Auburn Belle The New World of SwapTech chapter 5 by deleted_user

Greg Talbott was alone in his garden when the world changed.

It was just past nine in the morning on May 12, 2028. A cool breeze whispered through the trellises of blooming roses Greg had cultivated with the same kind of rigid discipline he brought to his sermons. He was kneeling by the fenceline, pruning a stubborn climbing rose, his jeans stiff with dirt, his flannel sleeves rolled past his elbows. A small speaker nearby played a soft hymn from the Baptist hymnal—he didn’t hold with the new stuff, not even the Christian rock. Too worldly. Too compromised.

He paused, wiped sweat from his brow, and grunted with satisfaction at the crisp snip of pruning shears meeting stem. Then, without warning—

A pulse.

It wasn’t sound, exactly. Not light either. Just a shuddering pressure that seemed to roll through the world like a deep breath held and released.

Greg dropped the shears. They bounced once in the dirt. He clutched his chest—and staggered back. His body was changing. Warping. Tightening. He cried out, but the voice that came out wasn’t his. It was higher. Softer. Feminine.

“No—oh Lord, no—”

He doubled over as the changes swept through him like fire through dry grass.

His hips widened with a sharp crack of bone. His stomach rippled inward, flattening into taut softness. Muscle mass flowed away from his arms and chest, his once-heavy torso lightening even as his spine reshaped, pulling him subtly more upright. He felt his Adam’s apple vanish, his throat narrowing. His hands—he held them out in horror—were now slender, smooth, the calluses fading before his eyes.

Then his chest.

His flannel shirt tightened, pulling across two round, swelling mounds that pushed forward rapidly. Softness bloomed under the fabric. His breath caught as the pressure and sensation grew unbearable. Buttons popped. He shrieked—again in that woman’s voice—as breasts the size of ripe peaches swelled out of his chest.

Then—finally—between his legs, he felt a deep, twisting tug.

A loss.

Greg froze. Gasped.

He was breathing fast. Cold sweat dripped down the back of his neck.

He staggered to his feet and stumbled toward the small mirror he kept in the garden shed.

In the cracked mirror stood a woman of maybe twenty-four. Auburn curls tumbled down her shoulders, kissed by sunlight. Her skin was pale, porcelain-smooth, touched with a natural blush. Freckles dusted her cheeks. Her eyes—Greg’s eyes, he realized with a jolt—were the same icy blue, though now framed by long lashes.

She wore Greg’s flannel shirt, but the way it clung to her curvy, hourglass figure made it look like a deliberately sexy fashion choice. Her full breasts strained against the fabric, the top buttons undone from the transformation. Below that, her hips flared into a tight waist and toned thighs tucked into garden-dirtied jeans that now hugged her shapely legs like leggings.

Greg stared.

Then touched his chest. Then his face.

“Oh Lord,” he whispered. “What… what is this?”

A breeze caught his curls. The woman in the mirror blinked, stunned.