Inspired by a Rere comic.
Nicholas Ickermann is the "Ick" of Blackwood University. A failing student living in a decaying trailer, physically repulsed by the world and hidden in the shadows of the campus dumpsters. His obsession centers on Ashley Miller, a girl of celestial beauty and effortless privilege who treats him with clinical disgust.
After a mysterious encounter in an industrial wasteland, Nicholas awakens with a "voice" in his head and a reality-warping ability. With a single, whispered question, he executes an impossible trait swap that none, besides him, is aware.
The alarm didn't just wake Nicholas Ickermann. It rattled the thin aluminum walls of the trailer until the windows groaned in their frames. He rolled over, his weight causing the entire structure to tilt slightly on its cinder-block foundation. The air inside was a stagnant soup of his father’s stale beer breath and the metallic tang of the rusted pipes. His bedroom was little more than a closet, the walls stained with water marks that looked like Rorschach tests of his own failure. A pile of damp, sour-smelling laundry served as his only rug.
Nicholas was a short, fleshy disaster. His skin was the color of unbaked dough, interrupted by the angry red patches of a persistent rash on his neck. His hair was a matted, oily thicket that no amount of cheap shampoo could tame, and his breath carried the permanent scent of decay. He pulled on a pair of khakis that were tight in the wrong places and a hoodie with a faded logo, a garment that did more to highlight his soft midsection than hide it.
In the narrow kitchen, his father sat slumped at the small laminate table, a cigarette burning down to the filter in an ash-strewn tray. His mother was already gone, likely already hosed down in grease at the diner. Nicholas grabbed a generic brand granola bar, stepped over a pile of empty cans, and headed out into the morning fog of Blackwood University.
Blackwood was a prestigious campus that made Nicholas feel like an invasive species, like an annoying bug. He spent his mornings navigating the surroundings like a prey animal, sticking to the shadows of the gothic architecture. He wasn't even a nerd, because nerds had potential. Nicholas was just a bad student with failing grades and a smell that made people physically recoil.
*
The morning was a gauntlet of quiet humiliations. Nicholas navigated the crowded hallways of the Humanities building, keeping his chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie to hide the weeping rash on his neck. Every time he passed a group of students, the air seemed to shift; he saw the subtle, practiced flinch of girls pulling their designer handbags closer, and the way athletes would instinctively hold their breath until he had shuffled past.
He was the "Ick." He could see it in the way the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall were let go just a second too early, forcing him to catch them with a clumsy, sweaty hand. He could hear it in the stifled snickers that followed him like a tail of exhaust.
In his first-period European History class, Nicholas sat in the very last row, the seat next to him remaining empty like a vacant lot in a slum. He tried to focus on the slides, but his mind was a dull, thumping ache. He had forgotten his notebook again, and even if he hadn’t, his hands were trembling too much to write. He caught the eye of a girl three rows down who looked back at him for a split second before her face twisted into a mask of pure, clinical distaste. She leaned over to her friend and mouthed the word: "Icky."
The friend didn't even look back; she just giggled, a sharp, metallic sound that felt like a needle under Nicholas's fingernails.
By the time his second-period Sociology lecture rolled around, Nicholas was sweating through his hoodie despite the morning chill. The professor, a woman who spoke about social hierarchies with a detached, academic coldness, spent the hour discussing "the invisible members of society." Nicholas felt like the living exhibit for her lecture. He stayed slumped in his chair, a doughy lump of failure, watching the clock tick toward the hour he dreaded most.
He didn't belong in the light of the quad. He didn't belong in the bright, airy spaces of the student union. He was a creature of the margins, a mistake in the prestigious tapestry of Blackwood University, just waiting for the bells to ring so he could crawl back into the shadows.
*
And then came the lunch hour, the cruelest part of the day. Nicholas retreated to his sanctuary, tucked behind the cafeteria, right up against the industrial dumpsters, a cracked concrete slab waited for him. The air here was a thick, gagging soup of rotting vegetable trimmings, sour milk, and the metallic tang of sun-baked trash. It was a smell that would make a normal person heave, but to Nicholas, it was the scent of safety. No one ever came here. He sat on the rough ground, picking at a lukewarm burger, the flies circling his matted hair like a buzzing, filthy crown.
From this low, hidden vantage point, he had a perfect, unobstructed view through the cafeteria’s floor-to-ceiling windows. He could see the center table, the throne of Blackwood University, and as the double doors swung open, his heart hit a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The world didn't just change; it stalled. Everything around him fell into a heavy, visceral slow-motion.
Ashley Miller walked in, and the sun seemed to follow her command.
She was a masterpiece of biological architecture, a walking defiance of the drab, everyday reality of Blackwood. Her strawberry blonde hair was a cascading river of gold and copper that caught every stray beam of light, framing a face so symmetrical it felt engineered by a jeweler. Her unblemished skin possessed the luminous quality of fine porcelain, devoid of the pores and imperfections that plagued everyone else on campus.
Her physical presence was staggering. Ashley was relatively tall, a stature that allowed her to look down on most of the student body with a casual, unintentional regalness. She possessed an exaggerated, hyper-feminine silhouette: her waist was impossibly thin, cinched by the black leather skirt, acting as a narrow bridge between the huge, heavy swell of her breasts and the dramatic, wide flare of her hips.
In the stretched-out seconds of Nicholas’s perception, he saw every detail through the cafeteria glass. He saw her blue-gray eyes, a cold and piercing shade like the North Sea, sweeping across the room with effortless indifference. Every movement she made—the way she tucked a stray lock of hair, the way her weight shifted from one toned leg to the other—carried a slow, hypnotic grace. She wasn't just pretty; she was a genetic anomaly, a type of beauty that appeared only once or twice in a generation, making everyone around her look like a blurry, unfinished sketch.
Nicholas watched, transfixed, as she tossed her head back. She was playing life on easy mode, navigating a reality where consequences were merely suggestions and doors seemed to unlatch before her hand even reached the handle. She wasn't an athlete, and her grades were a punchline to a joke everyone was in on; yet, professors—men and women alike—always seemed to find an "extra credit" loophole or a clerical error that kept her from ever seeing a failing mark.
The world was served to her on a silver platter, not because of effort or merit, but simply because of the way the light hit her skin and the way her presence filled a room. To Nicholas, huddled in the gagging rot of the dumpsters, she didn't look like a student or even a fellow human being. She looked like a celestial traveler who had accidentally wandered into a mortal realm, found it charmingly beneath her, and decided to let it worship her. She was a goddess of the everyday, and the very air she breathed felt like a luxury Nicholas wasn't even allowed to imagine.
He watched her friends lean in, hanging on a word she hadn't even spoken yet, and the familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut. She was perfection incarned, and he was the creature in the trash. The contrast was so sharp it felt like a serrated blade twisting in his chest. He was a ghost staring at a goddess, realizing that the only thing between her world and his was a gap of beauty he could never bridge.
*
On his way back to the afternoon lab, carrying a chocolate milkshake he’d splurged on, he saw them. Brad, a mountain of muscle and entitlement, stood blocked in the narrow hallway with Ashley and their circle. Nicholas tried to flatten himself against the lockers, but Brad’s eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.
"Whoa, watch out! The Icky-man is leaking," Brad shouted. He didn't just trip Nicholas; he shoved him. The plastic cup exploded against Nicholas’s chest. Cold, brown liquid soaked through his hoodie, dripping down his khakis and into his shoes.
