Lake Otherlife, Part 2 (Patreon)

A visit to a mysterious outback lake results in a big change for George and Holly, who are already undergoing relationship troubles of their own. Now, with their genders and lives utterly altered, will their romance last?

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George:

It was impossible. It was loco. Wait, why did I just think of the word loco? Standing in front of me was a tall, well-built man who claimed to be Holly. And I . . . I was somehow in a body completely alien to me. A very, very female body. The weight from my chest was seriously heavy, and everything had a greater degree of softness. Long, dark curly hair hung down my shoulders, and I could feel just with my hands that my face was a different shape. I held my slender arms up to my eyes. Not only were they supremely feminine and hairless, they were a bronze-brown colour, perfectly smooth and unblemished. It made me gasp, and then gasp again at my own high voice.

“I’m - I’m a woman.”

That’s when I realised another new thing. Not only had my gender and race changed, but I now also spoke in a noticeable Spanish accent. I looked to the man across from me, who was regarding his own body with stunned curiosity. Goddamn, this had to be a dream! What the hell was going on!? He looked at me - looked down at me - and I was shocked to hear him speak in a low baritone.

“Calm down honey! I know it’s you in there. It’s me! Holly.”

“Holly? Esto es Loco! I mean, this is crazy! What has happened to us? Why do I know Spanish? Why did I just use the word loco?”

My voice was like honey, and I had the kind of accent that would normally be the right kind of turn on. Only there was a noticeable absence between my legs of something that would normally react to that, and I was not thinking about that right now. I stepped forward, and most definitely refused to acknowledge the strange and heavy wobbling pulling against my chest, like two sacks of flour that altered my centre of balance.

“Holly,” I said, trying to ignore the exotic voice coming from my own mouth, “what the fuck is going on?”

Holly:

I stared at my former husband-to-be, unbelieving my eyes. The man I had fallen in love with, with his light brown hair and hairy white chest, the playful blue glint in his eyes and his lightly-muscled frame, was gone. In his place stood a bombshell of a woman who could have been a pinup model. She had dark olive skin and long curly black hair that fell down her perfect back in tresses. A heavy pair of breasts – seriously heavy, they were much bigger than my own had been – adorned her chest, tipped with large, dark areola. Her lips were full, her eyes a grey-green, and even her figure put mine to shame; an hourglass that led to the kind of child-bearing hips that drive men crazy, and a peach-shaped ass to make them all salivate. The kind of ass I had always wanted, even though I was cursed to be nearly as flat as a board.

I was ashamed to realise my first thoughts towards the woman my fiancé had become were ones of jealousy. I had always been pretty, in that ‘girl next door’ way, and it wasn’t vanity to take some pride in that, but this woman, even with her wide-eyed expression that highlighted her dark, thick eyebrows, was in another league entirely. She looked like a goddess, albeit one caught in the headlights. Covering herself with a sheet, she looked demure and lovely, and something stirred in this new body briefly. Something between my legs.

I ignored it as she asked her question again, in that foreign accent - Spanish, I think?

“¿Puedes oírme? Can you hear me? Holly, what has happened? Why do I have fucking tits on my chest?”

I snapped out of it, placing a thick hand past my ear to wipe away the long hairs - hairs that, I realised, no longer exists in such length.

“I don’t know George, I don’t know! Something has happened!”

“That is pretty damn obvious!” she replied in that accent, putting her hands on her broad hips and staring up at me. “Are we on drugs? Is it food poisoning? Is this real?”

I brushed my hand over my chest hairs. “It certainly feels real. Oh my God, George, what do we do?”

She brushed back her hair, clearly unused to having such a great mop of it.

“I have no idea. I have tits, Holly! You’ve got a penis! This is not normal. Somethin has caused this. We have to act and find out.”

That centred me. Beneath it all, the woman was still George. Decisive. Strident. While I was already feeling a bubbling of anxiety, he was preparing to act. I had little doubt his desire to avoid discussing our special

It was impossible to ignore my voice. It was manly, perhaps even more so than George’s own. It only exaggerated the strange feeling of being giant and powerful, particularly since I had grown in height; looming over my fiancé. George could only panic, searching around to find evidence of what had happened, talking about it being a dream, or a simulation, or anything to explain away this sudden supernatural occurrence.

