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Roma Revenge I: The Metamorphosis

This is the first part of my second novel. See my profile for details.
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I: THE METAMORPHOSIS
My name is Shawna. At least, according to my driver’s license it is. I used to be Shawn Milner, a relatively successful businessman with a bit of a drinking habit. I had lived as Shawn for twenty-seven very satisfied years, taking what I wanted from life and giving it my charming company in return. Even when that company was unwanted.
I was handsome, bold, strong… I really had it all. Not that I didn’t work hard at some of it; it takes more than wishful thinking and good genes to earn a square chest and a six-pack. But the art of communication, the gift of manipulating people? That came naturally to me, and I had no problem reaping its benefits.
I still remember the party that changed my life. It was a business function, after-hours drinking in the office. I suggested to Maria, one of our younger interns, that she should stick by me for the evening. Didn’t really give her a choice, to be honest. A strong personality can be like that.
Maria was smoking hot. She reminded me of that slutty-looking girl in that Disney movie, the one with the hunchback, but with more clothes on. I’d set my sights on her, but she was playing hard to get, acting like she just wanted to be friends. I’d have been fine with that, except that I wanted a piece of her. So I spent the party nursing one drink in a red plastic cup while making sure she had considerably more than that. Granted, there’s nothing wrong with fetching a lady a drink when she’s thirsty. Not at all.
Crushing up a few allergy pills into the drink, on the other hand, is more of a gray area.
At the time I didn’t see anything wrong with what I was doing. Or at least I didn’t let myself see. I justified it, telling myself that she was obviously drinking like a fish and she’d get wasted eventually, so there was nothing too bad about giving her a little nudge in the right direction. And besides, there was like a fifty-fifty chance that she’d wake up, remember nothing, and thank me for taking care of her. So I felt no guilt – consciously, at least – when I dragged her down to the parking lot and into my car. And I felt even less guilt when I pulled the car over, leaned back her seat, pushed up her skirt, and did my thing.
The really hilarious thing is, it wasn’t even that good. I barely lasted a minute, pumping at an awkward angle, and I came before I was ready to, completely failing my planned pull-out maneuver. That was my real mistake, but it wasn’t until much later that I realized it.
I took her home and laid her on my couch, then went up to bed. The next morning, she was gone, and I had a hangover so bad I wasn’t even sure what had happened wasn’t some weird dream. It couldn’t be, though, because I found Maria’s panties in the pocket of my slacks when I went to toss them in the laundry bin.
Maria didn’t show up to work the next week, but nobody said anything to me. I was starting to think that I’d gotten away with my little indiscretion and had pretty much put it out of my mind by Friday night.
Saturday morning proved how hasty that had been.

