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Ember's Specifications
🕑 Added 2023-01-18 06:59:01 +0000 UTC"We're all done, Dante"
My skin is crawling under this soft, white towel. This is all wrong. This is all so very wrong.
This incredible soreness radiating through every inch of my body — these fucking scientists compressed my skeletal frame. 5'3. The figure dances through my head. I'm 5'3. I know it for a fact. I was 6'5. I breathe in and dig my little toes into the ground. My lungs are smaller. Everything is smaller. This is madness. Insanity.
"Please remove your towel, Mr. Bellamy"
I shouldn't remove a damn thing for you fuckers. I'm going to wipe this facility off the map and leave nothing but a grease spot.
Oh god. Just look at her. She doesn't even look like the same woman.
"Your new body has been prepared, created to your specifications."
"These were not specifications I intended for myself."
God, look at her tits. And the tanlines. I always wanted her to like sunning on the beach in a bikini. She was much too modest for it and more of a mountain person. God, it looks like she's been in a lounge chair in the sand every day this week. My nipples are growing erect. I can feel the phantom memory of my cock filling with blood. It's quickly chopped by the realization of a line of fluid beginning to drip down my left thigh. My gaze gropes her new perky tits in the mirror. My breath shakes. A strange sensation of arousal joins my absolute cringeworthy panic flooding my body. It makes my nipples grow all the harder.
"From my records, you are correct. These specifications were given to you in error. Do you wish to talk to a manager?"
Yes, you bastard. I do. I wish to eviscerate your manager.
I smile curtly. "Yes."
"Please hold for just a second."
I roll my eyes and shift on my feet. My tits bob on my chest.
"Hello, Mr. Bellamy."
"Hello."
"What seems to be the problem."
"I have unfortunately found myself misplaced into my wife Ember's body."
"That is unfortunate."
"Yes, how could this have happened?"
"It seems you were both led to the wrong nano inject rooms after we processed your intake forms."
"Am I to believe my wife is now in my body?"
"You believe correctly — albiet with the specifications you had requested."
My eyes widen. "You mean Ember has a . . . " I blush.
"You do not have to be so officious, Mr. Bellamy. Please state plainly what you wish to ask. We are all adults here."
"Ember has a big cock?"
""Yes. She is doing well and already in her suite recuperating from the proceedure."
A shakey breath left my lips. My wife's pussy lips swelled beneath me. I was aroused yet felt nothingness extending in front of me. My crotch was now cut flat and neat. My ever present balls had been wiped from the map, seized into me astride my wife's womb, snatched into my body, drained of semen, stuffed with a million eggs each, and repositioned as my ovaries. My hips jutted out. My pelvis was wider to accomodate the new configuration and my legs had moved farther apart in the process. I stood in a precarious posture. My ass stuck out.
"A big cock was her only request besides you being more confident in the bedroom, "romantic but firm" as she put it. It seems there was little she wanted to change about you, while your list for her was fairly long. You must have spent your marriage repressing many negative thoughts in regard to her. But no matter, yes, she did want your cock to be larger — and it is.
As I recall, she interrupted your request during our interview and said she wanted it to have plenty of girth so it could stuff her completely. She blushed when she said this, almost as if she was too polite to admit it even to herself. And then I recall you said, "if you want it thicker, I want you tighter.""
My nipples harden into rocks. A chill runs down my spine. A feeling of victory fills my tits. The manager is openly admitting everything. They will have to reverse this. Or I'll have a field day with him and the entire team of scientists. My pussy drips at the thought of fucking these bastards for what they've done.
"Now if I could as you to please turn slowly in 90 degree pauses, Mr. Bellamy. I want to have a look at the situation."
I have no need to cooperate at this point. This situation is beyond fucked up. But I see no need to go overboard, especially if this helps the manager assess the problem. I turn.
