Proper Outfit The New World of SwapTech chapter 9 by deleted_user

The moment the call with the sheriff ended, Greg leaned against the counter, breathing shallowly. His new chest rose and fell in distracting arcs, each breath jiggling something he’d never had before and certainly never wanted. His clothes hung off him like a scarecrow—his jeans were halfway to the floor, caught only by one belt loop hooked by his thumb. His shirt had lost two buttons during the transformation, and the remaining ones strained over the obscene swell of his chest. His shirt fabric tugged and shifted across his chest in ways that made him grit his teeth.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, looking down.

He couldn't go on like this. He couldn't go out like this.

He needed clothes. Real ones.

So he turned—reluctantly—and headed for the hall closet. He hadn’t opened it in years. Not since Melissa left. Wedged behind the vacuum cleaner and a few broken-down hymnals sat two battered cardboard boxes. One was labeled “XMAS—ANGELS.” The other was scrawled with “MEL CLOTHES (DO NOT TOUCH)” in a familiar, angry black marker.

She’d moved out fast—furious, half-sobbing, leaving in a flurry of suitcases and final words. But she’d left a few boxes. At the time, Greg had assumed she just didn’t want to deal with packing everything.

Greg hesitated. A man’s home was his castle—but a woman’s old box of clothes? That was sacred territory.

Well. He wasn’t exactly a man anymore. Not on the outside.

With a grunt, he pulled the box free and flipped it open.

A mix of pastel and dark fabric greeted him, wrinkled and musty. He rifled through it, flinching at the feeling of silk and lace brushing against his fingers. A couple of tops—tight knits and low necklines. A few skirts. A pair of dark jeans with rhinestones on the pockets. A box of tangled bras and underwear.

Greg made a sound halfway between a groan and a prayer.

“Lord, forgive me. But I need something that doesn’t make me look like a circus act.”

First came the shirt—he peeled it up, over the new chest that bounced softly with every tug. His bare skin prickled in the cool air of the hallway, goosebumps spreading across his delicate arms and shoulders. His chest was...

Greg forced himself not to look too closely.

The jeans were next. He unzipped them and stepped out awkwardly, stumbling slightly as they bunched around his ankles. When he straightened, he was fully exposed.

The full effect of it hit him.

He stood naked in the hallway mirror—short, curvy, and soft. His breasts stood high and firm, with dusky nipples that seemed too sensitive, too alert in the chill. His hips flared in a way that seemed exaggerated, unreal. His thighs were thick. His stomach flat and tight. And between his legs... nothing he recognized.

He turned, catching sight of the curve of his rear in the hallway mirror.

It was scandalous. Round. Full. Eye-catching in a way that no God-fearing body ought to be.

Greg swallowed hard.

This wasn't just a woman’s body. It was that kind of woman’s body. The kind that men noticed. The kind that made magazine covers or prowled Instagram feeds like traps for the weak-willed.

Greg Talbott was not a weak man.

But right now, the image in the mirror made his thoughts go fuzzy.

He felt warmth rise to his cheeks. And lower.

“Stop that,” he hissed. He turned away, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re better than this. You are a vessel of the Lord. This is a trial. A test.”

He fumbled with the bra next. It took a couple of tries—two backward hook attempts and one inside-out mistake—but finally, he got it around his chest and clipped. The weight of his breasts shifted, lifted, and settled. It was... relieving, somehow.

Then the jeans. Tight, stretchy, and difficult to wrangle over hips like these. He had to jump a little to get them up—his butt jiggled with each bounce, which made him want to scream. When the button finally snapped closed, he exhaled in disbelief. They fit. Perfectly.

He pulled on the black T-shirt. It was snug across the chest, a little too short at the waist, but at least it covered him.

When he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he nearly cursed.

He looked… good. Not just “acceptable”—cute. The jeans lifted his rear, the bra kept everything up front in place, and the shirt hugged just enough to suggest soft curves. He looked like a twenty-something on her way to brunch. And he hated it.

But it beat looking like a walking wardrobe malfunction.

He found a pair of Melissa’s old sandals near the bottom of the closet. They fit, too—snugly, like they’d been waiting.

Greg stood straight, tugged the shirt down, and scowled.

He was going out.