As usual, while he searched for answers, I felt helpless, letting him take the lead while I considered my situation. As my feminised George moved, he had to keep adjusting his pyjamas to prevent them slipping off his widened hips, and his bare chest wobbled to an almost parodic degree. Dear God, she was positively stacked!

I found my old bra on the floor and handed it to her.

“Here, put this on for now until we get this sorted.”

The woman stared at me like I had three heads. “I am not putting that on.”

I moved around behind her, and could see her discomfort at my size. I felt discomfort at my size. “Here, it’s super easy George. Just until we figure it out.”

I placed the cups against her breasts and began fitting the straps. I had to pull them tighter than expected, and George mumbled complaints in Spanish the whole while. How could my fiancé be not only a woman, but suddenly know another language? I finish adjusted her.

“There love, turn around. I guarantee it will be better.”

The morose woman turned, and I saw my mistake. Her breasts were not just straining against the bra’s material, but actively overflowing the cups! She was even bustier than I’d thought she was, and again I was tinged with a little jealousy that my own, previously male fiancé had a much bigger chest than I did as a woman!

“This is not comfortable,” she said, and began working immediately to undo the straps. She sighed with relief as her gargantuan mammaries were released from their torment, bouncing free heavily in a way that clearly irritated her, but was better than the too-tight, too-small bra. She closed her eyes.

“Much better.”

Her perfect, dark nipples were slightly erect. She looked as if she’d stepped out of a Hollywood picture. It was a powerful image, but a burst of pain ‘downstairs’ took me out of it. I looked down at myself: I was now bulging out of my nighttime panties to an extreme extent, and it was not comfortable. The alien feeling of a penis between my legs was made ever more alien by it slowly rising to attention.

Oh my God, I had a penis, and it was a big one. I spun, trying to avoid George’s gaze as more and more blood pumped into it. I felt hung like a horse, and it was painful. With one hand, I swiped at my panties, and instead tore the band entirely, freeing my massive member from its confines. I was at ‘half-mast’, as George would put it, and the sight of his ass was for some reason doing wonders for me; he was currently bent over checking through various drawers, all the while trying to hold his massive boobs in one hand and failing utterly. He looked like something out of a cringy porn and for some damn reason this stupid male body found it unbelievably hot.

I had to exit the room. Take care of it.

“I’m sorry George, I didn’t mean to. I’m just going to centre myself for a moment.”

The beautiful woman - I don’t remember having a thing for women? - waved me off without looking, still searching for whatever had caused this.

“Sure, sure Holly. You take care. I’ll get you through this.”

He had no idea how true that was. I shut the door, sat down upon the closed toilet, and touched my hard member. God, it was so strange to have, and so big! It was more sensitive too, but different from a clitoris. More . . . aggressive. I began to stroke it, thinking of those bountiful breasts and supple browned ass, and I couldn’t help but grunt in a manly fashion as the picture became all the more vivid. What would it feel like to put this in someone? To be the penetrator? I stroked harder and harder, thinking of George’s new form. I didn’t care if this made me a lesbian or bi or straight, I just pictured that perfect form. My dick was ever harder, and I could feel my balls - I had balls! - pulse as if they were building to something. I heard George groan with annoyance as she tried to find the cause beyond the door, and it was so demure and sensual in sound that I suddenly felt a rush from my testicles; a buildup and release, a rise and rise and rise and rise until I couldn’t bear it anymore. I gripped the walls with my muscular hands, and a jet of cum exploded out of me, my body shuddering as my male parts expelled its excess seed.

In the aftermath I panted, feeling spent and clear-headed. So different from being a woman.

And yet, terrifyingly, so powerful as well.

George:

Holly was inconsolable. I knew she would be. I was already rattled by such a horrific change, no wonder that she was then sobbing. I heard a masculine groan from the hotel bathroom, and my first thought was to comfort her, but I knew she would want me to act, to stay in charge of the situation. I could get bogged down in the emotion later.

I tried to ignore the pendulous sway of my breasts - breasts! - as I searched the room for any clue of what happened. When Holly returned, I must have seemed frantic, because my masculinised partner took my shoulder firmly and said simply:

“George, m-maybe we should focus on being clothed first?”

She was right. We were both half-naked, and it felt odd to look at Holly for some reason. Perhaps it was because her current penis was larger than my own. Not that I had a penis anymore.

“You’re right,” I said. “Let’s hope our old clothing at least somewhat matches these stupid bodies.”

