

---

Asher came home from work a couple hours later to find me still
there--sheets bunched, pillow soaked, and me hiding under the covers
like a child.

"Christine?" he asked gently. "Hey, what's going on?"

I didn't even lift my head.

"I made a mistake," I mumbled.

I felt the bed dip as he sat down. A moment later, his hand found my
back, warm and steady.

"I'm a man," I said, choking on the words. "I'm not supposed to be
pregnant. I'm not supposed to have... this belly, these boobs, this
fucking body. I don't even recognize myself anymore."

He didn't say anything right away. He just rubbed slow, comforting
circles between my shoulder blades while I sobbed into the mattress.

---

Eventually, I turned over, red-eyed and puffy, and looked up at him.

"Asher... I think I want to go back. I can't do this."

He nodded, quiet.

He opened up the Chronivac and frowned. "You're six months pregnant.
And, from what I can tell, the Chronivac doesn't want to touch you
right now. Probably because it's trying to protect the baby."

He reached down, brushing a thumb along my cheek.

"I think the best it could do at this point is maybe change what kind
of pregnant woman you are. But it's not going to undo the pregnancy.
Not right now."

I let out a bitter little laugh. "So I'm stuck."

"For now, yeah," he said. "But after you give birth, if you want to go
back--if you want to be Chris again--I'll support you. No hesitation. No
questions asked."

He leaned in and kissed my forehead.

"If I end up with a sexy husband instead of a sexy wife, I'll be just
fine with that."

---

I smiled, faintly. God, I loved him.

But even in that comfort, I felt a pang.

Because what Asher didn't say was that he wanted to change back too.

And I didn't blame him.

He loved being Asher. He was confident, grounded, charming. He was
everything he'd never quite found as Ashley. His voice, his beard, his
compact frame and easy swagger--it fit him. Maybe better than anything
ever had.

So no, I wasn't going to ask him to give it up. I couldn't.

But I was beginning to realize that after this baby came, we might not
just be two people returning to our old selves.

It was clear that I no longer had a wife. I had a husband.

We might be a man and a man.

A husband and a husband.

Raising a child together.

---

That night, I pulled out most of my maternity clothes--the clingy
dresses, the cute tops that accentuated the belly--and shoved them in
the back of the closet. I dug through my drawers until I found the
plain black tees, the oversized cardigans, the drawstring joggers.

Things that felt gentler. More neutral. Less like someone else's idea
of femininity.

And in those softer clothes, I breathed a little easier.

The belly didn't vanish. The boobs didn't shrink. I still felt like an
alien in my own skin.

But I could move through the world again. I could keep going.

I had three more months.

Three more months as Christine.

And then?

We'd see.

---

Chapter Twenty-One -- Asher

Eight and a half months in, and Christine -- Chris, as we both called
her now -- was officially very pregnant.

There was no mistaking it anymore. No passing as just "a little
thick." No illusions of comfort. She waddled. She grunted when getting
out of chairs. Her ankles swelled. Her boobs were huge. Her belly
looked like she'd swallowed a beach ball. And yet, somehow, she was
still the most handsome person I'd ever known.

We took the Lamaze classes together. The breathing exercises. The
birthing position demos. The video that made her swear out loud and
whisper "what the fuck was that" while gripping my thigh.

I rubbed her back. Carried her bag. Took notes. Got really good at
foot rubs. And reminded her, again and again, that she could do this.

---

She'd stopped trying to wear makeup around month seven. Her wardrobe
now consisted of cargo pants, oversized polos, and the occasional
button-up flannel -- anything that helped her feel like herself.

And honestly?

She still looked hot.

Even eight months pregnant, dressed like a butch dad-to-be, she looked
hot.

Just, you know, tired. And constantly trying not to fart in public.

---

Most people didn't question the look. They just assumed she was a no-
nonsense kind of woman doing whatever she needed to stay comfortable
at the end of pregnancy. It helped that her workplace had a gender-
neutral uniform policy. Polo shirt, khaki pants or jeans, steel-toe
boots. Nobody blinked.

But I knew.

I knew that Chris wasn't just leaning into comfort. She was clinging
to her masculinity.

She was desperate to feel like herself, even as her body did something
impossibly feminine -- something she'd never imagined doing, something
that made her feel both powerful and alien.

And I couldn't fix it.

Not with the Chronivac.

Not with anything.

