After the Thunder (vignette) (Patreon)

**** Trying a different style with this one.  Let me know what you think! ****

There he goes again.  Mister Thunder, chasing some maniacal mad scientist.  Can’t even take a walk in this city without worrying about whether or not you’re going to run into a superhero light show.  Every day there’s another story about an epic battle of good versus evil, usually with a smug, smiling pretty boy coming out on top and flexing his muscles for the camera while a wrecked building smolders in the background.  But sometimes it’s bigger than a few ruined lives and a bad day for a landlord, like what we all just lived through.

You’d think I’d learn to stop getting my hopes up.  It’s been a few months, but there’s still a part of me that wishes we’d go back.  Every time Mister Thunder flies by overhead I catch myself hoping that’ll be the moment we all get to return to that wonderful world.  I know they call Seductra a monster and a villain, but as far as I’m concerned she’s the real hero.  She was the one that turned reality on its head, causing guys like me to become the very women we objectified.  One minute it was a normal night at home, then there was a flash, and the next thing I knew I was a smokin’ hot brunette with tits for days and an ass that clapped like a crowded theatre on opening night.

Every guy wasn't changed, and I don’t feel proud about the implications as to why I was chosen, but what should have been a curse very quickly became something else.  I took to dick like a fish takes to water.  That life fit me like a glove, and for the first time I felt truly free.  Those of us who swapped places with our fantasies remembered bits and pieces of this life.  It wasn’t much, just a hazy awareness that the cock sliding in and out of your gaping pussy and the jiggling tits on your chest were all wrong, but not enough to do anything about it.

As if I’d want to in the first place.  Even “Mister” Thunder became “Mistress” Thunder, his chiseled, spandex-clad frame replaced by a buxom, curvy build.  It also confirmed all those rumors about how he treated his female fans, but no one wants to talk about that.  They’re all just happy that he pulled off a victory like always, stopping whatever Seductra had planned and snapping all of us back to the “real” world.

But not everyone came back the way they left.  I sure as hell didn’t.  My shell’s the same - I’m back to being 6’4” and 265 pounds of hard-earned muscle, with the same short brown hair and panty-dropper face I always had.  I just don’t see it the way I used to.  On the bright side, I don’t see my small cock as such a big deal anymore, either.  It used to drive me crazy that I have a body this size and nothing but a pudgy little poker to show for it.  After putting all of us through the kind of crazy we just experienced I’m sure most guys would have at least hoped for a bigger dick out of the deal.  I just want mine smaller.

See?  This is what I’m talking about.  On the outside I’m still the same meathead jock I was before, but inside, my wiring’s all messed up.  Or maybe it was messed up to begin with and this is how I was always supposed to be?  Mister Thunder said “everyone went back to their true selves,” so where does that leave me?  Before I got warped into a busty, oversexed little airhead I never once questioned who or what I was.  I mean, sure, I could admit when a guy was attractive, and I was always a little curious.  But there has to be a difference between wondering what it’s like to blow a dude, and wondering whether you’re a dude at all.  Right?

These are all reasons why I should probably still be going to that support group.  Like everyone else, I did for the first few weeks.  I sat there and listened to all the guys tell their stories, about how embarrassed they were whenever they thought about what it was like to have a fat cock pummeling their pussy, or how glad they are to have their rock hard pecs again instead of their bouncy tits.  They’re all just so glad to be tall and hairy and hung that no one brought up whether or not they jerked off to the memory like I did.  No one talked about how the quick little eruptions from these lackluster organs pale in comparison to the atom-smashing release we all got a little taste of.

It was garbage, so I stopped going.  They all wanted to talk about how wrong it was, but for the first time in my life I’d felt something truly right.  Even after everything we experienced, the only thing everyone wants is “to get back to normal.”  Instead of lessening the baggage around gender roles, the entire clusterfuck just made it all worse.  More than ever, “men” just want to be men, and deviating from the traditional macho mold is no longer tolerated, not that it ever really was.  Overcompensation is the name of the game, and every asshole who just got their dick back is determined to be a winner.

I can’t blame them.  Two months ago I was just as guilty as they are when it came to reinforcing these things.  I wasn’t some aggressive homophobe, but I definitely viewed gay guys as being on an inferior level.  They weren’t bad people; they just weren’t “real” men.  Yeah, I actually said that.  I had whole conversations with my straight buddies about how cute it was whenever one of them would hit on us.  Like the men in the support group, they’d all be quick to agree, and just as quick to express their confusion over anyone outside the mainstream gender binary.