It didn’t. Because there was no old clothing. Everything we’d called our own was suddenly missing. Disappeared into thin air! Instead, our suitcases contained sets of clothes for a taller, more muscular man, and a . . .  curvier woman.

Holly hovered over my shoulder as she finished dressing. Like was sensible, she’d curtly avoided looking at that horse’s member hanging between her legs. But whereas she had taken quickly to dress, I was confronted by an awful reality.

“This - there’s nothing but dresses in her!” I proclaimed, hurling down a far-too pink example. “Dresses and skirts and bikinis! Where are the shirts? Where are the damn pants? Estoy que exploto!”

Holly took a large-cupped bikini top from me. God, she towered over me. She placed her hand in mine.

“Calm the Spanish, George. We can get you new clothes. For now, you can wear one of my tops over a skirt. But you’re going to need to wear a bra.”

I swivelled to face her. Face up at her. Those cups were huge. Were my breasts really that big? A quick look down confirmed that the canyon of cleavage over my chest was absolutely vast. No wonder they weighed so much: seriously, I felt like a cow! And to have those cups on would be accepting that the bra belonged to me. “No way. The last one felt like it was cutting my shoulders open!”

“That’s just because it was my old one. I think that whatever we took to bed didn’t change, like your pyjama bottoms. My bra is . . .”

I raised an eyebrow, folding my arms across my chest. I quickly realised my mistake; these massive melons were in the way. I folded my arms under them, and tried to ignore that I probably looked like a fourteen year-old boy’s wet dream come to life. “Qué? Your bra is what?”

Holly looked down at me. Christ, she was tall. It made my stomach do loops just to see it. “Honey, my bra is too small for you. You’re much bigger than I was. The only think you won’t bust or overflow out of is something from your changed closet.”

“Y-You’re loco if you think I’ll do that! I am not wearing a bra for these . . . these tits!”

I tried to puff out my chest, but immediately realised the problem. Holly was very pointedly trying to avoid looking at the impressively ample display I was putting on.

“You’ll regret it George. If I went too long without a bra, my shoulders would get sore, and the damn girls would not stop wobbling all over the place! Not to mention everyone could see my nipples through the top. You’ll have that in spades; just look at them George!”

They were indeed big. Bigger that Holly’s had been. Twice as big, if not three times. And one-hundred percent natural, if you could even call this insanity ‘natural.’ But I was adamant.

“No, I’m not wearing a bra. Just give me the shirt.”

I had to be decisive.

Holly:

He just had to be stubborn. Even in the midst of this craziness, my fiancé couldn’t listen to me. He, or she, or whatever my George was now, stood wearing his original set of pyjama bottoms, rolled up at the heels and pulled over his wide hips. A large white shirt practically hung to his knees, but it pulled tightly against two particular areas, allowing two nipples to poke prominently against the fabric. George refused to acknowledge his buxom goods, but reality was not conforming to such expectations. I tried to will myself to say something, but again fell silent.

Might as well rage against the sea.

My brown-skinned Mexican-accented partner, one who’d never set food in Central America, nevertheless considered the issue solved for the moment. Wait until you try running George, I thought.

I made sure not to mention what I’d just done in the bathroom. The feeling of it. The sensation of rubbing these powerful fingers down the length of my new penis, and feeling it become harder and harder and harder, and the pressure rise and rise. Locked in my mind was that image of my feminised fiancé, bent over, breasts hanging without support, as if begging to be taken from behind. It was as if all this new testosterone had flooded my system, and I needed release.

I had gotten it. It had taken some time to clean. I never quite realised just how much men needed relief like that, or how much they . . . produced. I had stepped back into the room utterly red-faced, ashamed, and yet also calmed. Thankfully, George hadn’t noticed a thing.

But as he searched through our belongings, something caught his attention, and held it silently.

“What is it, honey?” I asked. Jeez, I was not used to sounding so gruff. It sounded almost like a demand.

And so it was to my complete surprise that George automatically handed me my cream-coloured purse. I flipped it open, and gave what sounded to be a far too feminine gasp for my body. It wasn’t my purse anymore. It was his.

“George, your name has changed!”

“Sé. I know.”

