FREE TG STORY: Your Very Own TG Adventure

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Your phone buzzes on the bedside table, the noise faintly echoing around your dark apartment. Propped up on the pillows, you frown to yourself.

Who could that be…?

It’s late. You were about to go to sleep, get some shut eye for that big day at the office tomorrow. For a moment, you think about just ignoring it, waiting till tomorrow…

Maybe it’s Anne.

The thought is enough to both excite and faintly terrify you.

Anne. You haven’t spoken to her in weeks, not since… what? That party at Mick and Sue’s? Boy, that was awkward. Making small talk like that in the kitchen, while the shouts and laughter drifted in from the yard. You shoulda just made your excuses and gone back to join the rest of them.

But she just looked so… lost, didn’t she? All dressed in white, her long, blond hair sort of throwing back the glow of the little candles Sue had stuck up everywhere (something to do with that hygge shit you keep hearing about). Her blue eyes shiny like she’d been crying. Be honest, it made you feel guilty, didn’t it?

After all, you’re kinda the reason she’s been so down lately.

Abruptly, you pick up your phone, derailing your own train of thought.

We don’t need to think about that right now…

You give the phone a little shake, summoning its latest alert onto the screen…

…and feel a faint pang of disappointment.

The little email envelope signal shines back at you, a white dot in the darkness of your room. So, not Anne, then. She would text, or maybe hit you up with WhatsApp. Nobody emails these days.

Probably work. You think. I’ll check it tomorrow.

But something, a strange, alien little urge, makes you open the email. You scan the byline:

ON THE BLOG: A BREATHTAKING NEW TG TALE!

Hey, sissies! The message reads.

Just a little message to let you know I’ve got a brand new free TG short story up on my blog! This one’s called Your Very Own TG Adventure, and I think you’ll agree it’s one of my most powerful stories 😉 

So that’s it. It’s just an automated email from that blog you follow. The one by that TG writer you secretly like. You get her books from Amazon sometimes. She’s OK.

You read the rest of the message with a feeling of detachment. You’re surprised at how disappointed you feel. How much you wanted the email to be from Anne. Just like in the old days, when she’d message you late at night, asking if you were still up. The old days, when you’d message each other back and forth till 5 in the morning.

The old days, when she’d sometimes send you special pictures of herself. Pictures you were meant to show to no-one else…

You click the link to the blog and start reading.

Maybe it’ll take my mind off things…

You’re about to settle in for a short little tale when you let out a groan of disappointment.

Shit.

It’s all in the second person. Just by glancing at the first paragraph, you can see the word You littered about it like weeds choking up a beloved little garden. You, You, You, over and over and over.

You nearly give up. Nearly stop reading. Stories in the second person are so annoying. You fucking hate this shit. It’s just something writers do to feel clever. You’ve got half a mind to just switch your phone off and forget all about that author’s email…

And then you notice it. Really notice it. The opening paragraph.

And your blood run colds.

“Your phone buzzes on the bedside table, the noise faintly echoing around your dark apartment,” it reads. “Propped up on the pillows, you frown to yourself…”

You blink at the words, glowing on your screen. They seem to swim before you, like they’re about to drift away into the vast white ocean surrounding them.

What the…?

Uneasily, you look around. You’re not sure what you’re expecting to see. One of your colleagues from work, half-hidden behind the drapes, laughing at you, maybe. But there’s nothing. Just the faint, dark shapes of your bedroom.

It’s just a coincidence, you think, little pinpricks of worry trickling over your skin, you’re just jumpy from thinking about Anne…

You force up a little chuckle. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. Nerves. If the guys at work knew you’d freaked out like this over some dumb internet story…

You turn back to your phone with a rueful smile. Keep reading.

And feel your eyes go wide in horror.

No! This-this is impossible…!

It’s all there. In the text of this random writer’s story. Your entire evening so far, etched onto the screen in soft, gray letters.

“…It’s late. You were about to go to sleep, get some shut eye for that big day at the office tomorrow. For a moment, you think about just ignoring it, waiting till tomorrow…

Maybe it’s Anne…

 

… You give the phone a little shake, summoning its latest alert onto the screen…

…and feel a faint pang of disappointment…

 

…You click the link to the blog and start reading.

Maybe it’ll take my mind off things…”

Your eyes frantically flick over the page, unable to believe what you’re reading. It’s all there. All of it. Every action you’ve taken in the last few minutes. Every thought you’ve had. Every memory.

It’s all there.

Your heart is hammering away in your chest now. You try to calm yourself down, but you have nothing to be calm about.

Everything. My every thought… what the fuck is happening?!