The laughter was deafening. Ashley didn't join in the loud hooting but she just watched him struggle to get up, her eyes filled with a cold, clinical revulsion that was far worse than Brad's mockery.
Nicholas didn't go to the lab. He couldn't. He turned around and walked out of the building, the wet fabric clinging to his skin like a second, more shameful identity. He didn't take the main road home. He couldn't bear the thought of one more person seeing him like this.
Instead, he took the long way. A three-mile trek through the crumbling industrial district. It was a wasteland of hollowed-out factories, a place where no one went because there was nothing left to steal. He walked through the silence of the dead buildings, tears of hot, stinging frustration carving tracks through the grime on his face.
The last thing he remembered was the shadow of something in his peripheral vision.
Then suddenly, he heard the alarm blaring off. Nicholas’s hand shot out, fumbling blindly until it slammed onto the snooze button with a desperate, familiar violence. He lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His head felt hollow, a cavernous space where the end of yesterday should have been. The last thing he could pull from the fog was the shadow and a sudden, sharp chill. Everything after that was a black hole.
He sat up, and the trailer tilted. The same metallic groan of the floorboards, the same stagnant air heavy with his father’s morning cigarette and the rot of the pipes. Nothing had changed. He was still trapped in the same fleshy, sweating prison. He looked down at his stubby, pale, and trembling hands.
He had to move. He was late, and if he missed another Sociology lecture, he’d be finished. He dragged himself into the bathroom, staring at the red rash on his neck and the oily mess of his hair. He felt sick, he felt heavy, and the missing hours in his memory gnawed at him like a physical itch.
The walk to Blackwood University was a grueling repetition of the day before. As was for the last three years. The morning fog was just as thick, and the people on the sidewalk were just as repelled. He watched a woman pull her toddler closer as he shuffled past, her eyes darting away as if his misery were contagious. He was still the pothole in their path.
But as he navigated the gothic shadows of the campus, something started to itch at the back of his brain. It wasn't a memory, not exactly. It was a whisper, cold and precise.
It doesn’t have to be like this.
Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He reached the heavy doors of the lecture hall, his chest tight with the usual dread.
You’re tired of the easy mode being for everyone else but you, aren't you? the voice suggested.
It sounded like his own thoughts, but with a sharpened edge he didn’t recognize.
The world is just a set of locks, Nicholas. And you finally have a key.
He slunk into the back row, his eyes immediately darting to the front. There she was. Ashley Miller. She was a streak of gold and emerald against the drab grey of the hall. It was not the price of her clothes that drew the eye but the way her body seemed to lend the fabric its own importance. She was wearing a simple, deep emerald ribbed sweater. It was the kind of garment any girl could find at a mall, but on Ashley, the material was pushed to its absolute limit. The knit stretched thin and tight across the heavy, breathtaking swell of her breasts while the hem tucked neatly into a pair of high-waisted black denim jeans. The denim hugged the dramatic, wide curve of her hips and the taper of her slender waist so perfectly they looked like they had been painted onto her skin.
To Nicholas, she looked like a different species. She was something made of light and silk while he was made of mud and shame. Even in such common attire, she looked untouchable. She leaned back, laughing silently at something a girl next to her whispered. The movement caused her strawberry blonde hair to shimmer like a copper flame against the emerald fabric. She did not need designer labels to broadcast her status because her genetics were her couture. Every time she shifted in her seat, the entire lecture hall seemed to tilt on its axis, drawn by the gravity of her effortless, generation-defining beauty.
It is a trade, the whisper returned in Nicholas’s mind.
It was more insistent now as he watched her flip her hair over her shoulder.
A simple transaction. All you have to do is ask.
And you have the right to ask now!
He didn't understand what the voice meant, but as he stared at the back of her perfect head, the fear in his gut began to settle into a hard, frozen lump. He didn't feel powerful; he still felt like a "greasy mistake." But for the first time, he felt like a mistake that was tired of being erased.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the whispers had coalesced into a single, rhythmic pulse in his temples.
Just ask. She won't even mind. To her, it will be nothing.
Then, he stepped into the cafeteria.
The day had been a blurred montage of grey hallways and muffled voices, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the "fast-forward" snapped. It wasn't the room that did it. It was her.
As his eyes found Ashley Miller, the world suffered a violent, rhythmic deceleration. The frantic roar of the crowd, the clatter of trays, the smell of grease, the shrill cross-talk, was suddenly stretched thin, turning into a low, distorted hum. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, each thud a heavy, isolated event that seemed to dictate the tempo of reality. Everything became a crawl, a visceral, agonizing slow-motion that centered entirely on the girl at the window.
She was the anchor of this new physics. Nicholas watched, paralyzed, as she leaned back; the movement was fluid and impossibly long, like ink spreading through water. The light caught the gold in her ponytail, shimmering in frame-by-frame clarity. He saw her lips begin to part, the muscles of her face shifting into a smile seconds before the sound of her laugh. A bright, carrying peal finally reached him, echoing as if through a deep canyon.
In the molasses of that moment, the contrast was a physical weight. She was effortless grace while he was a collection of jagged nerves and unwashed laundry, anchored to the floor by his own inadequacy. But even as his chest tightened with the familiar sting of being nothing, that dark, forgotten "option" pulsed in his mind. He was still the wreckage at the periphery, but as he watched her move through a world that had slowed down just for him to witness her, he realized the power wasn't just a feeling. It was a choice.
Nicholas found his usual spot, or tried to. The cracked concrete slab near the dumpsters was his designated island of exile, where the stench of rotting vegetable trimmings and sun-baked trash usually kept the world at bay. Today, however, he couldn't stay hidden. The air back there was thick and gagging, a reminder of the trash he was supposed to be, but his gaze was magnetically, helplessly drawn back through the glass toward the center table.
She was a sun around which the solar system of Blackwood University revolved. Seated there by the windows, light catching the gold in her artfully messy ponytail, she held court. A half-eaten salad was pushed aside as she animatedly described something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations. She was perfection, and her every gesture broadcast a casual, effortless ownership of the space she occupied. To Nicholas, every frame of her existence was amplified. He watched her animatedly describe something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations.
He stood there, clutching his generic granola bar with trembling fingers. His body still ached from the previous night's mysterious trek he couldn’t remember, and his skin felt too tight, but as he watched her, the forgotten power stirred again. It was a cold, quiet hum beneath the surface of his insecurity. He looked at her and, for the first time, the gap between them didn't just feel like a tragedy. It felt like a target.
What would it be like? To have everyone’s eyes light up when you walked in? To be… wanted?
He watched her throw her head back, laughing at a joke from the linebacker next to her. A familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut, mingling with the low-grade ache of his own body. It wasn't just desire; it was a yearning for the very oxygen she breathed. His staring went from distant worship to an obvious, clumsy fixation. And then her gaze, sweeping the room in a lazy arc, snagged on him.
It was like being spotted by a searchlight. Her brilliant smile solidified into a wall of ice. In the slowed-down reality, her rejection lasted an eternity. She flicked her eyes over his thrift-store hoodie and slumped posture, and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over her features. A slight wrinkling of her nose, as if she’d caught a whiff of the dumpsters clinging to him. It wasn't a physical flame, but a cold, sharp realization. He felt broken, he felt like a "bug," but for the first time, he felt like a bug that could bite.
As Chloe, Ashley’s BFF, glanced over and smirked, sharing their quiet, cruel laugh, Nicholas didn't look down immediately. His heart hammered, and the world stayed slow, heavy, and ripe with a power he still didn't understand, but was beginning to crave. But another voice, small and newly fierce, whispered beneath the shame. It wasn’t a voice of memory, but of certainty.