---

The technology that had given her this body -- and the womb that had
taken root inside it -- wasn't about to let us change course this late
in the game. The most the Chronivac could do was tweak things. Some
minor adjustments to chest size or body hair. Maybe give her different
cravings.

But it wasn't about to let me take the pregnancy. Or give her a break.

So I did what I could.

I made the house comfortable. I ran errands. I rubbed her belly, even
when she growled at me for touching it. I kissed her neck when she was
tired and massaged her thighs when they ached.

And when she got horny -- really horny -- I gave her whatever she
needed.

---

Sometimes it was doggy style--Christine on her hands and knees, her
belly heavy and round beneath her, swaying slightly with each slow,
deep thrust. Her back would arch just enough to give me the perfect
angle, and I'd slide into her, inch by inch, until I was buried inside
the woman who had already given me so much. She'd gasp, moan, and
sometimes curse softly into the pillow, her fingers bunching the
sheets as she rocked back against me, desperate for more.

Her hair would fall around her face, her flushed cheeks barely visible
when she glanced over her shoulder with a look that still wrecked
me--lust and love and defiance all at once.

I held her hips in both hands, firm and steady, guiding our rhythm
while murmuring everything I meant but rarely said out loud: You're so
beautiful like this. You're strong. You're everything. You feel so
good. You make me so proud.

Her moans deepened every time I said it, like the words sank into her
skin just as much as my body did.

Other nights, it was quieter, softer. I'd slide down between her
thighs and let my tongue do what my cock sometimes couldn't--not
comfortably, not now, not without making her hips ache. She'd lay back
on pillows, her belly tilted to the side for comfort, thighs parted as
far as she could manage, and I'd kiss her like worship.

Her pussy had grown more sensitive during pregnancy--swollen, flushed,
and slick with the kind of wetness that coated my chin and filled the
room with the scent of her arousal. I'd drag my tongue up her slit,
tease the hood of her clit with slow, deliberate pressure, then suck
gently until her whole body trembled.

She'd cry out, her voice cracking into something raw and helpless, her
fingers tangled in my hair while her belly jumped with every wave of
pleasure. Her orgasm didn't crash over her--it bloomed, opened her up
from the inside, until she was left shaking and tearful in the
aftermath.

Afterwards, she'd collapse into my arms, her breath still uneven, her
face damp with sweat and flushed pink. Her belly, impossibly round and
firm, would press between us like a warm, living reminder of what we
were creating together--of the life we had built, one body at a time.

"Thank you," she whispered once, her voice fragile in the dark. She
kissed my jaw, then tucked her head beneath my chin, curling around me
as best she could.

"For what?" I asked, holding her close, my hands stroking lazy circles
across her spine.

"For helping me remember why I liked this body in the first place."

I didn't know what to say at first. So I kissed her forehead and
whispered, "It's still the body I fell in love with. Maybe even more
now."

---

We hadn't really talked about what came after. Not directly. Not yet.

But I knew.

Chris was going to be a man again. Maybe not right away. Maybe not
with the snap of a finger. But eventually.

And me?

I wasn't going back.

Ashley had always felt like an approximation. A role I was good at
playing. Asher felt real. Like the person I was always meant to be.

So yeah. I was going to be a man with a husband.

A dad with a baby.

And I was good with that.

Hell, I was grateful.

---

Chapter Twenty-Two -- Asher

Christine went into labor almost exactly on her due date.

It started like a whisper -- some cramping, a little leaking -- and
turned into a freight train by midday. We called her OB, tossed the
pre-packed bag into the car, and made the trip to the hospital with a
level of surreal calm I didn't think we were capable of.

Twelve hours.

That's how long it took.

Twelve hours of holding her hand.

Of rubbing her back.

Of coaching her through the contractions before the epidural kicked
in.

I'd never seen someone look so beautiful and so wrecked at the same
time. Her face sweaty, her hair a mess, one hand gripping mine so
tightly I lost feeling in my fingers. Her polo shirt had been replaced
with a hospital gown, and even with all the padding and wires, she
still looked like herself -- like Chris. My Chris. Just in a new moment
of transformation.

And then -- with a few final gritted pushes and a burst of emotion I'll
never forget -- our son was born.

---

We named him Skyler.

We'd gone back and forth on names for weeks.

Something unisex? Something classic? Something weird?

But when he came out and made that first tiny squalling noise,
Christine looked at me, eyes filled with exhausted joy, and whispered,
"Skyler."

