Ex-Wife's Clothes The New World of SwapTech chapter 7 by deleted_user

Inside the house, things were eerily quiet. The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, counting time that no longer seemed to make sense. His ex-wife’s old things were scattered around the house, remnants of their life together—a life he’d lived with such certainty and order. Now everything felt...chaotic. Everything felt different.

Greg was still trying to make sense of it all when he walked into the living room, where the phone sat, mocking him with its stillness. He reached out for it, then thought better of it. The last thing he needed was to alert anyone else right now. No. He had to figure out what had happened, on his own, before anything else.

He turned toward the closet, his new short, curvy body moving awkwardly as he tried to get used to the unfamiliar weight on his chest. He walked into his bedroom, where the closet door stood open, an assortment of mismatched shoes and old coats inside. Greg winced as his reflection in the closet mirror showed him in full. He almost felt like he didn’t belong here in his own room anymore.

But there was something more pressing. His ex-wife's things. She had never quite fully moved out after the divorce. Some boxes remained, buried under a pile of her things, as though she'd left them in a state of hasty disorganization, her departure hurried.

There. That was what he needed.

A stray box, left behind with her things. She had taken most of her clothes with her, but there were still some scraps, half-empty suitcases, things she didn’t want anymore. Greg pushed through the pile of scattered shoes, old scarves, and books. There was a familiar scent of lavender, mixed with the faint aroma of her old perfume. It made him pause for a moment, but he kept going, his mind focused.

When he found the box, he carefully removed the lid, revealing a jumble of half-folded clothing. It was mostly casual stuff—sweaters, jeans, and a few skirts, but what caught his eye was a long, knee-length floral dress, still in good condition. Not that it would fit him, of course. He wasn’t in the mood for wearing something so feminine. Still, it was the best option for a temporary change, he supposed.

Trying to ignore the unpleasant feeling of his new breasts jiggling as he squatted, Greg reached for a pair of her jeans, hoping they’d fit.

The waistband was loose, but they were stretchy enough. They clung to his newly-curvy body, hugging the generous swell of his hips, but didn't fit the way his old jeans did. He sighed, smoothing them down, trying to force the sensation of tightness away.

It was better than nothing.

The shirt, though—it still didn’t fit. He looked at it. Then, with exasperation, he grabbed the floral dress, hoisting it over his head. The fabric slid over his skin as he pulled it down, the straps adjusting comfortably onto his shoulders. He caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror and froze.

The sight of his reflection in the dress was almost worse than seeing himself in his preacher's clothes. The dress was fitted enough to show the curve of his waist and hips, but the frills, the florals—it wasn’t just the look. It was the helplessness of it. The realization that this was the best he could do now.

His chest felt heavier now in the dress, though at least it wasn't as tight as his old shirt. It didn’t look right. Not right at all. He was a short, curvy woman now, with oversized breasts and soft features.

Greg took a deep breath.

His phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, interrupting his thoughts. Hesitant, he walked over to it. He noticed a series of messages from one of his old church members—texts with links to news sites and worried questions.

Are you okay? Have you seen the news? Something’s happening to the men in the valley...

Greg hesitated, his fingers hovering over the screen.

The first report seemed to confirm everything he was already fearing. The local news was filled with chaos. Men were changing. Some had even gone public, showing themselves on live feeds to confirm what had happened. There were reports of people calling it some kind of experiment gone wrong—people who, Greg thought grimly, likely worked at Swaptyx, the tech company that had been rumored to be involved with radical experiments on consciousness and physical transformation.

Greg clenched his fists, but the reality of what was happening to him, to every man in the area, still hit him like a ton of bricks.