You don’t have to be this. You can be the sun. You just have to take it.
The disgust on her face was the catalyst. It burned away the last of his hesitation, leaving a hard, cold resolution in its place. The power, that strange, formless weight, hummed in his veins like a live wire. He didn’t understand the "how," but he believed in the "now." The alternative was to remain the thing she wrinkled her nose at until he withered away.
The rest of the lunch period passed in a blur of pounding heartbeats. He didn't eat; he just watched. When Ashley finally stood, gathering her things to head toward the courtyard with her entourage, Nicholas followed. He caught up to them just as they reached the heavy double doors. The "fast-forward" of the crowd was still jarring, but as he closed the distance, the world began to warp back into that agonizing, focused slow-motion.
"Ashley," he called out. His voice was sandpaper, but it was loud enough to stop the group in their tracks.
She turned, flanked by Chloe and a couple of guys from the team. Her expression shifted from bored to sharp irritation as she realized it was the "creeper" from the cafeteria. Her perfect eyebrows arched.
"Yeah?" she said, her voice dripping with artificial confusion. "Do I know you?"
Nicholas felt the heat rising, his tongue suddenly feeling three sizes too large for his mouth. "I... I'm Nicholas. We have…"
"Ah," she interrupted, a cruel smirk playing on her lips as she looked at her friends. "I remember now. You’re that weirdo from the back of the lecture hall. Icky Nicky, isn’t it?"
Chloe giggled, and the guys exchanged amused glances. Nicholas felt the familiar sting of their judgment, but the resolution in his gut felt heavier now, anchoring him to the floor. He took a breath, forcing his eyes to stay on hers.
"Can I... can I speak with you? Alone?"
The silence that followed lasted only a second before the group exploded.
"Oh man, is this happening?" one of the guys barked, slapping his friend's shoulder. "He’s actually doing it! He’s gonna confess to the Queen."
"Is it a poem, Nicky?" Chloe sneered, leaning in. "Did you write her a little song?"
Nicholas ignored them, his gaze locked onto Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. He saw the calculation in them. She saw an opportunity, a chance to perform one last, exquisite act of cruelty for her audience. She raised a hand, silencing her friends with a regal flick of her wrist.
"Okay," she said, her voice smooth and dangerous. "Make it worth my time."
She gestured toward a quiet alcove near the red brick wall of the arts wing, away from the flow of students. The group stayed behind, whispering and pointing, their laughter muffled by the distance.
As they stepped into the shadow of the building, the vanilla scent of her perfume reached him. A scent he had only ever associated with exclusion. They were alone. The world was still, the sunlight hitting the bricks in sharp, slow-motion angles.
Ashley crossed her arms, leaning back with a look of bored expectation. "Well? Go ahead, Nicky. Impress me."
His mouth was desert-dry. The words, the impossible request, were a boulder in his throat. The power within him didn’t feel like strength; it felt like a last, desperate gamble, a frantic vibration beneath his skin that needed an outlet. He focused everything, every ounce of his yearning, every memory of her scorn, every crazy, waking-dream certainty, into the question. He leaned in slightly, his voice a shaky, conspiratorial whisper only she could hear.
“Wanna switch bodies with me?”
For a fleeting second, the spell flickered. Ashley’s eyebrows twitched, her mind racing to process the absurdity. “Is that it?” she thought, with a wave of irritation washing over her. “He’s not confessing? He’s just… insane?”. She felt a pang of genuine disappointment. She had been ready to crush his heart in front of everyone, to deliver a line so cutting it would be legendary by second period. Instead, he was just babbling nonsense. “I wasted my time. I can’t even humiliate him for this. People will just think he’s had a mental breakdown. What a bore.”
But as the thought formed, Nicholas' power surged to meet it. It didn't fight her disdain, it fed on it. It took her desire to dismiss him and turned it into an absolute, mindless compliance. The "option" slid into the fertile soil of a mind used to getting what it wanted and whispered that this, too, was a triviality, like a small, boring favor to grant just so she could be done with him.
Her eyes glazed over for a heartbeat, the sharpness in them turning into a gentle, placid blankness. A faint, agreeable smile touched her lips. “Yeah, no worries,” she said, her voice casual and airy, as if he’d asked for a sip of water or the time of day. “Such a small thing.”
The world didn’t spin. It reoriented.
One moment, I was Nicholas, all tight khakis and damp hoodie, my heart a frantic bird against my ribs. Next, I was lighter. Taller. The rough brick of the wall against my back was replaced by the soft clothes of Ashley’s against my shoulders. A cascade of strawberry golden hair fell into my field of vision. The scent of vanilla was no longer something external to crave. It was coming from me, rising from my own skin.
And the sensation. Oh, the sensations. They crashed over me in a warm, shocking wave. My center of gravity was different, higher. There was a weight on my chest, a gentle, insistent pull. I looked down.
Ashley’s breasts, my breasts, swelled against the soft sweater. My breath hitched. Slowly, almost reverently, I brought a hand up. A hand with slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails, and cupped my left boob. The feeling was electric, alien, and profoundly intimate. Through the fine fabric, I felt the soft, full weight, the yielding firmness. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure, sharp and sweet, shot through me, centering low in a body that was now wired entirely differently. I squeezed, just a little more, and a soft, involuntary gasp escaped my new lips.
I looked up, my vision clear and sharp through Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. Across from me, standing where I had just been, was Nicholas Ickermann. She, now He, was staring at me, his face—my old face—a mask of dawning, incomprehensible horror. His shoulders were hunched in that familiar defensive curl, but there was a new tension there, a rigidity. And then I saw it. A tell-tale tightness in the front of those awful khakis. A bulge. His new male body was just responding on a purely animal level to the sight of a beautiful girl groping herself in front of him. Shame and biology, wrapped in one pathetic package.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat, light and melodic. “Like what you see, Ashley?” I purred, letting my hand linger on my breasts for a heartbeat longer before dropping it.
He tried to speak. His mouth, my old mouth, worked soundlessly for a moment before a strangled mutter emerged. “What… what did you want with me?” The voice was my old, grating tenor, but thin with panic.
The question was so perfectly, tragically Nicholas. He had no memory of the swap. In his mind, he was just a socially doomed guy who’d been cornered by the school’s goddess for reasons unknown, and now that goddess was touching herself and smirking at him. The confusion was almost artistic.
I leaned in, giving him a perfect, blinding Ashley Miller smile, all white teeth and cold promise. “It’s nothing anymore,” I said, my voice a sweet dismissal. “Bye!”
I turned, the motion effortless in this agile, graceful body. The swing of my hips in the denim jeans felt natural, powerful. I walked away from the alcove, back toward the sunlight of the courtyard where Chloe and the others were waiting, snickering.
But they weren’t waiting for me.
As I approached, Chloe’s smirk faded into a look of vague distaste. She glanced from me, Ashley’s stunning face and body, over to the alcove, where the shambling, clearly-disturbed figure of Ashley was still standing, frozen.
“Ugh, Nicky, what was that about?” Chloe asked, but her eyes were on the pathetic boy by the wall. “What did you do with him? He looks like he’s having a seizure.”
I opened my mouth to answer, to slip into my new role, but Brad cut in, as he passed by with his crew. “Forget it, Chloe. Don’t encourage the Icky-woman.” he said, but he was talking to them, to the group. He didn’t even look at me, Nicholas-in-Ashley’s-skin. To them, I was just the beautiful backdrop to their drama with the weirdo.