I had been drinking on Friday, but felt queasy, so I’d gone home early. At first I chalked up the weird feeling to a fucked-up hangover and maybe a stomach bug. Still, it was weird getting out of bed. Everything seemed a little higher, and I had this weird vertigo, like I was lighter on my feet but somehow off-balance and about to tip forward or back.
I made my way to the bathroom to take a piss, blinking the murky film out of my vision. The morning piss was a ritual of mine, perfected to a science ages ago: shorts off, stand at the toilet and let it go while stretching my arms and shoulders, then whip off the shirt and have a quick shower.
I pushed my boxers off my hips, feeling weird still and noticing a strange looseness to the fit. Deciding the elastic must be fucked in that pair, I kicked them toward the trash bin and stepped in front of the toilet, conveniently open and seat-up for me. I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of water-on-water.
Except that I wasn’t really hearing a lot of water-on-water. It was more like water-on-floor and water-on-leg. A spreading heat told me I was somehow pissing down my own leg. “Shit,” I muttered, grabbing at my cock to correct my aim.
My hand closed on nothing but air. I tried again, pinching off the flow and running my hand across my pelvis. Nothing but smooth skin and soft hair, and then something that shouldn’t be there. My eyes snapped open and I looked down.
All I could see down there was my chest. Except it wasn’t my chest; my chest was hard and square and a little hairy. This chest was pale, smooth, and appeared to be shaped like a really great pair of tits. I looked over at the bathroom mirror, still not processing the information.
The face that stared back at me was completely unfamiliar. She looked to be my age, and pretty. I wouldn’t have thrown her out of bed. She had my green eyes, and the same dark brown hair as I did, but the similarities pretty much ended there. Her hair went down past her shoulders, not at all like my businessman’s cut. She had pale skin, lacking my beach tan, and high cheekbones. Her nose was smaller than mine, which was just as well because it looked cute on her, and her lips were fuller, although they were turned down in a frown of disbelief.
My eyes trailed downward and hers followed. She stared at my pecs while I took in the sight of her shoulders, collarbones, and the curve of her perky breasts. B-cup, I thought, or maybe C. “No way,” I said quietly, then put a hand to my throat. My voice had changed, too. “Do Re Mi,” I said quietly. “She sells seashells by the… huh. Pretty. No, Shawn, stop it. What the fuck is happening?”
I became acutely aware that I was standing in a puddle of my own piss. I mopped it up with a towel, wiped myself down, then tossed the whole mess in the hamper and walked nude back to my bedroom. There was a full-length mirror there, and clearly I needed to use it.
There’s no easy way to say it, but two facts became achingly clear to me as I stood and looked in that mirror. First: that I had somehow become a woman overnight. That was definitely a vagina between my legs, and I had very little body hair, and a whole bunch of other facts pointed me at that conclusion. Second: I was cute.
I looked to have shrunk down to about five-foot-eight, which actually bothered me more than the loss of my favorite genitalia. I suppose I was in shock, but dammit, I liked being able to reach high shelves! I put “buy a stepstool” on my mental to-do list under “why the fuck am I female” and turned to the side to check my figure.
I had a low body-fat, that much was consistent, but I definitely wasn’t near as cut as I’d been the day before. Not “I”, I corrected myself, “she”. She had a low body-fat. Nice round shape to the breasts, pert pink nipples, curved-but-tight little ass in the back, decent legs… not really my type, I’d always preferred busty model-looking babes, but yeah, she looked pretty good. I faced the mirror again and ran a hand down my body, getting to know the feeling of it – the sensitive flesh of my chest, the soft-but-firm tummy, the downy little triangle of short-cropped hair… and then I slid my hand down across my privates.
I didn’t know what else to call it, really. It wasn’t a cock or balls, obviously. I didn’t feel right calling it my “junk” either. Snatch? Gash? Suddenly those words seemed nastier than before. Pussy? I chuckled. That was such a silly word. But it certainly did seem to enjoy being stroked like one…
That was when I realized that I was playing with myself. My fingers were stroking along the folds of my… self… and I was feeling little waves of pleasure tingling up my spine. It was pretty intense, really. Almost like back when I was a k** and I touched myself for the first time.
I stopped, staring down at my hand. My fingertips were moist now, and even without touching I could still feel the excitement between my legs. “That’s impossible,” I said, keenly ignoring the impossibility of the entire situation. “I’ve had lots of… I mean, I used to… holy shit, I’m a virgin.”
I sat down on my bed, staring over at the distraught girl in the mirror. Me. I was staring at me. This was all too weird. I was a girl, I was a virgin, and I had this sort of tingling urgency happening. I squirmed, rubbing my thighs together, and realized what that was pretty quickly: I was horny.
Spreading my legs, I once more slid my right hand down between them to touch my pussy. Apparently I’d woken it up with that touching before, because I was getting wetter down there by the second. My fingers moved of their own accord, smearing the moisture along my lower lips, and I gasped at the sudden pleasure of the sensation.
