“No takers?” the teacher asks with a sly smile. “If nobody steps up, then I’ll have to choose at random...”
Unsurprisingly, nobody is brave enough to volunteer; apparently, like you, they’re a little freaked out by the whole ‘magically transform into a whole new sex’ thing. Still, the more nobody else volunteers, the more like it it is that you’ll get the short end of the stick... Or get a ‘stick’ in the first place, come to think of it. Therefore, you look down at your desk, hunched over in your seat, trying to make yourself look small and unnoticeable as possible.
From this vantage point, it’s easy to see what you’d lose if the teacher called on you. Slight breasts gently curving out against a simple blouse, a trim waist above modest hips and a conservatively-lengthed skirt. Your chestnut curls frame your vision, glasses resting on a button nose with a slight dusting of freckles.
Your appearance may be considered plain by some, but it’s yours, and you find it perfectly familiar, comfortable, and not at all something you’re willing to part with.
Unfortunately for you, the teacher chooses that exact moment to swat a ruler onto your desk. You jump with a shrill gasp, looking up at the teacher’s grinning face, friendly yet intense eyes locked onto you with a laser-like focus.
“You’ll be first,” she says, your heart feeling as if it had stopped beating.
Before you had time to protest, to back away, to do much of anything, the teacher flicks her ruler upwards and gently taps you on the nose. Instantly, you feel a tingle of warm energy surge out from the point of intact, like a painless transfer of static shock.
“Oh, no,” you groan, hands flying to cover your mouth as you hear your voice dropping octaves by the syllable, making up for the lost high pitch with extra doses of bass and treble. “Why me?!”
“Why not?” asks the teacher as you feel your soft, full lips losing volume and mass beneath your clasped hands, which are themselves enlarging, skin growing coarser. Your fingers thicken, the new arrival of slight hair tickling your reshaping face.
The changes sweep down your arms, forearms and biceps growing larger, gaining increasingly defined tight, sturdy muscle and hair. You let loose another gasp, this time fully as deep as the smooth-voiced young man you’re becoming, as your shoulders suddenly jut outwards. You’re jerked first one way, then the other as your shoulders broaden and grow thicker and firmer, neck soon joining them, a not-so-subtle bump appearing amidst a coarse carpet of scruffy stubble.
Using your newly larger and more muscled arms to prop yourself up, you attempt to stand, even as your shapely legs wobble and become far less shapely by the moment. Smooth, soft curves give way to tight, bunched firmness and bold angularity, thighs thickening into hairy trunks leading down to toned calves, dainty feet expanding into powerful stompers.
Your cheat dwindles next, breasts deflating and flattening, forming into firm pectoral muscles before growing all the broader, your waist pushing out, hips pulling in, all chiseling themselves into undeniably masculine configurations.
Your broadening jaw, becoming firm and square, contorts into a thin-lipped grimace, rough cheeks blushing as you wince at the fire blooming down in your loins. A hectic churning engulfs your innards, and you can only struggle to stay standing as what was once most feminine and physically internal about you reshapes and changes, pushing lower, lower, and lower still. A bulge grows in your crouch, a lengthening shaft expanding from the nib of your clit, pushing out against your skirt.
It and all your clothes prove far too small and tight for you now, ripping and tearing at your growing height and mass. Worse still, that fire in your core keeps burning brighter, an arousal more intense than anything you’ve ever felt building tension, crying out to be released. First one, then another particular something-or-others plop free from your vagina and hang below in a fleshy sack as the overall slit closes up completely, pushing your new penis and testicles proudly forward and out, posterior shrinking and firming up behind them.
You stand there aghast, physically transformed from a meek college girl into the spotting image of chiseled, raw masculinity, muscles bulging, skin tough and hairy, huge shaft pulsing with a still-growing and rampant desire to—what? Stick itself into something, to enter somewhere, penetrate someone. But you don’t like girls—you are a girl! At least in your mind, still... aren’t you.
No, it seems. Not anymore.
As the final swathe of changes wash over you, you feel your mind itself twisting and reforming. Parts of your thoughts, your personality, the very core of your being are tweaked the slightest bits in some places and outright completely twisted in others. The only overall theme appears to be masculinity—or, you realize, what you imagine that conceit to mean.
Didn’t boys like sports? You find yourself growing a diehard appreciation of football, your powerful legs charging down the field, bulldozing through any opposing team in your way, throwing the ball to your trusted teammates.
Girls liked fashion, right? You don’t, in that case. Much to your shocked surprise, you feel any affinity you once had for cute clothes and stylish flare fading away, as uninteresting and boring as watching paint dry.
Many interests remain the same—you’re still just as intelligent, just as kind and caring, just as into cheesy, offbeat dramatic comedies and playing chess or coding software—but it seems anything you knowingly or unknowingly assigned a gendered perspective to has shifted.
Toy try to tell yourself that’s not true, that boys and girls share all kinds of things, and none of these labels mean anything—and they don’t—but it seems the damage is done. The spell took whatever you thought of these concepts and made them your reality.
Peering back over the shocked faces of the other students, you also find your gaze lingering longer on the girls than you would’ve liked, almost completely ignoring the boys, even the ones you once thought were cute. Instead, your eyes naturally draw like magnetism to pretty faces, the soft curves enticingly pressing out of tops, the full, open lips of surprise you’d simply love to lean in and kiss.
“As you can see, class,” the teacher goes on. “The spell makes you your own idealized version of what you subconsciously imagine the male or female sex to be. To put it simply, it seems—what was your name, dear?”
You tell her, only for the teacher to say, “That’ll never do, now. Let’s call you Marcus—to put it simply, the spell turned Marcus here from a bright yet awkward young woman into a strong, confident man. From the looks of it, as a woman you wanted men to love as well, and now you’re that man, so your sex drive is seeking out a lovely lady.”
You blush intensely at this last remark, as does the rest of the class, even if some look on in thinly veiled interest.
“So, the spell turns us into what we imagine as our ideal romantic partner?” asked one of the students.
“Not exactly,” the teacher corrects. “It turns you into your subconscious ideal of the masculine or feminine portions of the spectrum, whichever you least see yourself as being. Other spells get into the more varied aspects of gender, but we’re starting out with something simple. Now...
...Who’s next?”