You can tell by the tiny scroll bar that the page goes on for ages. You frantically scroll down and feel your mouth drop open at the words now glowing on your screen.

“Your heart is hammering away in your chest now. You try to calm yourself down, but you have nothing to be calm about.

Everything. My every thought… what the fuck is happening?!”

And still the words continue, marching on down the page to some secret oblivion. You realize with a start this is even worse than you thought.

My future… oh fuck. It’s not just my past written here…

With a feeling like a man going mad, you desperately begin to scroll down, no longer reading now, just trying to overtake the story, to find out where the hell it is going.

To find out what the hell is going to happen to you.

You scroll past a long, slightly boring section about you scrolling through the text, your eyes flicking back and forth, looking for a sign, a way to end this madness.

You scroll past more quotes from earlier in the story, showing how the past is catching up with the present.

Then, finally, you see it.

Underneath the words ‘Then, finally, you see it’ is a sentence that makes you want to scream.

“What could be doing this? You frantically think. Who could be doing…?

Then a lightbulb goes on in your brain. Who have you hurt recently? Whose life have you made a misery? Whose nudie photos have you shared around the internet without asking her permission?”

“Anne…” You whisper as you read, suddenly feeling terrified.

“Anne…” You whisper as you read,” the story continues, “suddenly feeling terrified.

Then, suddenly, it all starts to come rushing back. Those times the two of you lay awake till dawn together, idly chatting about your families. The time Anne told you she was descended from the Salem witches, and you tried to tease her and she got all angry about it.

The way she told you she knew some curses. Curses that were perfect for revenge. Curses that could change a man into anything she wanted him to.

And all she had to do was write them down, and make sure that man read them.

You try to stop reading now. You remember that night all right. You thought she was just being dumb, you played along because she was hot and you wanted to screw her. You never thought it would turn out to be real.

You desperately want to stop reading now. But you can’t. It’s like the curse has locked you in, forced you to read on. You’ve already read the part where you try to stop reading, but can’t. Yet still you try, gamely trying to avert your eyes. To close them, even for a second.

But it’s hopeless. With a low moan, you find yourself forced to keep reading.”

You try to stop reading now. You remember that night all right. You thought she was just being dumb, you played along because she was hot and you wanted to screw her. You never thought it would turn out to be real.

You desperately want to stop reading now. But you can’t. It’s like the curse has locked you in, forced you to read on. You’ve already read the part where you try to stop reading, but can’t. Yet still you try, gamely trying to avert your eyes. To close them, even for a second.

But it’s hopeless. With a low moan, you find yourself forced to keep reading.

“The story continues,” the story continues, “and you reel in horror as the tone starts to shift, as it starts to explain what is about to happen to you. About the horrible fate that awaits you as you read this tale. About the horrible fate you deserve.

First, you read the part where Anne explains in one long sentence how she’d found this blog on your bookmarks one afternoon, and been shocked to discover you enjoyed TG fiction; about how after she found out about you sending those photos, she remembered this blog and it gave her an idea; about how she’d written to the blog’s author under the guise of fan mail, and used her powers to curse her to write and post this story; the one that would curse you.

Then you read the shorter bit where she gloats at you. The bit where she writes about how you always hated women. Hated women but loved the thought of being turned into one. Pretty sick, right?

And, finally, you read the bit where she spells out your fate. About how she cursed this story to turn you into the thing you hate the most. To make you suffer what she suffered.

To make the plot of all those dirty little TG tales you love so much come true.

At this point, you realize where the story is going. You give a little scream, but it’s too late. As your eyes frantically scan the page, reading in horror about your body magically changing, you begin to feel your skin twitch and warp in time with it.

In mute terror, you feel your shoulders narrow down, your hips push out and your waist tighten as you simultaneously read about it happening.

You feel your arms shed muscle, becoming thin and willowy; your wrists narrow down, and your hands become two dainty little things with slender fingers and long nails; all happening in time with the story’s description.

You panic as your legs shed hair and muscle, becoming long and slender and smooth. You panic as your jawline softens, your nose becomes a cute little button, and your eyelashes grow. You panic as long blond hair erupts from your head, falling in little ringlets past your newly-narrow shoulders.

And the whole time, you’re helpless to do anything but read about these very same changes happening.

The story picks up speed. Your changes pick up speed with it.

In a flash, all your wiry male body hair has vanished, leaving your skin as smooth and soft as the day you were born.

Another flash and your lips plump up, your cheekbones grow sharper, your eyes get wider and suddenly you’re stuck with a girl’s cute little face.