And that was that.

He was 7 pounds, 4 ounces. Red-faced, full-lunged, and perfect.

I cut the cord with shaking hands.

And then I cried like an idiot.

---

Mother and baby were just fine.

They placed Skyler on Chris's chest, and he settled there like he
already knew her heartbeat. Her breasts -- full and warm with milk --
cradled him instinctively. She held him, stared at him, whispered
something I couldn't hear.

There was joy. There was relief. There was even laughter.

But then the nurse came to take Skyler for his first weigh-in and heel
prick. Chris watched them wheel him over to the bassinet station.

And that's when she turned to me.

Eyes tired. Voice low. Hands trembling just a little.

"As soon as I'm able to get home... I'm going to make myself a man
again. I can't do this anymore."

I didn't say anything right away.

Just leaned down and kissed her forehead.

"I understand," I said.

"And I love you in whatever form you have."

Because I did.

I always had.

And I always would.

---

Chapter Twenty-Three -- Chris

Let me just say it:

Pregnancy sucked.

People try to romanticize it, and yeah, sure -- okay -- the outcome was
great.

But the process?

Terrible.

Getting that big, that uncomfortable, that slow. Having to shift my
whole body just to stand up. My feet hurt. My back hurt. I couldn't
sleep without peeing every two hours. And my boobs got huge. Not like
the fun kind of huge, either. Not like "oh wow I'm hot now" huge. Just
the heavy, achy, veiny, leaky kind of huge.

I didn't even get to enjoy them. Because they were on my body.

And by that point, I wasn't feeling very sexy -- just kind of like a
balloon with nipples.

---

Asher was amazing, though. I've gotta give him credit. He was always
there.

? Ready with a hug when I needed it.

? Massaging my lower back when it felt like my spine was trying to
escape.

? Offering sex -- real, good, grounding sex -- whenever I wanted it,
without ever pushing.

Sometimes I just needed to get off so I could sleep.

Sometimes I needed to feel like I had a body again, not just a
vessel.

Doggy style. Fingering. Oral.

Asher did whatever I needed.

And he always made me feel loved.

----

Birth was awful.

Even with the epidural.

There's something about being laid out on a table, legs in the air,
pushing with all your might while everyone cheers like it's some kind
of sporting event -- I mean... no. Not for me.

It was traumatic and messy and painful and way too intimate.

Next Mother's Day, I'm doing something really nice for my mom.

She won't know I gave birth -- the Chronivac made sure of that.

But I will know.

And the woman earned a spa day. Minimum.

---

That said?

Meeting Skyler was everything.

It was. It really was.

The moment they handed him to me, and I looked into that scrunched
little face, something lit up inside me like a flare.

Love. Instantly. No hesitation.

He was warm. He was real.

And he was mine. Ours.

So yes -- I'd do it again.

But not in this body.

Because I'm not a woman. I'm not.

I played the part for almost two years, and I made it through.

But it's time.

Time to go back to who I am -- to Chris.

To being a man.

Even if I now happen to be a man who knows exactly what childbirth
feels like.

---

Chapter Twenty-Four -- Chris

Two days later, they let us go.

I packed up my things slowly -- swollen, sore, exhausted -- while Asher
handled the discharge paperwork and got Skyler buckled into his car
seat like the nervous new dad he was. We were quiet on the ride home,
the kind of silence that comes from shared awe and sleep deprivation.
Skyler slept the whole way.

Once we were inside, I collapsed on the couch with a wince and a sigh.

Skyler was still snoozing in the car seat at the edge of the living
room.

"Asher," I said.

He turned from where he was hanging up jackets. "Yeah?"

"I'm gonna use the Chronivac," I said. "I'm going to turn back into
myself."

He stepped closer. "You sure?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I need to be a man again. I had fun with our... what
was it? Almost two-year-long sex game? It was fun. Wild. Beautiful.
But I don't like it anymore. Not after all this. So I'm changing
back."

Asher knelt beside me and wrapped his arms around me in that body --
one last hug with Christine. I buried my face in his shoulder.

"Don't worry," I said softly. "I've seen how happy you are as Asher.
I'm not going to ask you to go back. You're my husband now. I'll be
happy to be your husband too."

He kissed my cheek. "Thank you," he said. "For building our family. I
would love to be your husband. And... thanks for not pushing me to go
back."

---

I went into the bedroom alone and opened the Chronivac.

