FOY inc -3- Parked (Patreon)

“You need something to wear,” Gordon said as he turned the pickup into a big parking lot. He moved through the aisles to get closer to the front door of the gigantic store. “Do you know your sizes?”

“Sizes?” I said. We don’t need no stinking sizes, I wanted to say.

He shook his head, smiling. He parked the truck and turned the engine off, then looked at me as if measuring with his gaze. “Small,” he said. “Except—” he made a gesture at his chest.

I glanced down. They looked enormous, even wearing his loose hoodie. I’m tiny everywhere else, and I have huge tits, I thought. “I’m going to need—” I gestured. “You know? A bra?” I blushed to say it because it was true—without some kind of restraint, I was at the doubtful mercy of my oversize accessories.

“I have no idea how to buy the right size of that. Let me get you some shorts and tops, and then you can go in and maybe try some other stuff on?”

“‘Kay,” I said. It came to me as he exited the car that he was suggesting that I go into the lingerie department and shop for a bra. Oh, hell, no. I sighed. Bra shopping looked like an existential crisis looming.

He trotted off toward the entrance, and I watched him go with some nervousness. I couldn’t see the front of the store clearly, and his figure disappeared into the blur. Had things far away always been so blurry?

I whimpered, and so did Albert. “It’s just me and you, Albert,” I said to the dog. I didn’t like being left alone. I felt small and weak, but I reached out and stroked Albert and felt his tail wag.

But Gordon returned in only a few minutes, empty-handed. He used the clicker on his keyfob to unlock the doors. “They won’t let me in without a shirt,” he explained after getting the door open.

I giggled. “You want yours back?” I said. Maybe I could wear Albert while he was gone.

“Just a second,” he said, searching around in the boxes behind the seats. “Ah,” he said, producing a rather ratty-looking blanket. He handed it to me. “Can you get under this, then take off the sweatshirt, and I’ll be back as soon as I can?”

I took the blanket dubiously. “It’s not big enough,” I complained. He unfolded it several times until it was as big as the carseat. “Oh,” I said. Maybe I’m not drunk, maybe I’m just stupid.

“Here,” he said, spreading it over me, so only my head was exposed.

“Urf?” said Albert as the blanket settled over his head. He responded further by sticking his nose in my crotch again.

I got a ferocious case of the giggles while I struggled with a dog I couldn’t see to keep him from doing what dogs do best (that’s lick genitals if you didn’t know). I managed to push him out of the treasure room and squeeze my thighs together once more. “Hoo, boy,” I sighed.

Gordon looked perplexed. Which proved he didn’t have x-ray vision and couldn’t see through the blanket.

I put my arms up so Gordon could pull the hoodie off over my head. He was so very near me while he did this that I gasped as an image of something else being pulled out occurred to me. Was Gordon built to scale? But why was I thinking about such a thing?

Laughing softly, Gordon retrieved his sweatshirt and let me retreat under the blanket. “Stay in the cab,” he said. “I’ll lock the doors.”

“‘Kay,” I agreed.

He put the garment back on, climbed out of the cab and relocked the doors. I watched him disappear toward the storefront but again couldn’t see him all the way; he blurred completely long before he got there. Albert wiggled out from the floorboards to take up sentry position in the driver’s seat. He looked over his shoulder at me and whined.

“I know how you feel, pup,” I said. I didn’t like him leaving us either.

Oddly, lying under a blanket with only my head showing in the cab of the truck, I felt more naked than I had when I was nude on the beach. But it would be too embarrassing to whine like a puppy. “He’ll be back,” I assured the dog. “At least, I hope he will….”

*

Gordon had been gone only minutes, leaving Albert and me in the truck cab, me hiding under a blanket because I still had no clothes to wear. I didn’t like being left alone, I discovered. I felt very vulnerable since I was now a woman, despite vague memories of having been a man.

“This can’t be real,” I reminded myself. “I can’t be a woman….” At the same time as I told myself these things, my hands roamed over my body under the blanket. “I must be dreaming. Maybe I’m on some excellent drugs.” It would explain why things were blurry, too.

But why would I dream of being female? I’d never had more than a fleeting thought of what it might be to have been born a woman that I could remember, at any rate. But that sort of memory of self-identification is much more robust than just remembering one’s name. How did I know a fact like that?