I laid back on the bed, relaxing, and started once more stroking up and down along my slit. It was mine, I told myself, so there was nothing wrong with this. Just a little relaxation to help deal with this… with whatever this was. I moaned, then covered my mouth with my other hand. Damn, that sounded weird. Weird, but good. I did it again, muffled by my palm, as I started probing at myself, getting a feel for this new place the same as I would have for any woman I’d been with. And then something changed.
There was a sudden arc of pleasure, making me squeak in excitement. Like, actually literally squeak. My back arched and my fingers pressed down against my clit. Because I had a clit now. And goddamn did it feel intense. I rubbed it in little circles, biting down on the side of my hand, then pulled my hand away.
“Holy shit, that’s intense,” I breathed. “I’ll… I’ll come back to that.” My other hand slid down from my face, cupping my breast and squeezing it. I rubbed my nipple against my palm and moaned again.
“Fuck… really?” I asked my new body, looking down at my breast. I pinched my nipple and tugged lightly at it, then gasped. “Uhhh huh, really,” I confirmed. “I’m one of those girls.” I had met one or two before, although I’d always wondered how honest they were: girls whose nipples were as sensitive as their other lady-parts, or at least nearly so. I rubbed the nipple and the skin around it, moving my other hand back down to my pussy, and let my head drop to the bed.
It really was overwhelming. Pleasure buffeted me from two directions, boosting itself like well-aimed speakers. My back arched and I moaned like… well, like a virgin. I rubbed and teased at myself faster, feeling a need for more and more, and then before I knew it, I was having my first orgasm.
It was like breaking apart into a million pieces. For a split second, nothing mattered anymore, just the prolonging of the sensation. My eyes stopped working, my moans trailed off to a breathless squeal, and my fingers lost all sense of rhythm, wildly stroking and rubbing at my breast and crotch. I was aware of a wet squishing sound, but I didn’t care. And then as abruptly as it had overtaken me, the wave broke, leaving me panting, lying in a pool of my own sweat.
“Holy shit,” I said softly, repeating my new mantra. “Holy… holy shit.”
I swung my legs down off the bed and pulled myself up to a sit, then got shakily to my feet. I needed a shower, badly.
The shower was a new adventure in itself. My skin was soft all over, and the water felt amazing streaming down my body. I was starting to wonder if my male body had been six feet of scar tissue and calluses, I was so damn sensitive. Especially “down below”; I rinsed myself off but didn’t dare do much else, as I started feeling excited again at the touch of the soapy liquid.
I got out of the shower feeling clean, refreshed… almost like myself. Except I wasn’t myself, I hastened to remember. I was… someone else? I threw on a pair of boxers and a white undershirt that hung way too low on my frame, then started to investigate.
“Shawna Milner,” I said, reading off my driver’s license. It was tucked in my wallet where it should be, and it had a really cute picture of me – of her – trying not to smile too hard. I smiled to myself, remembering how excited I’d been the first time I got my license. If I’d been a girl, I’d have probably looked something like this.
The address was the same, and my old license was gone. Everything else looked to be unchanged, though; credit cards and business cards all read “Shawn”. I set the wallet aside and sat on the couch, then opened my laptop to check it.
Nothing much was changed there, either; emails, bank accounts, my identity was totally intact. I opened my work email; obviously I’d have to take a sick day. Maybe a sick week. Or a leave of absence forever. Whatever.
There was a single new message there, which made sense since it was Saturday and I was “do not disturb” on the weekends. What didn’t make sense was the subject line. I opened it and read the contents.

RE: SHAWNA

Hello, Shawna. You’re no doubt confused. Such is the fate of those who sin, especially those who sin against the Roma.
Your manhood has long been your most precious possession, your identifying trait. Recently, you used it to sully the body of our clan’s daughter. We have used the seed you graciously left behind to enact a curse against you.
We do not wish to see you destitute. You have an identity, a government registration. You will no doubt be able to transfer your assets to your new name and continue living your life for many long years to come, secure in the knowledge that your manhood is forever taken from you.

LYUBITSHKA TOKAR

I stared at the screen, trying to understand. Gypsies? I’d been cursed by fucking gypsies, really? That was a thing? I leaned back on the couch and shook. There was a weird sound filling my ears. After a few seconds, I recognized it: this was what it sounded like when I laughed, now. When Shawna laughed. Hysterically. Gypsies! I slapped the couch and wiped tears from my eyes. A goddamn gypsy curse. Un fucking believable.
Well, that gave me a goal, at least. It was Saturday morning. I could probably take a week off of work without anyone being too suspicious. So I had just shy of nine days.
Nine days to find Lyubitshka Tokar, whoever she was. Nine days to get my body back.

Updated: December 17, 2016 — 1:35 am
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