"Yes. Yes. This is a great success. Everything is up to the specifications laid out for your wife's body. Perky, gravity-defying tits. Tightened tummy. Perma-blonde hair. Long perfectly manicured nails. Correcting your wife's fertility issues. And, of course, the tan, which you enthusiastically requested, which will be managed by her new love of the beach. "From mountain girl to sun goddess" as you said. That leaves the other minor personality changes: to be more feminine, an excellent cook, to be an expert with makeup and fashion, to stop hating blowjobs, to maintain poise in all situations, to have a compliant and agreeable personality, and for her to always be thinking about sex. Was that everything?"
I swallow. Had my list been so long?
"The last one proved difficult. The execution had some glitches, mainly, to ALWAYS be thinking about sex would be absolutely taxing to your mental bandwidth. There is, after all, a difference between continuous and continual. We cannot take every bit of your brain's processing power for sex, so we settled on small bursts. They should be going online any moment. This will still take up 20% of your mental RAM and may impact high order mental functioning slightly, but this was the best solution."
"This. . . this is a peculiar sensation."
"I imagine so. Don't worry. You will acclimate to it."
Oh my god.
A burst. Then another.
Oh my god.
Another line of fluid snakes down my right thigh.
Oh. My. Gaahhhd.
I'm heating up.
OMG.
Like — O. M. G.
I clear my throat. Enough of this. "I am entirely displeased at this mixup. . . Fuck. And . . . oh. . . oh fuck. . ."
"Please, just take your time speaking. You will eventually not be interrupted by these constant thoughts. They will simply be something that is there running in the background. Try to imagine it that way and continue."
"Okay. . . I'll try."
A jolt of images. Images highly uncharacteristic of my wife. A flash. Then another. I keep feeling an uncanny feeling in my mouth so I clear my throat again. I try to look as upset as I can without seeming like too much of a bitch. I try to ignore the little puddle of feminine juices collecting between my dainty feet. I'm struggling to maintain my composure, I'm so angry and in heat, but it is an absolutely necessity, in every moment, good or bad, to maintain ones composure.
"I'm super not happy about this. I want a refund. I want to report you to the press. I want the process reversed for me and my wife. Do you understand?"
"We have another suggestion that may be better than what you have suggested. We think it well provide a win-win position for you, your wife, and us as a company."
"I'm listening."
"It would take great effort to reverse your forms at this point. We are in the business of changing people from A to B, not the reverse. Also, you paid $350,000 to us, money we would find incredibly inconvenient to refund to you. In many ways, we have delivered exactly what you ordered, except for the mixup involving you and your wife's bodies. In many ways, this was fortuitous for our firm, as we have never converted a male to a female before. So, while mistakes did happen, we are wondering, if it is at all possible, could you overlook this, just this once, and continue your life in this form forever. We have already asked your husband and he approves of this solution. But we must give you the choice to reject this solution — even if it means you going against the wishes of your husband.
Another blast of sexual thoughts strikes as he finishes and my thinking goes soft and fuzzy for a moment. My body, from my cute little toes to my big, busty titties fills with rage. The nerve of this guy asking me to keep my wife's wet, dripping, and aching pussy between my thighs forever! And the nerve to call my wife my husband! Is that what she wants to be called — now that he has a huge thick cock?
"We can by all means go through a lot of trouble. But we and your husband think it's in your best interest for you to relax, chin up, settle in to your marriage, and not raise too much of a fuss about a few minor details. Do you understand?"
No. No, no, no. This can't all be happening. I can't believe my husband. What is he thinking?! My huge breasts hang just above my tight little tummy, as if content to always remain there. I look at the lines that reveal the extent of my bikini's boundaties. The way the lines make my tits look even bigger. And my aerola, spread wide by the onslaught of my growing tits, nipples proud in their center — my two new erections, besides this new joy buzzer waiting under my frilly little clitoral hood.
"I asked if you understand, Ember."
"I understand."
Oh no. It's not true. I don't understand. Why do I get wetter when I lie about these things? It twists my mind.
"Wonderful. Since you agree, we would like to ask if you can pose for a photo. We want to post it on our web site, include it in all marketing publications, as well as use it in a few hundred press releases to local and national news. The headline will read "Mr. to Mrs. Bellamy and Never Going Back — How a Chicago-Area Husband Successfully Transitioned into a New Familial Role."