Back then, I didn’t even know what those words meant.  That’s a big part of the reason why I wonder if I was always like this and just didn’t know it.  Self reflection and education was never a big part of my day-to-day.  I’m not proud to admit it, but I was focused pretty exclusively on looking good and getting laid.  From puberty on, it was all about hitting the gym, hitting the field, and hitting as many beds as possible.  Women were nothing but notches on a bedpost or something to brag about, a living mirror that reflected how truly amazing I was.

It’s arrogant, I know.  But in my defense, I also never let someone leave unsatisfied.  My cock might be small, but I am, or at least I was, a fucking surgeon with the little guy.  I used to love seeing those looks of surprise and disappointment once my pants were off turn into pure ecstasy while I gave them the best dick of their life.  It’s the reason they’d always come back to me instead of guys who were twice the size.

Still, since we’re doing this honesty thing, that was more about my ego than their pleasure.  I didn’t really care that they got off because I empathized with their need for release, I just needed the reassurance.  Or maybe I was jealous?  Maybe I saw what they had and wanted it without ever fully realizing it.  Now that I know what it’s like, that wouldn’t surprise me.  Having spent time with the roles reversed, straddled by a dude my size while his hips rolled in and out of my pussy like a pneumatic piston, I’ve never wanted anything more.  I don’t want big, granite pecs hanging off my chest; I want them against my tiny hands.  I don’t want to tower over people; I want to be the small one.  I don’t want to have to be rugged and gruff and pretend to be stoic all the time just because people think I’m a big, strong man.  I want to giggle and pout and be silly and have the freedom those self righteous spandex bastards just snatched away.

That other version of me didn’t have a care in the world.  Sure, maybe they weren’t the brightest bulb.  They got distracted easily, and deep conversation wasn’t usually on the agenda.  But, at the same time, they also didn’t feel any of this weight.  They didn’t have an existential crisis to worry about.  They had a fundamental certainty that they were exactly who and exactly how they were supposed to be.  So maybe I’m doing it wrong now?  All they worried about was having fun and having sex, another similarity that makes me wonder if this has been the real me all along.  Apparently, prioritizing looking good and getting laid is a through line between my realities.

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, “but Nate, why can’t you just be all those things you mentioned?  Nothing’s stopping you from being giggly or silly or acting like a flighty airhead.”  You’re not wrong, but when was the last time you tried to make a significant change in your life?  Did you ever lose those ten pounds and keep them off?  Quit social media?  Stop smoking?  It’s not like flipping a switch.  I can wear the panties and try to play the part all I want, but that’s ultimately the point I’m trying to make.  The other version of me didn’t have to try.  They just were.

And before you accuse me of being lazy, it’s not like I’m putting in zero effort.  Inch by inch, I’m trying to reclaim what I can, but all the lifestyle changes in the world can only do so much.  I could completely redo my wardrobe, I could stop lifting, hell, I could even get surgery, but that’s not going to get me to where I want to be.  I’d still be a foot taller than I want.  I’d still have this stupid, oversized skeleton.  I’d still remember all this.

Fortunately, it’s not all doom and gloom.  There are a lot of guys out there who get off on the idea of treating a big jock like me as their horny girlfriend.  I hadn’t expected Mike to be one of them, but again, I’m not about to complain.  We’ve always had a friendly, if a bit adversarial, relationship.  We know each other from the gym and have some mutual friends, so most of our interactions were competitive.  We tried to out-lift and out-fuck each other, and that was pretty much it.  He didn’t get caught in the big change like me, and we never crossed paths in that twisted world, but I wish we had.  That other me would have lost their shit over a guy like Mike.  Even before, I knew how good looking he was.  I’m handsome, but Mike’s on another level.  Jet black hair, sparkling brown eyes, pillowy-soft lips, and a wide, dimpled chin all sat on a body that looked like it was carved from olive-hued granite.  Throw in a light coating of wiry hair on top of that perfect frame and it made him, as far as I was concerned back then, my only real competition.

Now, the dude checks even more of my boxes.  On top of his looks, he’s my size, he’s got an arrogant streak a mile wide, and he’s hung for days.  He’s everything that other version of me loved.  He’s more than happy to tell me what to do, and he’s all too eager to put that beautiful cock of his to work.  I might not be smaller than him, but I’ve already cut back on all my lifting except for booty building sets, so it shouldn’t be long before that changes.