And just like that, they moved. As a unit, they turned and began walking toward the main quad, leaving me standing there. Chloe linked her arm with the linebacker, laughing at something he said. They didn’t look back. Ashley Miller’s social credit was immense, but it was attached to her identity, her history, her performance. They had no reason to be friends with a stunning blonde who, for all they knew, had just been harassing a loser. I was a beautiful stranger.
I was left alone in the courtyard, the sun warming Ashley’s perfect skin. I was Nicholas Ickermann, still living in a trailer with a deadbeat dad. I had no idea what Ashley’s home life was like, her curfew, her parents’ expectations. And I didn’t need to. The swap was only skin-deep. I had her beauty, her body, the sheer physical capital of her form.
I brought my hand up again, tracing the line of my new jaw, feeling the smooth skin. The pleasure of the new sensations was still there, a thrilling undercurrent. I was a goddess trapped in a pauper’s life, but the goddess suit was mine now. Mine only. Everyone who saw me would see Ashley Miller’s face and body, and treat me with the automatic, shallow awe it commanded. They would also see “Nicholas,” the awkward, beautiful girl from the wrong side of town. The rules had changed. The game, however, was just beginning.
A slow smile spread across my new face. It was going to be fascinating to see what this body could do. I couldn't wait to go home and explore my new body alone for the first time.
*
The walk home was a surreal parade of whiplash contrasts. Every head turned as I passed. Boys walking the other way did double-takes, their conversations dying mid-sentence. A group of girls from my sociology class whispered and pointed, their expressions a mix of envy and curiosity. But when I didn’t join them, when I just kept walking with a nervous, unfamiliar gait, their interest turned to dismissive confusion.
I was a stunning anomaly walking determinedly away from the gleaming campus and toward the town's frayed edges. I was beauty walking into the trash, and the dissonance hung in the air like a bad smell.
By the time I reached the chain-link fence of the trailer park, the silence was a physical relief. The stares were a type of attention I’d craved my whole life, but without the social script to navigate them, they felt like assaults. I fumbled with the key to the trailer, my new, slender fingers struggling with the old, greasy lock.
The inside was a tomb of neglect, exactly as I’d left it this morning. The smell of mildew, stale smoke, and cheap fried food was a brutal anchor to reality. I was home. But I was wearing a goddess suit.
I didn’t turn on the lights. The grey afternoon gloom filtered through the dirty windows, and it felt safer. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against ribs that felt more delicate. I leaned back against the flimsy door, the lock clicking shut, sealing me in with my impossible secret.
Slowly, trembling, I brought my hands up. I looked down. The soft cream sweater, now smudged from the day, draped over curves that were mine. Mine only.
I pulled the sweater over my head, the fabric catching for a second on the ponytail before it came free. I was wearing a lacy, pale pink bra I had only ever seen in magazine ads. My breath hitched. With clumsy, desperate fingers, I reached behind my back, fumbling with the clasp. It gave way, and the bra loosened. I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the linoleum floor.
There they were.
Ashley Miller’s breasts. My boobs. Full, heavy, with pale, perfect skin and soft, rose pink nipples. They were everything I had ever fantasized about, sketched in my darkest, most shameful wet dreams. And there they were, attached to my chest. Now I could do whatever I wanted with them and none could say a thing. Not only I could do whatever I wanted with them, I could also feel it, have the sensorial feedback of every squeeze, every pinch, every patting I did.
A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped my lips. I cupped them with both hands. The weight was incredible, a warm, living fullness that filled my palms. The skin was so soft, like heated silk over firm flesh. I brushed my thumbs over the nipples, and a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shot straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly like a deep, alien warmth that made my new knees feel weak.
I squeezed, gently at first, then harder, marveling at the give and resilience, at the way the sensation seemed to echo through my entire body. This wasn’t like jerking off my old, familiar male equipment. This was expansive. The pleasure wasn’t focused. It radiated. It was in the ache of my palms, the tightness in my stomach, the sudden, slick heat I could feel between my legs. A strange, empty, yearning heat alien to me.
I stumbled toward the small, grimy mirror tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. In the dim light, I saw her. I saw Ashley Miller's perfect figure. I saw myself. Flawless skin, flushed cheeks, lips parted in awe. Blonde hair slightly mussed. And below the slender neck, the breathtaking topography of her body. My body. I trailed my hands down from my breasts, over the subtle dip of my waist, to the swell of my insanely large hips where the denim jeans hugged me. I unzipped it, let it puddle on the floor. My underwear was a matching scrap of pale pink lace.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and slid them down. I looked in the mirror, at the unfamiliar, neat triangle of trimmed blonde hair, at the smooth, soft skin of my inner thighs and my pussy lips. MY PUSSY LIPS. I let it escape my upper lips "Gosh, it's even better than I imagined..." . The ache between my legs was a persistent, throbbing pulse now, a demand I didn’t fully understand but was desperate to answer.
I sank to the floor, my back against the couch that smelled of old cigarettes. The rough, stained carpet was a blasphemy against this skin. I didn’t care. My whole world had narrowed to the map of this new body.
Tentatively, I let my fingers explore my inner thigs. The folds were strange, complex, impossibly soft. I found the center of the heat, a swollen, sensitive nub, and gasped as a response to a shockwave of sensation, bright and almost painful, lashing through me. I circled it, my touch growing bolder, driven by a frantic need to understand, to claim that new part of me. The pleasure built in waves, so different from the linear climb and sharp release I was used to. This was a rising tide, submerging me slowly, then all at once. My back arched off the floor, my free hand groping and kneading my own breast, pinching the nipple until the twin pains blended into the crescendo of pleasure.
I thought of the way Ashley had looked at me, at the old me, with such pure disgust. I thought of the weight of her breasts when I saw her at the cafeteria. And a whisper escaped my lips “This is mine now. All of this is mine.”
The climax, when it broke, wasn’t a spasm but a dissolution. A warm, melting flood that unraveled my muscles and blurred my vision. A low, shuddering moan of a feminine, unfamiliar nature, echoed in the silent trailer. I lay there on the dirty floor, spent, trembling, as the alien aftershocks trembled through my core.
Slowly, I became aware of another sensation, a faint, ghostly twitch against my thigh. A phantom erection. The shameful, residual wiring of my old biology, trying to fire in a system where it no longer existed. It was the last whisper of Nicholas Ickermann's old body, a final, pathetic echo in the sublime cathedral of Ashley Miller’s body.
I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of my new, perfect lips. I pushed myself up, looking at my slick fingers in the gloom. The ghost of the boner faded, leaving only the profound, satisfied ache of my new body.
I was home. And for the first time, my body wasn’t a prison. It was a palace that I had just learned how to worship in.
*
The transition was no longer a dream; it was a rhythmic, intoxicating reality. That night, the trailer, a place Nicholas had spent a lifetime trying to escape mentally, became a laboratory of sensory exploration.
Wrapped in the peeling shadows of her room, she didn't stop at just once. The novelty was an unquenchable fire. She explored every curve, every sensitive patch of skin, losing herself in the tidal waves of feminine pleasure that felt like a symphony compared to the dull, singular note of her old life. She masturbated until her new muscles ached and her mind was a haze of vanilla scent and soft moans. When sleep finally claimed her, it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating sleep of the "Icky Nicky," but a light, graceful descent.
