Managing Optics The Remote of Transformation chapter 7 by deleted_user

The stares were getting ridiculous.

Two grown men loitering outside the fitting rooms in the women’s lingerie section—one flamboyant in a pink silk robe he’d refused to change out of, the other a nervous nerd clutching shopping bags like a security blanket—had drawn every side-eye in the store. A security guard had already wandered past twice. Whispers floated: “What are those guys doing here?” “Creeps.” “Boyfriend waiting for his girlfriend, maybe?”

Brandon rolled his eyes dramatically. “This is absurd. We look suspicious as hell, and I refuse to be judged while curating perfection.” He snatched the remote from Paul’s pocket before the nerd could protest.

“Brandon, wait—don’t—”

Too late.

Brandon pointed the remote at himself first, thinking average-looking woman, nothing crazy, keep the personality and vibe. Click.

The change hit fast but gentler than Vince’s porn-star overhaul. Brandon’s lean, gym-toned body softened and shrank a few inches. His narrow hips flared modestly into an average pear shape—nothing exaggerated, just soft and feminine. Chest swelled into a pair of unremarkable C-cup breasts, modest and slightly pendulous the way real ones often are. Face rounded out: cheekbones less sharp, jaw softer, lips thinner but still expressive. His short dark hair lengthened into a practical shoulder-length bob, turning a mousy brown. Skin smoothed but kept a few freckles and a small beauty mark. Clothes adjusted automatically into a simple blouse and jeans that fit the new average frame.

Brandon blinked, looked down at his (still very much his in his head) new body, and poked one modest breast experimentally. “Huh. Not bad. Functional. These are… manageable.” He turned to the mirror. Average. Pleasant. The kind of woman you’d see at book club or waiting in line at Starbucks. Nothing that would stop traffic, but perfectly fine. “Still fabulous, obviously. Just… less ‘runway,’ more ‘ approachable wine mom.’”

Paul’s eyes bugged out. “You just—without asking—”

“My turn for you, sweetie.” Brandon spun and zapped Paul before he could run.

Paul yelped as the remote hummed. His lanky, nerdy frame compacted. Shoulders narrowed, height dropped to a very average 5’5”. Belly softened into a gentle pooch, hips widened into a plain but serviceable shape. His chest pushed out into average B-cup breasts—smallish, a little asymmetrical, the kind that needed no special bra but still jiggled slightly when he moved. Face feminized into plain, studious features: big glasses still perched on a button nose, mousy brown hair in a messy ponytail, a few pimples on the forehead that refused to vanish. Skin was pale and unremarkable. The transformation left him in baggy jeans and a plain t-shirt that now hung loosely over his new modest chest.

Paul stared down at himself—herself in body only—hands flying up to cup the small breasts. “What the fuck, Brandon?! These are… tiny! And I’ve got hips now. And… oh god, no dick. This feels so weird. Everything’s shifted.”

Brandon—now an average-looking brunette woman in a blouse—grinned with the same flamboyant energy, voice still carrying that theatrical lilt even if it was a little higher-pitched. “See? Now we blend. No more creepy guys in the lingerie department. We’re just three girls out shopping. Perfectly normal.” He adjusted his new bra strap with zero self-consciousness. “These tits are boring compared to Vince’s monsters, but at least they don’t require structural engineering. And look at you, Paul—adorable little bookworm type. Those glasses still work. Very ‘studious lesbian who grades papers.’”

Vince poked his head out of the fitting room at that exact moment, still wearing the tiny red push-up bra (tits spilling everywhere) and micro denim skirt from the last try-on. His platinum blonde Farrah Fuxx body contrasted wildly with the two newly average women standing there. He blinked, massive chest heaving. “The fuck happened to you two? You look like… soccer moms who gave up. Paul, you’re flat as a board compared to these bad boys.” He hefted his own enormous breasts for emphasis, making them bounce heavily. “And Brandon, you’re… basic. Like, aggressively basic.”

Brandon preened anyway, fluffing his mousy bob. “Basic is safe, darling. And practical. Now we can shop without security tailing us. Besides, I still have better taste than both of you combined.” He turned to the sales associate who was now watching the trio with open confusion. “We’ll take the red set, the black balconette, three thongs, and that sheer babydoll. My friend here—” he gestured at Vince’s overflowing cleavage “—has very specific support needs.”

Vince grumbled, still flushed and clearly fighting the constant low-level horniness of his centerfold body. “Great. Now I’m the only one who looks like a porn star, and you two are playing dress-up as plain Janes. This remote is fucked.”

Paul adjusted his new glasses, trying not to think about the strange empty feeling between his legs or the way his small breasts moved when he breathed. “Can we please go home and fix this before anything else happens?”

But Brandon was already waving a credit card (somehow still working) and chatting animatedly with the sales girl about “finding cute tops for our very blessed friend.”

Vince stepped out fully, ass swaying, tits bouncing, drawing every eye in the store again. His new pussy gave another unwelcome throb at all the attention.