It seemed as if memories wanted to peek through a fog of confusion. I knew I had been on a boat…. That something terrible had happened on the boat, and I had been in the water a very long time. But the ‘I’ who had been on the boat was not the dainty-yet-big-breasted female I seemed to be now.

A whine from Albert caused me to look up with hope, but Gordon wasn’t back yet, nor was he anywhere in sight. “Don’t be an idiot, Albert,” I told the dog.

Albert turned half around and said, very clearly, “Waiyawoneewaa!”

I had to agree. “We both want him to hurry back.” Really, I was feeling a lot of separation anxiety, too.

To distract myself from waiting for Gordon, I explored my body under the blanket, taking occasional peeks for visual confirmation. My hands seemed tiny, especially compared to my, well, my breasts. Tits. Boobs. Jugs. Hooters. All the names for such female parts occurred to me, words that reduced women to objects. Soft, warm objects as big as my head. And now, those words apparently referred to me.

That thought did not concern me as much as my own reaction to having thought of it. I stopped my explorations there when I noticed my nipples beginning to respond to the stimulation, or the objectification. Yike. That just seemed wrong.

But my skin was so smooth! Flawless? Not quite, while I didn’t find any hair on my body above the waist, there seemed to be something odd about my navel. It took me a while to figure it out; I had a piercing in my belly button. I couldn’t get a good look at it under the blanket because something kept getting in the way. Two somethings. But it felt quite substantial, like a short curved rod with a jewel or a knob or something nearly as big as my pinkie on each end.

My hands went to my ears, and sure enough, they had piercings, too. I hadn’t seen my reflection yet, but apparently, I had several small studs in my left ear and more in my right. Maybe one on the right had fallen out? I felt for an empty hole and decided that yeah, I had one missing. “I’ve got an extra hole in my head,” I said out loud. Maybe that’s why I feel so stupid, and the thought made me giggle like a loon.

Something else occurred to me, something in my mouth. First, I felt around with my tongue, then I stuck a finger in my mouth and confirmed it. I had tongue piercings, inline down the middle. I hoped they were tasteful. Nothing tacky. I knew what tongue piercings were for—but I had hopes that I wasn’t too slutty.

Finding the tongue studs reminded me of an old joke. I could remember jokes but not my name? Anyway, the joke, told by some woman comic, went something like: in any group of four women, there’s one brain, one ditz, one prude and one slut. Look at three of your friends and figure out which one you are.

Maybe I could be just a little slutty. That could be fun.

Sigh. It became obvious that not only was I female now, a woman, but I was a particular woman. One who may well have made her living in entertainment: a stripper, an escort, someone’s expensive mistress, or…. This thought was more embarrassing than just confirming my femaleness.

But then, I hadn’t yet, had I? Time to explore below the waist. First off, the smooth hairlessness of my skin continued. Not a hint of a bush. And no male package, which I had been pretty sure of. And another piercing, touching which sent a jolt of sensation into my brain. Nothing I’d ever felt before, though something like the over-sensitivity that sometimes follows sex when pleasure and pain can be hard to tell apart.

I avoided that item, presumably my clitoris, in more exploration. What a strange thing to be thinking of, my clitoris. Was there a song? “M-m-my clitoris.” A noise very like a dainty snort disturbed me even more when I realized that I had made it. I’ve got a ring down there. Slutty is as slutty does, slut, I told myself.

Labia, vagina, yes, all the female equipment, and most of it covered in sand. Thinking about it made me itch.

But now I did whimper. It was true; I was a woman right where it mattered most. Still, somehow, I knew what things would feel like—down there—if I were a man. But if I had been a man, how could I now be a woman? And such a woman, so soft, so smooth? So—ornamented and ornamental?

Even my overly fleshy butt was smooth as a baby’s cheeks. Was I too perfect? Maybe I was an android? A machine in the shape of a person? Did such things exist? With a memory as full of holes as mine, I couldn’t be sure. Were flying men and plastic women only icons of entertainment?

Huh? I didn’t know. I kind of thought…maybe? Had I ever seen anyone fly or shoot eyebeams or… in movies or in real life? Maybe I had been created by a mad scientist?