Nicholas Ickermann is the "Ick" of Blackwood University. A failing student living in a decaying trailer, physically repulsed by the world and hidden in the shadows of the campus dumpsters. His obsession centers on Ashley Miller, a girl of celestial beauty and effortless privilege who treats him with clinical disgust.
After a mysterious encounter in an industrial wasteland, Nicholas awakens with a "voice" in his head and a reality-warping ability. With a single, whispered question, he executes an impossible trait swap that none, besides him, is aware.
The alarm didn't just wake Nicholas Ickermann. It rattled the thin aluminum walls of the trailer until the windows groaned in their frames. He rolled over, his weight causing the entire structure to tilt slightly on its cinder-block foundation. The air inside was a stagnant soup of his father’s stale beer breath and the metallic tang of the rusted pipes. His bedroom was little more than a closet, the walls stained with water marks that looked like Rorschach tests of his own failure. A pile of damp, sour-smelling laundry served as his only rug.
Nicholas was a short, fleshy disaster. His skin was the color of unbaked dough, interrupted by the angry red patches of a persistent rash on his neck. His hair was a matted, oily thicket that no amount of cheap shampoo could tame, and his breath carried the permanent scent of decay. He pulled on a pair of khakis that were tight in the wrong places and a hoodie with a faded logo, a garment that did more to highlight his soft midsection than hide it.
In the narrow kitchen, his father sat slumped at the small laminate table, a cigarette burning down to the filter in an ash-strewn tray. His mother was already gone, likely already hosed down in grease at the diner. Nicholas grabbed a generic brand granola bar, stepped over a pile of empty cans, and headed out into the morning fog of Blackwood University.
Blackwood was a prestigious campus that made Nicholas feel like an invasive species, like an annoying bug. He spent his mornings navigating the surroundings like a prey animal, sticking to the shadows of the gothic architecture. He wasn't even a nerd, because nerds had potential. Nicholas was just a bad student with failing grades and a smell that made people physically recoil.
*
The morning was a gauntlet of quiet humiliations. Nicholas navigated the crowded hallways of the Humanities building, keeping his chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie to hide the weeping rash on his neck. Every time he passed a group of students, the air seemed to shift; he saw the subtle, practiced flinch of girls pulling their designer handbags closer, and the way athletes would instinctively hold their breath until he had shuffled past.
He was the "Ick." He could see it in the way the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall were let go just a second too early, forcing him to catch them with a clumsy, sweaty hand. He could hear it in the stifled snickers that followed him like a tail of exhaust.
In his first-period European History class, Nicholas sat in the very last row, the seat next to him remaining empty like a vacant lot in a slum. He tried to focus on the slides, but his mind was a dull, thumping ache. He had forgotten his notebook again, and even if he hadn’t, his hands were trembling too much to write. He caught the eye of a girl three rows down who looked back at him for a split second before her face twisted into a mask of pure, clinical distaste. She leaned over to her friend and mouthed the word: "Icky."
The friend didn't even look back; she just giggled, a sharp, metallic sound that felt like a needle under Nicholas's fingernails.
By the time his second-period Sociology lecture rolled around, Nicholas was sweating through his hoodie despite the morning chill. The professor, a woman who spoke about social hierarchies with a detached, academic coldness, spent the hour discussing "the invisible members of society." Nicholas felt like the living exhibit for her lecture. He stayed slumped in his chair, a doughy lump of failure, watching the clock tick toward the hour he dreaded most.
He didn't belong in the light of the quad. He didn't belong in the bright, airy spaces of the student union. He was a creature of the margins, a mistake in the prestigious tapestry of Blackwood University, just waiting for the bells to ring so he could crawl back into the shadows.
*
And then came the lunch hour, the cruelest part of the day. Nicholas retreated to his sanctuary, tucked behind the cafeteria, right up against the industrial dumpsters, a cracked concrete slab waited for him. The air here was a thick, gagging soup of rotting vegetable trimmings, sour milk, and the metallic tang of sun-baked trash. It was a smell that would make a normal person heave, but to Nicholas, it was the scent of safety. No one ever came here. He sat on the rough ground, picking at a lukewarm burger, the flies circling his matted hair like a buzzing, filthy crown.
From this low, hidden vantage point, he had a perfect, unobstructed view through the cafeteria’s floor-to-ceiling windows. He could see the center table, the throne of Blackwood University, and as the double doors swung open, his heart hit a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The world didn't just change; it stalled. Everything around him fell into a heavy, visceral slow-motion.
Ashley Miller walked in, and the sun seemed to follow her command.
She was a masterpiece of biological architecture, a walking defiance of the drab, everyday reality of Blackwood. Her strawberry blonde hair was a cascading river of gold and copper that caught every stray beam of light, framing a face so symmetrical it felt engineered by a jeweler. Her unblemished skin possessed the luminous quality of fine porcelain, devoid of the pores and imperfections that plagued everyone else on campus.
Her physical presence was staggering. Ashley was relatively tall, a stature that allowed her to look down on most of the student body with a casual, unintentional regalness. She possessed an exaggerated, hyper-feminine silhouette: her waist was impossibly thin, cinched by the black leather skirt, acting as a narrow bridge between the huge, heavy swell of her breasts and the dramatic, wide flare of her hips.
In the stretched-out seconds of Nicholas’s perception, he saw every detail through the cafeteria glass. He saw her blue-gray eyes, a cold and piercing shade like the North Sea, sweeping across the room with effortless indifference. Every movement she made—the way she tucked a stray lock of hair, the way her weight shifted from one toned leg to the other—carried a slow, hypnotic grace. She wasn't just pretty; she was a genetic anomaly, a type of beauty that appeared only once or twice in a generation, making everyone around her look like a blurry, unfinished sketch.
Nicholas watched, transfixed, as she tossed her head back. She was playing life on easy mode, navigating a reality where consequences were merely suggestions and doors seemed to unlatch before her hand even reached the handle. She wasn't an athlete, and her grades were a punchline to a joke everyone was in on; yet, professors—men and women alike—always seemed to find an "extra credit" loophole or a clerical error that kept her from ever seeing a failing mark.
The world was served to her on a silver platter, not because of effort or merit, but simply because of the way the light hit her skin and the way her presence filled a room. To Nicholas, huddled in the gagging rot of the dumpsters, she didn't look like a student or even a fellow human being. She looked like a celestial traveler who had accidentally wandered into a mortal realm, found it charmingly beneath her, and decided to let it worship her. She was a goddess of the everyday, and the very air she breathed felt like a luxury Nicholas wasn't even allowed to imagine.
He watched her friends lean in, hanging on a word she hadn't even spoken yet, and the familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut. She was perfection incarned, and he was the creature in the trash. The contrast was so sharp it felt like a serrated blade twisting in his chest. He was a ghost staring at a goddess, realizing that the only thing between her world and his was a gap of beauty he could never bridge.
*
On his way back to the afternoon lab, carrying a chocolate milkshake he’d splurged on, he saw them. Brad, a mountain of muscle and entitlement, stood blocked in the narrow hallway with Ashley and their circle. Nicholas tried to flatten himself against the lockers, but Brad’s eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.
"Whoa, watch out! The Icky-man is leaking," Brad shouted. He didn't just trip Nicholas; he shoved him. The plastic cup exploded against Nicholas’s chest. Cold, brown liquid soaked through his hoodie, dripping down his khakis and into his shoes.
The laughter was deafening. Ashley didn't join in the loud hooting but she just watched him struggle to get up, her eyes filled with a cold, clinical revulsion that was far worse than Brad's mockery.