Skyler's profile popped up first -- a perfect little bundle of newborn
stats and records. I checked, double-checked. I wanted to make sure
that if I went back to being a cis man, Skyler would still exist.

And he would.

Only catch? In that version of reality, Skyler would have been born
via surrogate -- and only one of us could be biologically related to
him. The other would just be "Dad #2." Because if we both have sperm,
and Skyler came from an egg... well, someone else has to provide that
egg.

I stared at the screen.

I couldn't give up being Skyler's mom -- not biologically, not in
memory. I carried him. I felt him move. I gave birth to him.

I couldn't just undo that.

And I wouldn't take away fatherhood from Asher either. He deserved it
just as much as I did.

So I dug deeper. Looked through the Chronivac's alternate templates
and memory routes. And there it was:

A profile setting where I'd be a transgender man who had banked his
eggs years ago, used a surrogate to carry Skyler. There were lots of
genital options, some that looked a lot like my dick had. But I was
only interested in one body type that looked like my original male
body had... but still had a pussy.

The world would believe Skyler was born through IVF and surrogacy.

But Asher and I? We'd remember the truth.

I'd still be Skyler's biological parent. I'd still have my favorite
body part (my pussy), the one that got me in trouble almost two years
ago when it gave me more pleasure than I'd ever felt before.

And my body wouldn't have gone through nine months of trauma. I'd
still remember it, but it wouldn't be written into my body. That was
enough.

---

So I configured the settings carefully. No games this time. No
temporary fun. This was a full rewrite -- body and reality. I checked
and double-checked Skyler's file to be sure he would still exist,
still be ours. I read every fine print clause until I found the one
that made it possible: if I rewrote myself as a transgender man who
had banked his eggs before a radical hysterectomy (uterus, ovaries,
and cervix removed) and used a surrogate, I could stay Skyler's
biological mother. Asher would still be his father. Skyler would still
be our son. Only now, no one would remember that I carried him -- no
one but me. And Asher.

I accepted the terms. I submitted the change.

The shift was immediate.

The swell of breasts I'd been carrying around for almost a year
vanished, as did the loose weight from pregnancy, the softness in my
hips, the ache in my back. My skin tightened, my stance shifted. The
phantom discomfort of being in the wrong body, that had settled in
during the pregnancy, faded into silence. My chest was flat again --
two faint scars tracing beneath the curve of my pecs like pale
parentheses. My clit, thicker now, throbbed slightly under my shorts,
more familiar than ever. I flexed my thighs and stood, already feeling
stronger.

But the biggest change wasn't the skin I was in. It was the story
behind it.

I still looked like me -- still six feet tall, still sharp-jawed and
broad-shouldered, still with those watchful, slightly tired blue eyes.
But my memories had changed. My life had changed.

I remembered being five years old and correcting my kindergarten
teacher when she called me a little girl. I remembered begging to cut
my hair short. I remembered how my mom cried, not out of
disappointment but from relief, when I told her I was a boy. I
remembered my first binder. The day I started testosterone. The burn
in my thighs from those first shots, and the bloom of confidence that
came with the deeper voice, the new strength, the growing hair. I
remembered top surgery at nineteen, waking up in recovery and sobbing
because it finally felt like the mirror might become my friend. And
after lots of encouragement from my parents including an offer to pay
for it, I remembered banking my eggs before having my hysterectomy at
twenty-two, preparing for a future family I couldn't even imagine yet.
It was that action that made Skyler possible now.

I remembered the hard parts too -- being misgendered, being stared at
in locker rooms, walking into doctor's offices with my heart pounding.
But I also remembered the quiet, beautiful parts. The long talks with
my mom before surgery. The first time a stranger called me "sir"
without hesitation. The smell of my first bottle of men's deodorant.
The soft thrum of belonging.

I had lived this life now. This was my truth.

Asher and I had still met the same day, in the same way. But now I had
met him as a trans man with top surgery scars and a few years of
testosterone under my belt. I hadn't had bottom surgery -- I liked my
body the way it was, now that it wasn't burdened with something it had
never needed. I didn't have a uterus. I didn't menstruate. I didn't
ovulate. I didn't produce any hormones naturally. I depended on
testosterone to stay healthy, to stay me. And I would for the rest of
my life.

But I didn't mind. I was grateful for every step that had led here.
Even the ones I hadn't actually lived -- not in the original timeline,
anyway. This life wasn't the one I'd grown up with, but I decided I
would honor it all the same. I would take the memories and the meaning
and live this life as best I could. As this kind of man.

