Mechanic Blues The Remote of Transformation chapter 6 by bodyswapbabe

Ray sat on the cool garage floor, legs sprawled in a wide V, breathing like he’d just finished running a marathon in a sauna. Sweat—or maybe leftover transformation juice—clung to his skin. His chest rose and fell in exaggerated motion, each breath pushing twin, unnaturally perfect mounds up and out in a way that made him queasy to look at.

 

“God…dammit,” he muttered, voice syrupy and nasal, with just a hint of sing-song Latina lilt. The sound of it startled him every time.

 

The overhead light buzzed faintly. Somewhere outside, a lawnmower roared to life. And inside his garage, Ray Quinn—former linebacker, weekend grill master, and diehard V8 enthusiast—sat half-naked, transformed into a busty Instagram model with baby-soft skin, glossy lips, and a pair of tits so big they practically blocked his view of his own goddamn knees.

 

His torn tank top still clung to one shoulder like a flag of surrender. His shorts had shredded somewhere between thigh expansion and ass inflation, leaving him in a comically small pair of boxers barely containing the rest of him. Not that there was much “rest of him” left to contain. He’d checked.

 

Ray groaned and wiped at his face. His fingers came away greasy. The black smudges looked weird on these hands—narrower, softer, with long coral-painted nails.

 

“Shit,” he muttered, tilting his head back against the wall. His hair brushed the concrete behind him, still silky and stupidly long. “Goddamn shit.”

 

A minute passed.

 

Then another.

 

And then Ray huffed out a breath, grabbed the wrench, and shoved himself upright.

 

“Fine. You wanna mess with me, Ethan?” he growled, striding barefoot back toward the Charger. “You think you can prank your old man with some Harry Potter bullshit and I’ll just sit here and cry into my... my fuckin’ C-cups?”

 

He paused, glancing down.

 

“...Double-Ds? Jesus.”

 

He clambered up under the hood again. Or tried to.

 

His balance was off. Center of gravity all screwed. The first time he leaned over the bumper, his left breast smacked against the hot edge of the engine block, leaving a faint grease-smear across his sideboob.

 

“Fffuck—!” he hissed, jerking back. His boob bounced like a sprung trap. “Goddamn these things!”

 

He adjusted—tentatively cupping them, shifting the hang, trying to wedge them more comfortably inside what remained of his shirt. It didn’t work. There was no comfortable. They were just there, swinging and jiggling and throwing off his range of motion.

 

He tried again, leaning forward, this time bracing an elbow on the frame.

 

His hips bumped the fender behind him. Wider than before. He’d already smacked into the corner of his workbench twice just walking around. Crawling around a cramped engine bay felt like trying to do an army crawl with sandbags tied to his chest.

 

Ray gritted his teeth. “I’m still me,” he muttered. “I’m still a goddamn man. This doesn’t change shit.”

 

He twisted the wrench into place with both hands, fingers slipping a little on the oiled metal. These hands were daintier. Not weak, exactly, but they didn’t have the meat he was used to. Turning the bolt took twice the effort—and by the time it gave, his palm was stinging.

 

He hissed again. “Gonna need gloves. Real ones. Not some dainty pink gardening crap.”

 

He reached for the rag he kept tucked into his back pocket out of habit.

 

Except—it wasn’t there.

 

Because these shorts didn’t have a back pocket anymore. Just a taut curve of fabric so tight it was practically wedged between his cheeks.

 

Ray swore under his breath, then caught sight of his reflection in the chrome air intake.

 

For a second, he didn’t recognize the woman staring back. She was gorgeous. Sex-doll gorgeous. Dirty, glistening with sweat and engine grease, hair in disarray and lips parted from exertion. Her breasts swayed slightly with each breath. Her eyes had that sultry, unintentionally flirtatious shape even when narrowed in frustration.

 

Then he blinked—and saw himself in the expression. The scowl. The furrowed brow.

 

“Still in here,” he whispered.

 

He wiped the sweat from his brow again, this time using the inside of his forearm—since his hands were hopeless, slippery, and one still had a nail bent sideways from trying to tighten a cap.

 

Everything felt off. He couldn’t squat the same way. His thighs pressed together. His stomach got in the way when he bent. The usual shoulder torque he relied on for leverage just… wasn’t there.

 

And the heat. God. He was sweating in places he didn’t know could sweat.

 

He adjusted again, glancing down. The top half of his chest looked like something airbrushed on a billboard, but in person it just got in the way. Every time he leaned, they swung. Every time he moved, they bounced. His nipples were hard under the oil-stained cotton, and he hated how aware he was of them. Too sensitive. Too... obvious.

 

He backed away from the engine block with a growl of frustration.

 

Then he sat down on the stool, legs splayed without thinking—until the sudden breeze across his now way-too-exposed groin reminded him why women sit differently.

 

Ray quickly clamped his thighs together.

 

He stared down at his thighs. Smooth. Curvy. His own father would’ve whistled at a girl like this walking down the street.

 

That thought made him want to puke.

 

He leaned back, exhaling hard. His tits jiggled with the motion. He growled again.

 

“Alright,” he said aloud, as if to no one. “I’m gonna fix the carburetor. Then I’m gonna fix my goddamn body. Then I’m gonna fix that little bastard.”

 

His voice cracked slightly at the end—high, breathy, the kind of voice that would’ve belonged to a background dancer in a reggaeton video. He glared at the wrench in his hand.

 

“No science project’s gonna beat me,” he said, quieter now. “I built this garage. Fixed every goddamn engine in the neighborhood. Put food on the table with these hands. You think I can’t turn a wrench just because I’ve got...”

 

He waved vaguely at his new, curvier self.

 

“...all this?”

 

He tightened his grip. The wrench slipped again. His wrist ached.

 

Ray stared at his hand. At the long nail now chipped. At the dainty wrist smeared with oil.

 

Then—begrudgingly—he walked over to the workbench, opened the top drawer, and pulled out his old pair of padded mechanic gloves.

 

They were way too big now.

 

He looked down. “Fuck.”

 

Still, he slid them on, tightening the Velcro straps so they’d cling to his smaller wrists. Then he walked back to the engine.

 

Each step jiggled. Everything moved. The concrete was cold under his bare feet. He hated how his hips rolled with every motion now—like his spine had been set on a damn spring.

 

He set the wrench.

 

Grunted.

 

Turned.

 

This time, it gave.

 

He smiled. A small, reluctant one.

 

“Still got it,” he muttered.

 

Then he caught his reflection again—and rolled his eyes.

 

“Just... with more ass than before.”