Bedtime for Both The Remote of Transformation chapter 11 by ThePanswapticon

Dylan shut off the TV, the apartment finally quiet except for Steph’s soft baby grumbles from her nest of pillows. She’d finally worn herself out after half an hour of complaining about being “trapped in a diapered hell.”

“Thank God,” Dylan muttered, lifting her carefully into the makeshift crib—an old laundry basket lined with blankets. Steph sighed and rolled onto her side, thumb automatically finding her mouth. Dylan smirked.

“Yeah, real badass now, huh?”

She didn’t answer, already drifting.

Dylan turned off the lights and stumbled toward his own bed. The club’s red dress still clung to his skin, tight in all the wrong places, digging into his ribs every time he breathed. Sliding under the covers only made it worse. The silky fabric bunched between his thighs, and the new curves pressed oddly against the mattress.

“This is impossible,” he muttered.

He sat up, tugging at the dress. The zipper caught halfway down. “Seriously?” A few yanks later, he peeled it off, tossing it in a heap on the floor. His panties followed. He didn’t even think about it—just wanted the freedom.

But when he straightened and caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror, his breath stopped.

The woman staring back was gorgeous. Her skin was smooth, flushed faintly pink from the heat of the apartment. Full breasts lifted with every breath, soft curves tapering down to a narrow waist and hips that flared just enough to look dangerous. Her nipples were small and tight, a faint rosy hue that made Dylan’s pulse pick up.

He stepped closer to the mirror. The shift of his thighs, the faint bounce of his chest, the sway of his hips—it all felt strange and wrong but also… electric.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

His hand hovered, then brushed over one breast, just curious. The sensation was instant and overwhelming—like someone plugged a wire straight into his spine. He gasped. His knees nearly buckled.

“Okay. Wow. Sensitive.”

He grabbed a set of pajama shorts from the drawer, but couldn’t pull them on. Not yet. His gaze fell lower, to the smooth mound between his legs. His mind filled with questions. Curiosity burned hot, too hot to ignore.

Dylan sat on the edge of the bed, naked, fingertips tracing over his stomach, down past his navel, exploring. The first brush between his thighs made him flinch. It was different—softer, but alive, a pulse of sensation that shot through him.

“Jesus…” His breathing grew heavier. He leaned back, legs parting without thinking, one hand testing, stroking, learning. Every touch was like a spark.

Within minutes, his head was tipped back against the pillow, hair spilling across the sheets. His new body trembled, each movement making his breasts shift, every nerve awake and humming. He experimented—slow circles, pressure, sliding a finger lower—and the tension in his gut coiled tight.

“God… damn…” He bit his lip, a low groan escaping as his hips jerked forward.

The climax hit fast and hard, stealing his breath. His whole body locked, then shuddered, waves of heat rolling from his core out to his fingertips. He gasped for air, clutching at the sheets, eyes wide with shock at how intense it was.

“Okay… that was… wow.”

When it was over, he collapsed back against the pillows, sweat cooling on his bare skin. Pajamas were forgotten. The thought of covering up felt wrong, not after what he’d just discovered. He pulled the blanket over himself and let exhaustion swallow him, still naked, heart still pounding from the storm that had just run through his body.