I balk. "Oh, I don't think my husband would approve of a photo like this, or the added attention."
"Mr. Dante Bellamy approves. We asked. He answered with a resounding yes. He said he wants to show you off."
Why would he do that? Why would he parade his naked wife's body around for all to see?
"Say 'cheese'."
"Cheese!"
But I have to be a good wife. And sometimes that means burying feelings, right? I'll push it down, along with my total desire to take out this firm and the absolute fear of my new husband towering over me. I just need to ignore all of this and be accomodating. Even though it twists my tummy up like a pretzel, I want to be a good wife.
"Mrs. Bellamy — We are done here. Put on your robe, take a shower. Get ready, Ember. Tonight you renew your wedding vows. Remember?"
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Where is this going?
What am I even doing?
I feel propelled by an invisible force. Compelled.
I move so freely. So lightly. Managing these new tits on my wife's chest.
She was an A cup.
I don't even want to share what my bra size is. I know it. It taunts me from the back of my mind. Who put it there? It was easily added to my wife's height. 5'3. A figure I've always known. A stature I now occupy in space and time.
Another blast of sexual thoughts and my mind goes totally loopy. For a moment I don't have words. I can only think of my new delicious titties and how nice my nipples feel swinging at the apex of each of these melons.
Fuck.
This is the best fucking shower of my life. Water courses around my curves and I want nothing more to take everything back. But there's no going back.
No I don't want this. I miss my cock. And my ass feels so much bigger, even though I've been condensed into this tight little form. Oh god, these tits are way bigger than they should have been. It took so much time to convince my wife to go two sizes larger. They weigh heavy on my back.
But my husband expects me to look good for him. And I can't ruin our ceremony. I can't be that type of woman, even though part of me wants to, there's another part of me who won't let me.
Fuck. Look at all these makeup containers. Thank goodness. My wife barely touched the stuff. A woman should look her best, in my opinion. She should be skilled at the application of clothes, lingerie, makeup. They should make cocks stir in men's pants as they walk by. They should inspire doors to open, restaurant bills to be paid, and all manner of privileges. I know deep in my pussy these ideas are chauvanistic, but I want to be pampered. I always wanted my wife to feel this way. But she didn't.
The male inklings in me scream out in terror with each application. At each deft decision I make with these implements of beauty. A little here. A little there. I move like I've always done it. And my pussy gets wetter.
My clit is positively engorged. I wonder about my husbands new cock. How his clit swelled up, more and more. How the sensitive pink nub covered in skin. How his urethra opened at its center. And then, once it was a massive head pushing from her closing pussy, lurched forward, revealing a growing rod of flesh beneath it. "Cock." I say the word. Her cock. Towering from her, more and more.
I press my thighs together. My girl is aching today. She really wants to be stuffed, even though I don't want her to be. My wife would let months go by without sex. And she would let herself get so bushy down there. What was wrong with her? A man shouldn't be left unsexed for too long. It's a wife's duty. Especially to mark important occasions.
Oh fuck... No. I need time to adjust. But the ceremony is tonight and I booked the honeymoon suite at the nicest hotel in town.
Maybe he will be tired.
Either way, he will see me naked, so I'm glad they shaved my legs and waxed my beautiful little cooch during the process. I'm glad they did my fingernails, gave me a pedicure, or I would need a few more hours to get ready. There's, like, no fucking way I would go out without everything perfectly in place.
The closer I get to finished, the more terrified I am inside. He will be tired won't he? He's probably sad he has a cock now. He probably needs time. I doubt he's touched it yet.
Its fine. I push it down. I bury it deep. I do it for my husband. I do it to be his good little wife. Ember has to smile and put on a good face. She has to be pretty. Ready to help. Attentive. She has to lay by her hubby and tan in her bikini on the beach, drinking fruity drinks, swiping for them with his credit card.
Oh I fucking look so sexy.
With absolute panic in my breasts, I smile sweetly at my reflection.
Dante is not going to be able to keep his hands off me tonight.
Oh, god.
No.