I took a deep breath and removed my shirt.

My fingers grazed the faint ridges of my top surgery scars -- barely
visible after a decade, but still so clearly a part of me. They were
the proof of a path taken. A body reclaimed. The embodiment of a
choice I'd made not just once, but now, again.

And this time, it felt permanent. Right.

I didn't know what came next, but I knew this much: I was Chris again.
Not the Chris I'd been before everything began. But the man I was
always supposed to become.

---

Chapter Twenty-Five -- Asher

Skyler was asleep in his little bassinet, his fists tucked under his
chin like he was already dreaming big. I just stood there and watched
him, one hand on the edge of the crib, the other resting
absentmindedly against my hip. He was so peaceful. So perfect. And,
slowly, so new.

I felt it before I understood it -- the shift. The apartment around me
changed with a gentle, almost imperceptible shiver, like the air
pressure dropping before a storm. The soft glow of the nursery lights
stayed the same, but suddenly the clutter in the living room reflected
a new kind of life. There were baby bottles stacked next to a drying
rack. Formula tubs lined up on a shelf above the sink. A cooler bag
with donated breast milk. Stuff neither of us had ever needed in the
original version of this story. But now?

Now this was the life of two men raising a baby together.

And then the memories hit -- not jarring, not like a crash, but like
slowly sinking into warm water. I remembered this version of Chris.
The trans man version. The man I had met after he was already mostly
settled in himself -- calm, quiet confidence hiding a deep well of
vulnerability. I remembered how he told me, on our third date, that he
was trans. He'd braced for me to flinch. But I didn't. I leaned in and
kissed him and told him thank you for trusting me.

I remembered everything.

The day I found out he'd banked his eggs when he was 22, with his
parents' help -- "just in case." How when things started getting
serious, we'd talked about it like a dream. "Maybe someday, we could
try." And then "someday" turned into months of calls and meetings and
surrogacy paperwork and finally, finally, Skyler. Ours. From his egg
and my sperm. And apparently, in this reality, with a few more embryos
in storage. Just in case Skyler might want a sibling one day.

As I stood there soaking in the rewritten world we now lived in, a
pair of hairy arms slid around my waist from behind -- strong,
familiar, warm. And even before I turned, I knew. The scent. That
quiet, earthy masculine scent I hadn't realized I'd missed until it
came rushing back. It had faded over the course of the pregnancy, lost
under layers of estrogen and the shifts that came with it.

But now?

Now it was back. And so was he.

I turned, and there was Chris.

Not Christine. Not pregnant, uncomfortable, dysphoric Christine. But
Chris. Shirtless, wearing comfy shorts. Smirking. The same six-foot
tower of dry wit and brute patience I'd first fallen for. His
shoulders were broad, his body lean and solid again, dusted with the
light coating of hair Chris had parted with almost a year ago, and
across his chest -- just barely catching the light -- were the faint
lines of top surgery scars. New to us but old in this reality. Time
had softened them. They looked like they belonged.

"What did you do?" I asked.

He smiled, "The only way that I could be a man again and we both could
be related to Skyler was if I became a trans man. If I became cis,
then only one of us could provide the sperm and someone else would
have to provide the egg. I wasn't about to not be related to my own
child and I wasn't gonna do that to you, either." He rubbed his
fingers across his top surgery scars, "So I found a way that would
allow me to be a man but still contribute genetically to our child."

I ran my fingers over his jaw, feeling the masculine stubble there
once again. Then I trailed them down to his chest, over the scars that
told me who he was now -- and who he now had always been.

I looked up at him, searching for permission.

He gave me a subtle nod, smiling.

So I kept going--traced a hand slowly down his chest, across the flat
plane of his stomach enjoying the feeling of his returned happy trail,
then slid it into his pants.

Still soft. Still warm. Still wet. No longer hairless. And now I found
something a little different among the folds I knew Chris loved.

"Still got your favorite body part, huh?" I teased, fingertips
brushing the slick folds.

Chris let out a breathy laugh. "Hell yes. That is an added bonus.
And--" he added with a smirk, "--it's new and improved."

I ran my fingers along the thick, firm length of his clit. It was
bigger than before--more pronounced. Something between a cock and a
clit. Responsive. Proud. A perfect compromise.

"Oh," I murmured, grinning. "This is going to be fun."

