Into the Gym The New World of SwapTech chapter 5 by deleted_user

The woman in the glass door was him. Her—his—eyes were wide with primal terror. Brent’s mind reeled; his database of plays and film study scattered into useless noise. This wasn't a play. This was the foundation of his entire existence cracking.

His new body felt alien, a poorly fitted suit. The sweatshirt swallowed his narrower frame. Compression shorts, once snug, now dug into the soft flesh of his hips and gaped around his thinner thighs. Every movement was a betrayal. He stepped toward the entrance, his center of gravity all wrong. He felt top-heavy, unsteady.

The electronic lock beeped cheerfully. The mechanism clicked. He shoved the heavy door open, stumbled into the cavernous, silent space. Racks stood like skeletal giants under dim safety lights. The air smelled of disinfectant and old effort. His eyes scanned the room, a thousand-morning habit. He needed to see. He needed to understand the full scope of the violation.

He moved toward the men’s locker room, his softer-soled shoes making no sound on the rubberized flooring. Pushing the door open, he was met with the smell of bleach and damp towels. Empty. Thank God. It was a long, tiled room lined with metal lockers, with a shower area and private changing stalls at the far end.

He beelined for the last stall, the one with the full-length mirror on the door. He fumbled with the latch, his unfamiliar fingers clumsy, and finally shoved the stall door shut, locking himself in.

He faced the mirror.

The person in the reflection flinched.

He took a sharp, ragged breath and made himself look.

The face was still his, but rewritten by a careless hand. The bones were finer. His nose, broken twice and reset, seemed straighter, more delicate. The lips were fuller. His hair, once cropped short for the helmet, now brushed his new, more slender shoulders. He looked… young. And undeniably female.

He peeled off the massive sweatshirt. It dropped to the floor in a heap of grey cotton. He was wearing a tight, moisture-wicking undershirt beneath it. Or he had been. Now it hung loose around his torso, but it was stretched and distorted across his chest.

With a trembling hand, he gripped the hem of the shirt and pulled it up.

He stared.

Two firm, pale breasts sat high on his chest. They weren't large, but they were unquestionably there, crowned with areolas the color of wet sand and tight, pebbled nipples. He watched his own—her own—reflection’s hands rise to touch them. The sensation was electric and horrifying. The skin was ultrasensitive. A jolt shot through him, a confusing mix of revulsion and a sharp, unwelcome flicker of physical response. He dropped his hands as if burned.

His gaze traveled lower, over the flat plane of his stomach. The defined six-pack was gone, replaced by a smooth, soft abdomen that tapered down sharply.

He couldn't put it off any longer.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the compression shorts and his boxer briefs beneath, and pushed them down in one frantic motion. They pooled around his ankles, which were now more slender, the bones more pronounced.

He looked.

He saw the smooth, hairless mound of a vulva. The lips were closed, neat. There was no penis. There were no testicles. There was just… this. An absence. A rearrangement.

A low, wounded sound escaped his throat. He reached down, his touch hesitant, then more insistent. He probed, parted the folds with fingers that felt numb. He found the opening, a tight, vulnerable slit. He found the small, hard nub of the clitoris. He pressed it.

A shockwave of sensation, so intense it buckled his knees, ricocheted through his body. He gasped, stumbling back against the cold tile wall of the stall, his legs giving out. He slid to the floor, the shorts still tangled around his ankles. He sat there on the cool tiles, naked and shaking, staring at the foreign landscape of his own body.

He was just trying to process the surreal, silken feel of his inner thighs when he heard it.

The main locker room door creaked open.