Nicholas didn't go to the lab. He couldn't. He turned around and walked out of the building, the wet fabric clinging to his skin like a second, more shameful identity. He didn't take the main road home. He couldn't bear the thought of one more person seeing him like this.
Instead, he took the long way. A three-mile trek through the crumbling industrial district. It was a wasteland of hollowed-out factories, a place where no one went because there was nothing left to steal. He walked through the silence of the dead buildings, tears of hot, stinging frustration carving tracks through the grime on his face.
The last thing he remembered was the shadow of something in his peripheral vision.
Then suddenly, he heard the alarm blaring off. Nicholas’s hand shot out, fumbling blindly until it slammed onto the snooze button with a desperate, familiar violence. He lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His head felt hollow, a cavernous space where the end of yesterday should have been. The last thing he could pull from the fog was the shadow and a sudden, sharp chill. Everything after that was a black hole.
He sat up, and the trailer tilted. The same metallic groan of the floorboards, the same stagnant air heavy with his father’s morning cigarette and the rot of the pipes. Nothing had changed. He was still trapped in the same fleshy, sweating prison. He looked down at his stubby, pale, and trembling hands.
He had to move. He was late, and if he missed another Sociology lecture, he’d be finished. He dragged himself into the bathroom, staring at the red rash on his neck and the oily mess of his hair. He felt sick, he felt heavy, and the missing hours in his memory gnawed at him like a physical itch.
The walk to Blackwood University was a grueling repetition of the day before. As was for the last three years. The morning fog was just as thick, and the people on the sidewalk were just as repelled. He watched a woman pull her toddler closer as he shuffled past, her eyes darting away as if his misery were contagious. He was still the pothole in their path.
But as he navigated the gothic shadows of the campus, something started to itch at the back of his brain. It wasn't a memory, not exactly. It was a whisper, cold and precise.
It doesn’t have to be like this.
Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He reached the heavy doors of the lecture hall, his chest tight with the usual dread.
You’re tired of the easy mode being for everyone else but you, aren't you? the voice suggested.
It sounded like his own thoughts, but with a sharpened edge he didn’t recognize.
The world is just a set of locks, Nicholas. And you finally have a key.
He slunk into the back row, his eyes immediately darting to the front. There she was. Ashley Miller. She was a streak of gold and emerald against the drab grey of the hall. It was not the price of her clothes that drew the eye but the way her body seemed to lend the fabric its own importance. She was wearing a simple, deep emerald ribbed sweater. It was the kind of garment any girl could find at a mall, but on Ashley, the material was pushed to its absolute limit. The knit stretched thin and tight across the heavy, breathtaking swell of her breasts while the hem tucked neatly into a pair of high-waisted black denim jeans. The denim hugged the dramatic, wide curve of her hips and the taper of her slender waist so perfectly they looked like they had been painted onto her skin.
To Nicholas, she looked like a different species. She was something made of light and silk while he was made of mud and shame. Even in such common attire, she looked untouchable. She leaned back, laughing silently at something a girl next to her whispered. The movement caused her strawberry blonde hair to shimmer like a copper flame against the emerald fabric. She did not need designer labels to broadcast her status because her genetics were her couture. Every time she shifted in her seat, the entire lecture hall seemed to tilt on its axis, drawn by the gravity of her effortless, generation-defining beauty.
It is a trade, the whisper returned in Nicholas’s mind.
It was more insistent now as he watched her flip her hair over her shoulder.
A simple transaction. All you have to do is ask.
And you have the right to ask now!
He didn't understand what the voice meant, but as he stared at the back of her perfect head, the fear in his gut began to settle into a hard, frozen lump. He didn't feel powerful; he still felt like a "greasy mistake." But for the first time, he felt like a mistake that was tired of being erased.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the whispers had coalesced into a single, rhythmic pulse in his temples.
Just ask. She won't even mind. To her, it will be nothing.
Then, he stepped into the cafeteria.
The day had been a blurred montage of grey hallways and muffled voices, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the "fast-forward" snapped. It wasn't the room that did it. It was her.
As his eyes found Ashley Miller, the world suffered a violent, rhythmic deceleration. The frantic roar of the crowd, the clatter of trays, the smell of grease, the shrill cross-talk, was suddenly stretched thin, turning into a low, distorted hum. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, each thud a heavy, isolated event that seemed to dictate the tempo of reality. Everything became a crawl, a visceral, agonizing slow-motion that centered entirely on the girl at the window.
She was the anchor of this new physics. Nicholas watched, paralyzed, as she leaned back; the movement was fluid and impossibly long, like ink spreading through water. The light caught the gold in her ponytail, shimmering in frame-by-frame clarity. He saw her lips begin to part, the muscles of her face shifting into a smile seconds before the sound of her laugh. A bright, carrying peal finally reached him, echoing as if through a deep canyon.
In the molasses of that moment, the contrast was a physical weight. She was effortless grace while he was a collection of jagged nerves and unwashed laundry, anchored to the floor by his own inadequacy. But even as his chest tightened with the familiar sting of being nothing, that dark, forgotten "option" pulsed in his mind. He was still the wreckage at the periphery, but as he watched her move through a world that had slowed down just for him to witness her, he realized the power wasn't just a feeling. It was a choice.
Nicholas found his usual spot, or tried to. The cracked concrete slab near the dumpsters was his designated island of exile, where the stench of rotting vegetable trimmings and sun-baked trash usually kept the world at bay. Today, however, he couldn't stay hidden. The air back there was thick and gagging, a reminder of the trash he was supposed to be, but his gaze was magnetically, helplessly drawn back through the glass toward the center table.
She was a sun around which the solar system of Blackwood University revolved. Seated there by the windows, light catching the gold in her artfully messy ponytail, she held court. A half-eaten salad was pushed aside as she animatedly described something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations. She was perfection, and her every gesture broadcast a casual, effortless ownership of the space she occupied. To Nicholas, every frame of her existence was amplified. He watched her animatedly describe something, her hands flying, her laugh drowning out other conversations.
He stood there, clutching his generic granola bar with trembling fingers. His body still ached from the previous night's mysterious trek he couldn’t remember, and his skin felt too tight, but as he watched her, the forgotten power stirred again. It was a cold, quiet hum beneath the surface of his insecurity. He looked at her and, for the first time, the gap between them didn't just feel like a tragedy. It felt like a target.
What would it be like? To have everyone’s eyes light up when you walked in? To be… wanted?
He watched her throw her head back, laughing at a joke from the linebacker next to her. A familiar, sour longing pooled in his gut, mingling with the low-grade ache of his own body. It wasn't just desire; it was a yearning for the very oxygen she breathed. His staring went from distant worship to an obvious, clumsy fixation. And then her gaze, sweeping the room in a lazy arc, snagged on him.
It was like being spotted by a searchlight. Her brilliant smile solidified into a wall of ice. In the slowed-down reality, her rejection lasted an eternity. She flicked her eyes over his thrift-store hoodie and slumped posture, and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over her features. A slight wrinkling of her nose, as if she’d caught a whiff of the dumpsters clinging to him. It wasn't a physical flame, but a cold, sharp realization. He felt broken, he felt like a "bug," but for the first time, he felt like a bug that could bite.
As Chloe, Ashley’s BFF, glanced over and smirked, sharing their quiet, cruel laugh, Nicholas didn't look down immediately. His heart hammered, and the world stayed slow, heavy, and ripe with a power he still didn't understand, but was beginning to crave. But another voice, small and newly fierce, whispered beneath the shame. It wasn’t a voice of memory, but of certainty.