Chris leaned in and kissed the corner of my mouth. "It really, really
is."

Just as I started to kiss him properly--our mouths brushing open, my
hand still between his legs--we both froze at the unmistakable sound of
a baby fussing.

Skyler.

We both laughed, forehead to forehead.

Chris sighed. "So much for fun right now."

I pulled him into a quick hug and whispered, "Later."

He kissed my cheek and said, "Count on it."

And with that, we both turned toward the nursery, ready to take on the
next part of the night--as two tired, slightly horny, very in-love
dads.

---

Chapter Twenty-Six -- Christopher

Parenting an infant is brutal. And beautiful.

There are days I swear the clock just skips hours. One second it's
noon, the next it's 3:00 a.m., and I'm still pacing the hallway with a
baby in one arm and a half-drunk cup of coffee in the other. But then
Skyler smiles in his sleep. Or squeaks. Or wraps his entire hand
around one of my fingers and squeezes. And I'd go back to square one
just to feel that again.

Asher and I are a team. We took leave at the same time. We're not
rich, but the money we made through the Chronivac helped buy us this
time -- and we're using all of it. People ask if we're hiring help, and
we just shake our heads. It's not about convenience. It's about being
here. Present. Exhausted. Overflowing with love.

My mom's over a lot. She only works part time now, and she's thrilled
to be a grandma. In this reality, she's always known me as her son. A
trans man. A little tomboy turned confident boy turned settled adult.
She doesn't remember anything else. And honestly? That's kind of a
relief. It means she looks at Skyler and just sees a miracle. No
baggage. Just joy.

Asher and I still find our moments. You have to, or you forget who you
are outside of bottles and burp cloths. Sometimes it's just a shared
look. A kiss while we're swapping baby duty. A hand that lingers a
little too long on the other's hip. And other times, when we're lucky,
it's a locked door and a quiet house.

This body--my body--finally feels right.

I'm a man. No question. Six feet tall. Strong. Hairy in all the places
I want to be. Deep voice. Square jaw. Wide shoulders. I've got top
surgery scars that fade more each year, a chest that looks exactly
like it should, and a pussy I absolutely love. It's plush. Responsive.
My clit is thick enough to suck and stiffen like a cock when I'm
turned on, and Asher knows exactly what to do with it.

I used to have a penis. It was fine. But this? This is me. This is
mine.

?

Tonight, I'm naked on our bed, legs spread, arms behind my head, and
Asher is kneeling between my thighs like a man on a mission.

He takes his time--tongue teasing, lips brushing, breath ghosting warm
and slow. He groans when he licks up my slit and flicks the tip of my
clit with the flat of his tongue. I arch off the bed.

"Fuck," I whisper, "don't stop--don't you dare stop."

He doesn't. His mouth seals around me, and he sucks, pulling my clit
into his mouth like it's a cock he craves. My hands clench the sheets.
My legs tremble. Every nerve is alight. His beard scratches softly
against my inner thighs, grounding me, reminding me exactly who I
belong to.

I come fast and hard, gasping his name, the orgasm ripping through me
like a wave too big to ride.

Before I can even fully settle, I reach for him--pull him up onto the
bed, push him onto his back, and straddle him in one fluid move.

"You ready?" I murmur, already guiding him to my entrance.

"Always," he says, eyes dark with want.

I lower myself slowly, feeling every thick inch stretch me open until
he's fully inside. My pussy clenches around him greedily, and his
breath hitches.

"God, Chris..."

I start to move--rolling my hips, grinding down, watching him watch me.
His hands grip my thighs, then slide up to my waist, then rest
reverently on the curve of my hips. I ride him with slow, deliberate
rhythm--powerful, steady, in control. My clit rubs against his body
with every motion, already sensitive, already building again.

"I love you like this," he whispers, voice ragged.

"I love me like this," I answer, panting now, sweat beading on my
chest. "I love us like this."

He moans as he gets close, and I lean forward, bracing one hand on his
chest, letting the other glide down my own torso. I rub my clit while
I move, chasing that second climax.

We come together--me grinding down hard, him buried deep inside me,
both of us gasping, clinging, trembling.

After, I collapse onto his chest, sticky and flushed and smiling.

This is the life I chose. This is the man I am. And this is the love
we made.

We're raising a baby. We're building a life. We're everything we
wanted to be.

And I wouldn't trade a thing.

---

The end