Another flash and your dick shoots back up between your legs, dragging your balls with it. You wail helplessly and then there’s a sound like Velcro ripping and you’re suddenly the proud owner of a plump little pussy.

Finally, you read about a pressure building in your chest. A pressure all the worse because you know what it means.

There is a pause, then suddenly two big, beautiful breasts come bursting out, growing bigger and bigger, filling up the bottom of your vision. You squeal in your new, high-pitched girly voice and try to wrestle them back in, but they keep filling out, becoming a ripe, firm, pert pair of Double-Gs.

And then it’s over. The story stops describing your changes. It says there is one last flash of light, and suddenly you’re dressed only in a tiny pink thong that barely hides your brand new pussy from prying eyes. The moment you finish reading about it, it happens.

You feel like screaming. You desperately want to see what has happened, to see what Anne has done to you. Usually in a TG story, this is the part where the author would write about you grabbing a mirror. But this is no ordinary story. Instead, Anne’s words describe the girl you have become, as though you were seeing her reflection, and a perfect image of her forms magically in your mind.

The girl is shockingly young, maybe 18 at most, with wide blue eyes, long, fluttering eyelashes, slightly-chubby cheeks and a soft little baby face.

She has plump, pink lips and fair hair that tumbles past her bare shoulders, dangling against her large breasts. Her nipples are long and pink and pointed, the cold of your bedroom making them all hard and tender.

She has a tight little waist. Curvy hips. Long, heavenly legs, and a pert, peach-like ass that is a little too big, but still to die for. Her skin is soft, supple. Her pussy hidden inside a tiny pair of lacy panties.

She looks like the girl in some porno. A dumb, beautiful young bimbo who doesn’t know how to do anything but use her lithe body to pleasure men. She’s the teenage hottie out of a million men’s fantasies.

And she’s you.

She’s you alright,” the story goes on, jerking you back to reality with its sudden change of tone. “She’s the perfect form for you to be trapped in, after you shared those private pictures of me.

You try to scream, try to beg, but it’s hopeless. All you can do is sit there obediently in your beautiful new bimbo body, your large breasts dangling, the cool air caressing your naked skin, and read on until Anne decides to tell you what your fate is.

And it’s even worse than you thought.

With a feeling of utter misery, you read about how Anne has magicked away your old identity. Magicked away your job, your money, everything. How she’s made your friends and family forget you.

If you want to go on living now, the story tells you, you’ll have to do to yourself what you did to Anne.

You read about how you’re now a cam-girl. A busty supermodel who makes her money by taking her clothes off for random men online. By flashing her big, stupid titties all over the internet for a few measly dollars.

About how you’ll now have to spend 12 hours a day sat in your room, exposing yourself for men to jerk off over, a big smile plastered to your pretty face as you beg these rich studs to give you money.

About how, if you so much as think about getting another job, or going a single day without exposing yourself, the magic will kick back in and turn you into a pig. Forever.

Tears running down your soft new cheeks, you try to beg, try to plead for mercy, but Anne’s already anticipated that. The story skips over your pleas in two little sentences.

What’s the matter? It says instead. You humiliated me, didn’t you? And you’ve always loved your weird-ass TG fiction.

So. Now you really have been turned into a girl. Enjoy yourself.

After all, you need to make money now, don’t you? And right now at night is when everyone is online, looking for a pretty little thing like you to jack off over.

Better get to work, honey. And remember, you deserve this.

The End.”

*

The story stops. There is nothing more left to read. Just a big, empty white space at the bottom of the page.

Gently, your mind numb with shock, you lower your phone. Look down at your strange new body, with all its curves and soft bits and large, ripe breasts.

This can’t be happening… You think, weakly. It’s impossible…

But there’s no denying it. Reading Anne’s magic story turned you into a girl. A cam-girl.

And it’s time for this little whore to make some money.

Feeling like crying, you pick your phone back up again, flick over to Skype. 20 callers are waiting impatiently, waiting for you to show them your slutty little body in exchange for a few dollars.

And you have no choice but to do it.

Blinking back tears, you answer the first call. Smile unhappily at the strange, hunky man staring out at you.

“Hey there,” you whimper in your soft new voice, desperately trying to sound sexy, “I’m… I’m Anne.”

You lower your voice down to a throaty whisper.

“What would you like me to do for you, master?”

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Like what you’ve read? Check out my collection of kinky TG short stories Swapped Into a Girl, or get eight of my HOTTEST novels for less than a dollar each: Her Magic Swapped His Gender.

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Featured image, not sure about this one… by Kayla Kandzorra reproduced freely from Flickr with modifications (without endorsement) under a Creative Commons 2.0 license.

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