You don’t have to be this. You can be the sun. You just have to take it.
The disgust on her face was the catalyst. It burned away the last of his hesitation, leaving a hard, cold resolution in its place. The power, that strange, formless weight, hummed in his veins like a live wire. He didn’t understand the "how," but he believed in the "now." The alternative was to remain the thing she wrinkled her nose at until he withered away.
The rest of the lunch period passed in a blur of pounding heartbeats. He didn't eat; he just watched. When Ashley finally stood, gathering her things to head toward the courtyard with her entourage, Nicholas followed. He caught up to them just as they reached the heavy double doors. The "fast-forward" of the crowd was still jarring, but as he closed the distance, the world began to warp back into that agonizing, focused slow-motion.
"Ashley," he called out. His voice was sandpaper, but it was loud enough to stop the group in their tracks.
She turned, flanked by Chloe and a couple of guys from the team. Her expression shifted from bored to sharp irritation as she realized it was the "creeper" from the cafeteria. Her perfect eyebrows arched.
"Yeah?" she said, her voice dripping with artificial confusion. "Do I know you?"
Nicholas felt the heat rising, his tongue suddenly feeling three sizes too large for his mouth. "I... I'm Nicholas. We have…"
"Ah," she interrupted, a cruel smirk playing on her lips as she looked at her friends. "I remember now. You’re that weirdo from the back of the lecture hall. Icky Nicky, isn’t it?"
Chloe giggled, and the guys exchanged amused glances. Nicholas felt the familiar sting of their judgment, but the resolution in his gut felt heavier now, anchoring him to the floor. He took a breath, forcing his eyes to stay on hers.
"Can I... can I speak with you? Alone?"
The silence that followed lasted only a second before the group exploded.
"Oh man, is this happening?" one of the guys barked, slapping his friend's shoulder. "He’s actually doing it! He’s gonna confess to the Queen."
"Is it a poem, Nicky?" Chloe sneered, leaning in. "Did you write her a little song?"
Nicholas ignored them, his gaze locked onto Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. He saw the calculation in them. She saw an opportunity, a chance to perform one last, exquisite act of cruelty for her audience. She raised a hand, silencing her friends with a regal flick of her wrist.
"Okay," she said, her voice smooth and dangerous. "Make it worth my time."
She gestured toward a quiet alcove near the red brick wall of the arts wing, away from the flow of students. The group stayed behind, whispering and pointing, their laughter muffled by the distance.
As they stepped into the shadow of the building, the vanilla scent of her perfume reached him. A scent he had only ever associated with exclusion. They were alone. The world was still, the sunlight hitting the bricks in sharp, slow-motion angles.
Ashley crossed her arms, leaning back with a look of bored expectation. "Well? Go ahead, Nicky. Impress me."
His mouth was desert-dry. The words, the impossible request, were a boulder in his throat. The power within him didn’t feel like strength; it felt like a last, desperate gamble, a frantic vibration beneath his skin that needed an outlet. He focused everything, every ounce of his yearning, every memory of her scorn, every crazy, waking-dream certainty, into the question. He leaned in slightly, his voice a shaky, conspiratorial whisper only she could hear.
“Wanna switch bodies with me?”
For a fleeting second, the spell flickered. Ashley’s eyebrows twitched, her mind racing to process the absurdity. “Is that it?” she thought, with a wave of irritation washing over her. “He’s not confessing? He’s just… insane?”. She felt a pang of genuine disappointment. She had been ready to crush his heart in front of everyone, to deliver a line so cutting it would be legendary by second period. Instead, he was just babbling nonsense. “I wasted my time. I can’t even humiliate him for this. People will just think he’s had a mental breakdown. What a bore.”
But as the thought formed, Nicholas' power surged to meet it. It didn't fight her disdain, it fed on it. It took her desire to dismiss him and turned it into an absolute, mindless compliance. The "option" slid into the fertile soil of a mind used to getting what it wanted and whispered that this, too, was a triviality, like a small, boring favor to grant just so she could be done with him.
Her eyes glazed over for a heartbeat, the sharpness in them turning into a gentle, placid blankness. A faint, agreeable smile touched her lips. “Yeah, no worries,” she said, her voice casual and airy, as if he’d asked for a sip of water or the time of day. “Such a small thing.”
The world didn’t spin. It reoriented.
One moment, I was Nicholas, all tight khakis and damp hoodie, my heart a frantic bird against my ribs. Next, I was lighter. Taller. The rough brick of the wall against my back was replaced by the soft clothes of Ashley’s against my shoulders. A cascade of strawberry golden hair fell into my field of vision. The scent of vanilla was no longer something external to crave. It was coming from me, rising from my own skin.
And the sensation. Oh, the sensations. They crashed over me in a warm, shocking wave. My center of gravity was different, higher. There was a weight on my chest, a gentle, insistent pull. I looked down.
Ashley’s breasts, my breasts, swelled against the soft sweater. My breath hitched. Slowly, almost reverently, I brought a hand up. A hand with slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails, and cupped my left boob. The feeling was electric, alien, and profoundly intimate. Through the fine fabric, I felt the soft, full weight, the yielding firmness. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure, sharp and sweet, shot through me, centering low in a body that was now wired entirely differently. I squeezed, just a little more, and a soft, involuntary gasp escaped my new lips.
I looked up, my vision clear and sharp through Ashley’s blue-gray eyes. Across from me, standing where I had just been, was Nicholas Ickermann. She, now He, was staring at me, his face—my old face—a mask of dawning, incomprehensible horror. His shoulders were hunched in that familiar defensive curl, but there was a new tension there, a rigidity. And then I saw it. A tell-tale tightness in the front of those awful khakis. A bulge. His new male body was just responding on a purely animal level to the sight of a beautiful girl groping herself in front of him. Shame and biology, wrapped in one pathetic package.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat, light and melodic. “Like what you see, Ashley?” I purred, letting my hand linger on my breasts for a heartbeat longer before dropping it.
He tried to speak. His mouth, my old mouth, worked soundlessly for a moment before a strangled mutter emerged. “What… what did you want with me?” The voice was my old, grating tenor, but thin with panic.
The question was so perfectly, tragically Nicholas. He had no memory of the swap. In his mind, he was just a socially doomed guy who’d been cornered by the school’s goddess for reasons unknown, and now that goddess was touching herself and smirking at him. The confusion was almost artistic.
I leaned in, giving him a perfect, blinding Ashley Miller smile, all white teeth and cold promise. “It’s nothing anymore,” I said, my voice a sweet dismissal. “Bye!”
I turned, the motion effortless in this agile, graceful body. The swing of my hips in the denim jeans felt natural, powerful. I walked away from the alcove, back toward the sunlight of the courtyard where Chloe and the others were waiting, snickering.
But they weren’t waiting for me.
As I approached, Chloe’s smirk faded into a look of vague distaste. She glanced from me, Ashley’s stunning face and body, over to the alcove, where the shambling, clearly-disturbed figure of Ashley was still standing, frozen.
“Ugh, Nicky, what was that about?” Chloe asked, but her eyes were on the pathetic boy by the wall. “What did you do with him? He looks like he’s having a seizure.”
I opened my mouth to answer, to slip into my new role, but Brad cut in, as he passed by with his crew. “Forget it, Chloe. Don’t encourage the Icky-woman.” he said, but he was talking to them, to the group. He didn’t even look at me, Nicholas-in-Ashley’s-skin. To them, I was just the beautiful backdrop to their drama with the weirdo.