Pictured on the ID card was not the man I had known for so many years, with his sandy brown hair and blue eyes. Instead, a gorgeous Latina or Hispanic woman with full lips, perfectly-styled dark hair, and perfect brown skin smiled back at me. Her name was listed as ‘Gabriella González.’ She was three years younger than George - 27 - and the other cards in her wallet revealed that she was not involved in lawyering at all, but instead worked as a secretary at an accounting firm. It was a thorough demotion.

“Honey, it says your name is Gabriella.”

He pouted. I don’t think he realised how sexy it looked. “Well, it’s not!”

“And that you’re an immigrant from Mexico. There’s naturalisation papers here confirming dual citizenship.”

“Also not true.”

“And it looks like you’re a secretary for some accounting firm.”

That got her attention. She snatched the wallet wordlessly from my hand and began rifling through it. I noticed George’s wallet was among the junk pulled from the bedside table. I took it; I had a feeling this was mine now.

True enough, it was. I was damn handsome, that’s for sure. Muscled, fit, with a square jaw and rugged charm. My name, apparently, was Harold O’Neill. My family name and origin had not apparently changed; I was still Sydney-born. Except that I was no longer a bank clerk. I was a real estate investor. Damn, I was probably loaded. I opened my phone. The photos had changed, and there were quite a few of George absolutely filling the pink bikini he had scorned while rifling through the luggage. But more than that, my bank account details were still largely the same, my password too. I nearly spluttered when I saw the number pop up on screen.

“Holy shit George, I’m -”

“A fucking secretary!? Really!? What the hell is happening to us, honey. Who would hire me as a secretary?”

I looked her up and down. Her large chest, rounded ass, tight waist and overall hourglass shape. The way her wavy black hair was tousled sexily down her shoulders, and her long legs led to dainty feet. With her sexy accent, unbelievable curves, and perfect brown skin, there probably wasn’t a red-blooded male exec on the planet who wouldn’t want George as their secretary.

“Oh God,” he continued, “what if we don’t have any money.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, I’m -“

“And if we’re stuck like this, I’ll need to support you. Shit, how am I going to do that looking like this? It’s that damn lake, isn’t it? Those strange visions we saw, that’s what caused this!”

“I think you’re right, hun, but look, in this . . . this new life we’ve got, I’m a -”

“We need to go back. Change out of these ridiculous bodies. If not, we won’t even be able to afford the mortgage on our -”

“GEORGE FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE CAN YOU JUST LISTEN TO ME AND NOT JUST BARGE AHEAD LIKE A BULLDOZER!”

George sprang up straight as a rod, eyes wide, mouth open but no words coming out. I was shocked myself; I’d never been that assertive before. Ever. And he had listened. Listened due to my forcefulness, but I had managed to cut through my anxiety and reach him. I placed a large, firm hand on her petite shoulder. Her skin was so soft, and it was difficult to ignore the serpent in my new briefs trying to initiate a rush of blood to rouse itself back awake.

“Thank you, love. I’m trying to tell you that in this new life, we’re loaded. Look, I’m a real estate investor, and this is my - our - bank account.”

I showed him the screen

George:

I had to blink several times to take it in. There were more zeros than I was expecting.

“But . . . with that much money . . .”

I couldn’t believe it: she actually gave a smug grin. Changed, made into a man, my anxious woman showed a boldness I hadn’t expected.

“Honey,” she said, “ I get the feeling that in this life, we paid off the mortgage several years ago.”

The words were too much. Suddenly everything was too much. The enormous tits. The wobbling ass. The brown skin. The Mexican accent. My fiancée suddenly being not only a man but a more manly one than I ever was. It was . . . it was . . . está cañón! Too difficult! My thoughts streamed in bilingual codes, and it wasn’t helped that with every step back, my heavy chest wobbled beneath the too-large top that pulled tightly around my impossible boobs.

I felt lightheaded. The thought of being stuck in this body, as a damn sexy secretary, while Holly was some superstar business exec, it struck a nasty blow, and I began to feel like I was coming apart. I clutched my head, swaying on my little feet.

“Honey, are you alright?” Holly said. I wasn’t.

“Creo que me voy a desmayar . . .”

I think I’m going to faint.

My vision went blurry, and felt myself falling backwards, slowly, to the floor. Two powerful hands gripped me around my waist. My soft, tiny waist, and the last thing I saw before the world fell away was the concern on Holly’s male face.

For some reason, it made my heart flutter.

“Guapo . . .”

The world went black.

To Be Continued . . .