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Trying something new this time! My first video story! There’s still a lot that needs to be refined, but I hope y’all enjoy!
Timmy sat alone at the back of the empty classroom, legs swinging beneath the too-big desk. The final bell of the day had rung ten minutes ago, but he’d stayed behind to finish doodling in his notebook while the building slowly emptied. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the blinds, striping the scuffed linoleum floor. He was twelve, skinny, short black hair mussed from running his fingers through it all day. White short-sleeve button-down tucked haphazardly into plain black school pants. Just another quiet afternoon.
Then the late bell rang again.
Not the normal chime. This one was deeper, almost liquid, vibrating up through the chair and into his tailbone. Timmy frowned and looked toward the clock. The second hand froze mid-tick.
A strange heat bloomed in the soles of his feet.
He shifted uncomfortably, toes curling inside his sneakers. The heat climbed, slow and deliberate, sinking into his heels, then spreading across the arches. His socks suddenly felt too tight. He kicked one shoe off under the desk; the other followed a second later. When he flexed his feet, the bones cracked audibly, lengthening with wet, grinding pops. His toes stretched longer, the nails rounding and gleaming. The skin on the tops of his feet turned smooth, pale, dusted with the faintest scatter of freckles that hadn’t been there moments ago.
Timmy stared down in horror. “W-what the heck?”
The heat surged higher.
His ankles slimmed and reshaped while his calves thickened with sleek feminine muscle. The growth raced upward in pulsing waves. His knees buckled inward for a heartbeat before the thighs beneath his pants ballooned outward, seams straining, fabric pulling taut across suddenly wide hips. The waist above cinched violently inward as though an invisible corset had yanked tight. Timmy gasped and lurched forward, catching himself on the desk. His black pants split at the outer thighs with sharp ripping sounds; pale freckled skin gleamed through the gaps.
He stumbled out of the chair and staggered toward the front of the room, balance thrown by the alien length of his legs and the dramatic new curve of his pelvis. His hands shot out to brace against the chalkboard. Chalk dust puffed around his palms.
The heat reached his groin.
Timmy whimpered. Something deep inside pulled and twisted. His small balls drew up tight, then began sliding inward with sickening smoothness, vanishing into his body. The flesh behind them softened, parted, reshaped. His penis throbbed once, twice, then shrank rapidly, inverting with a slick, wet sensation that made his knees shake. A new slit formed, aching and empty, already slick with sudden shameful need. Inner walls fluttered, clenching on nothing. A hot gush of arousal trickled down the inside of his newly thickened thighs.
“No… no no no,” he panted, voice cracking higher on the second ‘no.’
The growth continued upward.
His flat chest burned. Skin stretched tight, then swelled outward in slow, heavy pulses. Soft mounds rose beneath the white button-down, pushing buttons into painful strain. One popped free, then another. The shirt tore open down the middle as full, sensitive breasts surged into existence, nipples stiffening against the cool air and sending jolts straight to the dripping slit between his legs. Timmy moaned, long and broken.
“I can’t… I can’t fight it—”
The words tumbled out in a higher register, almost adult, almost feminine. His ribcage expanded to accommodate the new curves while his arms lengthened, slimming at the biceps, wrists delicate. Hands grew elegant, fingers lengthening, nails growing glossy and smooth.
The heat finally reached his neck and face.
His jaw softened, cheekbones rising, lips plumping into a full, inviting shape. Freckles bloomed across the bridge of his nose and cheeks like spilled cinnamon. His short black hair exploded outward in a riot of lengthening strands. The color bled away from the roots, fiery orange racing down every lock until a thick, wild mane of ginger waves cascaded past his shoulders, brushing the small of his back. A pair of slim wire-frame glasses materialized on his nose; he hadn’t worn any before.
The tattered remains of his school uniform shimmered. Black pants fused and shrank upward, darkening further into a tight pencil skirt that hugged wide hips and a plump, heart-shaped ass. Shredded white shirt restitched itself into a fitted emerald-green blouse, buttons fastening themselves over the generous swell of freckled cleavage. The collar opened just enough to show the delicate hollow of her throat.
Timmy—still Timmy, still clinging—dropped to his knees in front of the chalkboard, skirt riding up pale freckled thighs. One hand clutched at the side of his head while the other pressed desperately between his legs, fingers slipping through slick folds. He could feel the new anatomy pulsing under his touch, hungry, betraying him.
The physical change was finished.
Now the mind.
Memories flickered like bad film reels.
Being twelve. Playing tag at recess. Hiding dirty magazines under his mattress. All of it started to feel distant, blurry, childish. In their place came other images: standing at the front of this very classroom, chalk in hand, voice calm and authoritative while rows of students watched. Grading papers late at night. The low appreciative glances from certain fathers at parent-teacher conferences. The secret thrill of bending over a desk to retrieve a fallen pen, knowing eyes lingered on the curve of her ass in the pencil skirt.
“No,” he whispered, voice now fully adult and husky. “I’m Timmy. I’m… I’m not…”
But the name already tasted wrong.
Fingers moved faster between trembling thighs, circling the swollen pearl at the top of her slit. Pleasure spiked so sharply it hurt. Her back arched, breasts straining against green fabric. Another memory slotted into place: the first time she’d let a colleague fuck her over the same desk after hours, skirt hiked to her waist, moaning into her own arm so no one in the hallway would hear.
Timmy’s resistance cracked.
The new memories weren’t overwriting the old ones. They layered on top, richer, heavier, more real. Being a boy felt like a half-remembered dream. Being her—Miss Rowan Callahan—felt like waking up.
One final shudder rolled through her. Green eyes, once brown and frightened, flared wide. The pupils dilated, then settled. The last of Timmy stared out through them in mute horror for three heartbeats.
Then he let go.
Miss Rowan Callahan rose gracefully to her feet, smoothing the pencil skirt over generous hips. Long orange hair shifted like liquid fire across her shoulders. She adjusted her glasses with one manicured finger, lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. Between her thighs the fresh cunt still throbbed with aftershocks, slick and unsatisfied.
She turned toward the empty classroom, hips swaying with practiced seduction. The chalkboard behind her was smudged where she’d braced herself moments ago. She picked up a piece of chalk anyway, wrote her name in smooth looping cursive across the top.
“Class dismissed,” she murmured to the empty room, voice low and amused. “For now.”
Her free hand drifted down, slipped beneath the waistband of the skirt, and cupped the dripping heat between her legs. Two fingers slid inside easily, curling. A soft, throaty moan escaped freckled lips.
There would be no going back.
There would only be more.