And just like that, they moved. As a unit, they turned and began walking toward the main quad, leaving me standing there. Chloe linked her arm with the linebacker, laughing at something he said. They didn’t look back. Ashley Miller’s social credit was immense, but it was attached to her identity, her history, her performance. They had no reason to be friends with a stunning blonde who, for all they knew, had just been harassing a loser. I was a beautiful stranger.
I was left alone in the courtyard, the sun warming Ashley’s perfect skin. I was Nicholas Ickermann, still living in a trailer with a deadbeat dad. I had no idea what Ashley’s home life was like, her curfew, her parents’ expectations. And I didn’t need to. The swap was only skin-deep. I had her beauty, her body, the sheer physical capital of her form.
I brought my hand up again, tracing the line of my new jaw, feeling the smooth skin. The pleasure of the new sensations was still there, a thrilling undercurrent. I was a goddess trapped in a pauper’s life, but the goddess suit was mine now. Mine only. Everyone who saw me would see Ashley Miller’s face and body, and treat me with the automatic, shallow awe it commanded. They would also see “Nicholas,” the awkward, beautiful girl from the wrong side of town. The rules had changed. The game, however, was just beginning.
A slow smile spread across my new face. It was going to be fascinating to see what this body could do. I couldn't wait to go home and explore my new body alone for the first time.
*
The walk home was a surreal parade of whiplash contrasts. Every head turned as I passed. Boys walking the other way did double-takes, their conversations dying mid-sentence. A group of girls from my sociology class whispered and pointed, their expressions a mix of envy and curiosity. But when I didn’t join them, when I just kept walking with a nervous, unfamiliar gait, their interest turned to dismissive confusion.
I was a stunning anomaly walking determinedly away from the gleaming campus and toward the town's frayed edges. I was beauty walking into the trash, and the dissonance hung in the air like a bad smell.
By the time I reached the chain-link fence of the trailer park, the silence was a physical relief. The stares were a type of attention I’d craved my whole life, but without the social script to navigate them, they felt like assaults. I fumbled with the key to the trailer, my new, slender fingers struggling with the old, greasy lock.
The inside was a tomb of neglect, exactly as I’d left it this morning. The smell of mildew, stale smoke, and cheap fried food was a brutal anchor to reality. I was home. But I was wearing a goddess suit.
I didn’t turn on the lights. The grey afternoon gloom filtered through the dirty windows, and it felt safer. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against ribs that felt more delicate. I leaned back against the flimsy door, the lock clicking shut, sealing me in with my impossible secret.
Slowly, trembling, I brought my hands up. I looked down. The soft cream sweater, now smudged from the day, draped over curves that were mine. Mine only.
I pulled the sweater over my head, the fabric catching for a second on the ponytail before it came free. I was wearing a lacy, pale pink bra I had only ever seen in magazine ads. My breath hitched. With clumsy, desperate fingers, I reached behind my back, fumbling with the clasp. It gave way, and the bra loosened. I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the linoleum floor.
There they were.
Ashley Miller’s breasts. My boobs. Full, heavy, with pale, perfect skin and soft, rose pink nipples. They were everything I had ever fantasized about, sketched in my darkest, most shameful wet dreams. And there they were, attached to my chest. Now I could do whatever I wanted with them and none could say a thing. Not only I could do whatever I wanted with them, I could also feel it, have the sensorial feedback of every squeeze, every pinch, every patting I did.
A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped my lips. I cupped them with both hands. The weight was incredible, a warm, living fullness that filled my palms. The skin was so soft, like heated silk over firm flesh. I brushed my thumbs over the nipples, and a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shot straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly like a deep, alien warmth that made my new knees feel weak.
I squeezed, gently at first, then harder, marveling at the give and resilience, at the way the sensation seemed to echo through my entire body. This wasn’t like jerking off my old, familiar male equipment. This was expansive. The pleasure wasn’t focused. It radiated. It was in the ache of my palms, the tightness in my stomach, the sudden, slick heat I could feel between my legs. A strange, empty, yearning heat alien to me.
I stumbled toward the small, grimy mirror tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. In the dim light, I saw her. I saw Ashley Miller's perfect figure. I saw myself. Flawless skin, flushed cheeks, lips parted in awe. Blonde hair slightly mussed. And below the slender neck, the breathtaking topography of her body. My body. I trailed my hands down from my breasts, over the subtle dip of my waist, to the swell of my insanely large hips where the denim jeans hugged me. I unzipped it, let it puddle on the floor. My underwear was a matching scrap of pale pink lace.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and slid them down. I looked in the mirror, at the unfamiliar, neat triangle of trimmed blonde hair, at the smooth, soft skin of my inner thighs and my pussy lips. MY PUSSY LIPS. I let it escape my upper lips "Gosh, it's even better than I imagined..." . The ache between my legs was a persistent, throbbing pulse now, a demand I didn’t fully understand but was desperate to answer.
I sank to the floor, my back against the couch that smelled of old cigarettes. The rough, stained carpet was a blasphemy against this skin. I didn’t care. My whole world had narrowed to the map of this new body.
Tentatively, I let my fingers explore my inner thigs. The folds were strange, complex, impossibly soft. I found the center of the heat, a swollen, sensitive nub, and gasped as a response to a shockwave of sensation, bright and almost painful, lashing through me. I circled it, my touch growing bolder, driven by a frantic need to understand, to claim that new part of me. The pleasure built in waves, so different from the linear climb and sharp release I was used to. This was a rising tide, submerging me slowly, then all at once. My back arched off the floor, my free hand groping and kneading my own breast, pinching the nipple until the twin pains blended into the crescendo of pleasure.
I thought of the way Ashley had looked at me, at the old me, with such pure disgust. I thought of the weight of her breasts when I saw her at the cafeteria. And a whisper escaped my lips “This is mine now. All of this is mine.”
The climax, when it broke, wasn’t a spasm but a dissolution. A warm, melting flood that unraveled my muscles and blurred my vision. A low, shuddering moan of a feminine, unfamiliar nature, echoed in the silent trailer. I lay there on the dirty floor, spent, trembling, as the alien aftershocks trembled through my core.
Slowly, I became aware of another sensation, a faint, ghostly twitch against my thigh. A phantom erection. The shameful, residual wiring of my old biology, trying to fire in a system where it no longer existed. It was the last whisper of Nicholas Ickermann's old body, a final, pathetic echo in the sublime cathedral of Ashley Miller’s body.
I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of my new, perfect lips. I pushed myself up, looking at my slick fingers in the gloom. The ghost of the boner faded, leaving only the profound, satisfied ache of my new body.
I was home. And for the first time, my body wasn’t a prison. It was a palace that I had just learned how to worship in.
*
The transition was no longer a dream; it was a rhythmic, intoxicating reality. That night, the trailer, a place Nicholas had spent a lifetime trying to escape mentally, became a laboratory of sensory exploration.
Wrapped in the peeling shadows of her room, she didn't stop at just once. The novelty was an unquenchable fire. She explored every curve, every sensitive patch of skin, losing herself in the tidal waves of feminine pleasure that felt like a symphony compared to the dull, singular note of her old life. She masturbated until her new muscles ached and her mind was a haze of vanilla scent and soft moans. When sleep finally claimed her, it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating sleep of the "Icky Nicky," but a light, graceful descent.
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Nicholas awakening in The Goddess of Blackwood
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