Diagnostics
The Remote of Transformation
chapter 5
by
ThePanswapticon
Ethan couldn’t stop touching himself. Not in a smooth, sexy way—more like a kid who’d found the cheat codes to biology and spammed inputs to see what glitched. His oversized gym shorts rode low on new hips that curved like parentheses. His T‑shirt clung to breasts that refused to sit still. Every shift made them lift, settle, spread heat across his chest. Nipples grazed cotton and fired sparks straight down his spine.
He faced the mirror and lifted the hem. The shirt peeled off damp skin. Two perfect globes rose from his ribs, full and high, not sagging at all. D‑cups? Bigger. Call it a D‑plus; round up, always. Pale skin with a warm flush. Areolas a soft rose, bigger than his thumbs, tight from the room’s AC. Nipples like pencil erasers stood at attention, begging to be pinched. He cupped his breasts. Weight filled his palms, forward and alive. He bounced on his heels. Flesh lagged then snapped. He barked out a laugh that broke into a gasp when his thumbs rolled the tips.
Holy upgrade.
He needed data. Science fair judges loved numbers. Also he wanted to know how much jiggle per Newton.
He grabbed calipers, tape, notebook. He wedged one breast onto the desk scale he used for drone batteries. The digital readout flickered, overloaded. He penned "Note: boobs exceed battery scale. Find kitchen scale." He thumbed across the right nipple again. Skin wrinkled, tip darkened, pulse jumped. "Sensitivity: extreme." He underlined it three times.
He leaned sideways, measuring waist. 23 inches. That couldn’t be right. Again. Same. Hips 36. Ass? He angled to wrap the tape around for an ass reading, and lost balance because his center of gravity now lived south and wide. He caught himself on the chair, the motion setting off waves in his chest.
He squinted at the poster of Lila Hart. The match was dead on. Same tan lines. Same faint beauty mark under the left breast curve. His body even smelled faintly like coconut lotion and warm skin, not Axe and teenage boy B.O.
He stared at the crotch of his shorts. Flat. Smooth. A tiny ridge. Heat pooled there just from thinking the word flat. His brain kept reaching for familiar weight and finding nothing. That absence felt obscene.
Yeah, we’re checking that next.
He kicked the door lock. Mom never barged without knocking, but tonight didn’t need surprises. He grabbed his phone, flipped the selfie cam, lay back on the bed, knees up, shorts peeled. A soft blond landing strip rode his mound; everything else bare and slick like studio lighting. The lips laid closed at first glance, neat and snug. He spread two fingers.
Jesus.
Outer labia parted to reveal inner folds flushed coral. Plump edges shaped like velvet parentheses; moisture already glassing the seams. A hood at the top hid a pink bead. He brushed it. Electricity. His hips jerked. A wet sound answered.
He zoomed the phone tighter. The urethral opening sat below the clit, tiny, almost shy. Below that, the entry—dark rose, muscular ring that flexed when he breathed. He pulled his knees wider. Slick stretched in a shiny thread from inner lip to his finger. He touched his tongue to it—salty, faint sweet, not gross. Okay a little gross. Science.
He grabbed a pen and scribbled on notebook paper balanced on his thigh. The paper stuck when he shifted; he peeled it off with a rude string.
"Lubrication baseline: spontaneous under mild tactile stimulus + visual self‑exposure.
Taste profile: saline / skin / ???" He sniffed his fingers again. Warm. Human. Hot.
He pressed two fingers along the seam and slid. Tissue hugged him, then let him in up to the second knuckle like a mouth learning shape. Muscles fluttered. His toes curled so hard his calf cramped.
This isn’t fair.
He thumbed the hood again, lighter this time. Pleasure flashed, sharp and focused, but it didn’t crash like a male climax. It climbed. It spread. It waited for more. Promise over punch.
He needed instruments.