7-Eleven Trip The Remote of Transformation chapter 12 by ThePanswapticon

Ethan sighed, shoulders slumping. “One snack run. Fast. We’re in, we’re out.”

Marcus grinned like a wolf. “Atta girl.”

Twenty minutes later they crept across the dewy backyard toward Marcus’s idling Civic, porch lights off, Ethan swallowed inside a lavender hoodie and black leggings that fit like shrink‑wrap.

He tried not to think about underwear, because he wasn’t wearing any. The leggings rode up every step, seam wedged tight along his new anatomy, drawing a thin live wire of sensation. Each stride rolled his hips; each roll rubbed the seam; each rub teased wetness he’d sworn he was done producing for the night.

Marcus opened the passenger door and stared. “Seatbelt’s gonna disappear between those—”

“Drive,” Ethan hissed, yanking the belt. The strap cut between his breasts; the sports bra flattened but not enough; pressure lit both nipples. He clenched his jaw. Data point: everything touches everything.

Marcus eased onto the road. “Gonna need subcategories for your data at this point. Friction tolerance curves, public arousal suppression—”

“Shut up or I’ll key your car with my new nails.”

They rolled into the 7‑Eleven lot, empty except for a lifted pickup and a delivery van. Fluorescents hummed. Mosquitoes orbited the lights. Ethan checked the mirror. Blond hair framed his face in soft waves. Lips looked bitten. He looked like trouble.

“Okay,” Marcus said. “Mission goals: one, see how strangers read you; two, buy snacks; three, grab tampons so you learn the aisle.”

“Why tampons?”

“You’re in a female body, dude. Know thy gear. You'll be happy sooner or later.”

"I'm not going to be like this for that long," Ethan groaned. “Fine. Fast in, fast out.”

The automatic door whooshed. Cold air slapped his damp leggings. His nipples fired again. He hugged the hoodie pouch. The night clerk—a college guy with half‑closed eyes and a name badge that read RAY—looked up, did a slow double take, and straightened.

Ray tried to play it cool. “Evening.”

Ethan waved without speaking. The voice thing still spooked him in front of strangers. Marcus steered a basket into his hands and stage‑whispered, “You’re killing him. Ray’s about to offer us the deed to the store.”

“Focus,” Ethan muttered.

They hit the snack aisle. Ethan bent for chips. Hoodie lifted. Cool air kissed the top curve of his ass where the leggings strained thin. Marcus choked on a laugh behind him.

Coverage failure at 23 degrees bend. Noted: avoid bottom shelf product retrieval.

They rounded to health/beauty. Wall of pads, tampons, liners, weird pastel boxes. Ethan stared like it was alien biotech.

“Okay,” Marcus coached. “Pads for external catch; tampons internal; some with plastic applicators, some cardboard, some bullets no applicator—”

Ethan picked up a super‑plus box, flipped it, squinted at cutaway diagrams. “They expect people to just jam a cotton rocket into—”

“Yeah.”

He grabbed three sizes in panic. “Field kit.”

Marcus added a bottle of generic lube “for science,” three Red Bulls, jerky, sour worms, and—because he couldn’t resist—a pack of XXL condoms. Ethan glared.

“What? Control group.”

Checkout. Ray scanned items, eyes flickering up every two seconds. “Uh… y’all having a party?”

Marcus shrugged. “Science fair all‑nighter.”

Ray scanned the condoms, glanced at Ethan, and fumbled, dropping them. Ethan felt heat crawl up his neck. Moisture answered between his thighs because embarrassment now apparently toggled arousal. Perfect.

“ID for the energy drinks,” Ray said, recovering.

Marcus handed his card.

Ray flicked a glance at Ethan. “You need anything else?”

Ethan hadn’t spoken yet. He forced sound out. “Bathroom?”

Smooth, smoky voice. Ray blinked like he’d been hit. “Yeah, key on the hook.”

Marcus elbowed Ethan. Field test. Ethan took the keys and shuffled toward the back, fully aware of Ray’s stare drilled into his backside.

The bathroom was a single‑stall, with harsh light and the faint smell of bleach. At least it didn't smell like anything else. Ethan locked the door, yanked his leggings down, and groaned—cool air on damp labia; the seam had carved a red line along his slit. He dabbed with rough paper towel, regretted every life choice, then paused.

He spread his knees over the bowl and looked down. Labia glossy. Hood swollen from friction. He put two fingers on the mound and gave the tiniest rub. Heat surged. Nope. Public. Stop.

He peed. Spray fanned wide from pressure angle; he corrected midstream and still misted the rim. He wiped, inspected. Still wet. He unboxed a pantyliner from the pad sample multipack, stared at it, tried to stick it to the inside of his leggings, realized the adhesive went on underwear he didn’t have, swore, stuck it lengthwise to the hoodie front pocket instead like a sad trophy, then pulled everything up.

“Lesson: always wear underwear,” he muttered.

Ethan and Marcus stepped back into the night with plastic bags. The pickup truck engine revved noisily, and the two guys inside leaned out the windows.

“Yo blondie!” the passenger yelled. “You coming to the quarry tonight?”

Ethan flinched. Marcus lifted a middle finger without slowing. Data: Male gaze detection: high.

Ethan’s pulse pounded. Half fear, half thrill. Some part of him—still a horny high‑school guy—buzzed from raw attention. Another part wanted to disappear into the hoodie forever.

They slid into the Civic. Ethan exhaled hard. “Public beta sucks.”

“Yeah?” Marcus grinned. “Because Ray drooled? Or because you’re soaking through my sister’s leggings?”

Ethan shot him a death glare. Marcus raised hands. “Scientific observation. Also your hoodie pocket ate a pad.”

“Shut up and drive.”