I still remember how embarrassed I was when he caught the panties sticking out of my shorts that day at the gym, but looking back on it, I think I wanted him to.  He knew I was one of the guys who’d gone through the change, and he’d seen me checking him out a few times since everything got snapped back to normal.  To his credit, and my surprise, he was entirely sympathetic.  He was the one who reached out to me to talk about what I was going through, and maybe it’s just because of how addled I feel around him now, but I unloaded everything.  He listened, and unlike the support groups he actually seemed to hear what I was saying as opposed to just nodding and pretending.

I honestly thought that was the end of it.  I felt better for at least getting some of it off my chest, but the real surprise came a few days later when he reached back out.  If I wanted, he offered, he’d be willing to play the role of what I was looking for.  He was up front about not knowing what to expect or where it would go, and I appreciated that he was also honest about the real turn on in this situation.  He said he was straight, he still does, but, especially after the weirdness we’d all just lived through, the idea of treating a former rival like a horny little sidepiece sparked a side of him he never knew he had.  Though he and I never hooked up in that other reality, Mike said he’d spent some time fucking another one of his friends who’d been changed, and I guess I wasn’t the only one who had some regrets about what we’d lost when we came back.

I jumped at the chance.  I was so nervous that first night I almost bailed at least a dozen times, but once we got down to it, everything came rushing back.  The first time he slapped my ass and called me “babe” burst open a door that I never want to shut.  I still felt ridiculous and ugly with my burly frame strutting around in a mini-skirt and crop-top, but Mike seemed perfectly pleased.  He couldn’t take his eyes off me as I stripped down, and he was just as eager to pop the bra off my plump pecs as he would have been a pair of tits.

It helped that the skills I had in that other place came back with me.  His was the first dick I sucked since coming back, and I was relieved to find it both as easy and as pleasurable as it had been.  I went to town on him for what felt like hours, loving how big and meaty his thighs felt framing in my face.  It was also the moment that I, grudgingly, began to appreciate the advantages my current size gave me.  The other me would have had a hard time working a cock as long and thick as Mike’s, but I can swallow that monster to the base.  And these muscled arms do a much better job of holding me up while he fucks or fingers me senseless than those skinny little twigs did.  I’d still ditch it all in a heartbeat if I could, but if I’m stuck with all this meat, I might as well enjoy what I can.

I could do without all the looks, though.  I know the fun that's coming, so I don’t actually give a shit, but in situations like this, as I’m walking over to Mike’s in my little skirt and a backless top, whale tail and heels proudly on display, the other me certainly would have blended in more.  Mike likes it better when I show up ready, and it shows in what he does to me, so I wear the clothes and the makeup and try to drown out the assholes as best I can.  It helps that I’m bigger than most of them, but it’s just another reminder that I’m not the curvy little vixen I wish I was.

Mike says I’m something better.  He says the sight of my tiny little dick locked away in its plastic cage is better than a pussy.  He says my hole is tighter too, and that he likes how rough he can be with me because of my bulk.  And now that I bathe in moisturizer and have had all the hair south of my eyebrows permanently removed, he says I’m just as soft and smooth as all the girls he used to fuck.

That last part is a point of pride.  Since we started doing this, Mike hasn’t hooked up with anyone else.  It’s nice to know my ass is just as skilled as my dick was, but more than anything, I’m just glad he’s saving all that pent up energy for me.  He pounds me so hard these muscle tits nearly bounce off my body.  It feels like someone shoves a jackhammer in my ass the way my cheeks go numb, but I can take it.  My screams don’t sound as high pitched coming out of this beast of a body, but I’m working on it, and Mike tells me he loves what I’m doing with my voice.  He said he might have found something online that I can drink that’ll help keep it this way permanently so I won’t have to try, but we’ll see.  He was right about the pills that have steadily been shrinking my package, and now it fits perfectly in even my smallest panties, so he knows what he’s doing.

Speaking of, I wore the smallest ones tonight.  Mike wants it to be special.  He’s inviting some of the guys from the gym over so they can meet the real me.  He didn't want to push, but he’s been asking if he could for a while, and I think I’m finally ready.  These are all guys I’ve seen in the locker room plenty of times, so it should be a fun night.  I can already feel that other me pushing their way through the door, and I hope this time it’ll be for keeps.