----Transformation Tracker ----
-Amelia Harper -
Compelled Insertion - Relieve or Suffer (Body),
-Stacey Whitmore -
Has to accept and complete any dare (Mental),
Permanent Adornments - Body Piercings,
-Ryan Carter -
Enlarged Manhood (12inch),
Complete Sissy Transformation – Surgical Feminine Form - Masculine Core,
-Clarissa Bennett -
Compelled Tomboy Masculine Persona Override (Mental),
(Clarissa's POV)
I don’t bother knocking. What’s the point? Ryan’s been holed up in here long enough, and if I know him—and I do—he’s spiraling, overthinking himself into oblivion.
I push the door open, stepping inside like I own the place, and—yeah, there he is. Hunched up against the side of the tub, knees drawn up to his chest like he’s trying to fold himself out of existence. His head’s buried in his hands, fingers clenched around the stretched fabric of the oversized t-shirt Amelia gave him. But it’s no use. That thing’s clinging to him like it’s painted on, hugging the curve of his new... situation. And those volleyball shorts? Jesus. They were meant for a girl, not... him. His junk is fighting the waistband like it’s staging a prison break.
I step over his legs, planting my foot on the cool tile with a quiet slap. Without thinking twice, I tug down my shorts and drop onto the toilet. The cold seat jolts me for a second, but whatever—business is business.
"Hey, man, you okay?" That’s what I want to say. What I should say. But instead, what comes out is—
"Dude," I say, the sound of me peeing filling the room like it’s no big deal. "You gonna live in here now, or what?"
Ryan doesn’t look at me, just curls in tighter, his shoulders practically swallowing his head. His chest rises and falls in those short, jerky breaths that make me want to... what? Fix it? Hug him? I tap my fingers on my knee instead, glancing at the mirror behind him. His reflection is a mess—cheeks flushed, lips pressed tight, eyes looking everywhere but at me.
I shift, feeling the last bit of warmth leave me as I reach for the toilet paper. "C’mon, man," I say, wiping and tossing the paper with a flick. "You can’t just camp out in here. Game’s not gonna stop. And Amelia’s out there, looking like she’s crap herself."
"I got you, Ry. You’re not alone in this." The words sit heavy in my chest, but they get filtered through something else before they leave my mouth.
"At least you got clothes," I say instead, standing up just enough to yank my shorts back up. "Amelia tried to put me in a crop top earlier. You’d have loved that."
He snorts, but it’s weak—barely there. His hands twitch against his knees, and for a second, I want to say something real. It’s okay, I know this sucks. But that’s too much, too serious. Instead, I do what I do best.
“Hey.” My voice drops a little, like I can’t help it. "You’re still you, okay? This—" I wave a hand at him, "—this isn’t all of you."
He finally lifts his head slightly, his eyes flicking up to mine, holding for just a second before darting away. His fingers twitch again at those damn shorts, his thighs pressing together like he’s trying to keep everything in check. I can see the frustration eating at him, see it in the way his chest rises too fast, in the way his hands won’t stop moving. Dude, just breathe, I’m right here. But instead—
I rub a hand over my face. “Look, man, you’re not alone in this. You got me, Amelia, and Stacey. We’re all in this disaster together.” I nudge his leg with my foot, like it’s all cool and casual, even though nothing about this is. “So... no pressure, but maybe get off the floor? Feels like step one.”
Ryan exhales, staring hard at the tiles like they might hold the answers, his hands gripping his shorts like they’re the only thing keeping him together. My old self would’ve reached out, squeezed his shoulder, said something soft. But instead, I lean back against the sink, watching him carefully, keeping it light.
"If I can handle being stuck in this body, you can deal with a wardrobe malfunction," I say, throwing on a lopsided smirk that doesn’t sit quite right in my mouth. It’s easier to joke than to admit that I’m just as freaked out, just in my own way. I hate seeing you like this.
He groans, tipping his head back against the wall with a dull thunk. "Clarissa..." But there’s something in his voice—something almost grateful—and that’s enough.
I grin, wiping my hands on my shorts.
We sit there in silence, just existing in the weirdness together. He’s still tense, still fighting it, but his breathing’s slowing down a little. And for now? That’s good enough.
I flush and yank my shorts back up, feeling the fabric snap against my hips. I don’t even think twice before stepping over Ryan’s legs and plopping down next to him, knocking into his side like it’s no big deal. “Scooch,” I mutter, nudging him with my knee until he begrudgingly moves over. He’s still all curled up, face buried in his hands, looking like he’s about to combust under the weight of his own thoughts.
I stretch my legs out in front of me, leaning back against the tub like I’m settling in to chill, but my eyes drift down—right where they shouldn’t.
His shorts. Jesus.
The fabric’s doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he’s... well, packing. I can see its shape pressing at the front of the shorts and a small hill right at the waist band, it looks like it wants to come out. I feel something deep in my stomach twist in a way that’s weirdly warm and way too distracting. I should look away, I should, but my eyes keep flicking back.
“Dude,” I blurt, my voice coming out way too casual for what I’m actually thinking. “Your junk’s really... uh, huge.”
Ryan tenses up so fast you’d think I just pulled a gun on him. “W-what?” His hands fumble with the waistband of those shorts, and it’s... not helping.
I smirk, leaning back against the wall, trying to play it cool. “I mean, hey, can’t blame it, man. Sitting next to this?” I gesture at myself, grinning. “Im hot as hell.”
He groans, face buried in his hands again, and I have to bite back a laugh. The dude’s absolutely wrecked, and honestly? I kinda get it. I’ve been feeling... stuff too. Like, the weird kind of stuff. Stuff I probably shouldn't be thinking about my best friend, but here we are.
“Relax,” I say, giving his shoulder a quick shove. “It’s not like I don’t get it. I’ve been humming since this stupid game started.”
Ryan finally peeks out from behind his hands, frowning. “Humming?”
I shrug, playing it off even though I know exactly what I mean. “Yeah, y’know, that low-level, can’t-turn-it-off kinda thing? Probably a mix of being freaked out and... uh, other weird sex shit the game’s been pulling.” I run a hand through my hair.
I watch him shift, adjusting in place like he’s trying to discreetly... fix himself, and—yeah, that’s definitely not helping me focus. The shorts are stretched way too tight, and I can’t help but stare. I feel this weird, guilty pull deep down, like... maybe I should help him out.
Bro code, right? That’s what bros do.
Ryan exhales shakily, tugging at his shirt like it’s the shirt’s fault and not, y’know, everything else. His breathing’s all uneven, and I can feel the tension radiating off him like heat.
"Dude, you gotta relax," I say, flicking his knee with my fingers. "You're wound up tighter than my volleyball laces."
His jaw clenches, and I can tell he’s trying real hard to play it cool, but man, he's not. And neither am I, really. I shift next to him, trying to get comfortable, but all I can think about is the way his penis is stuck, the way his alien chest rises and falls too fast, and the fact that... yeah. That situation down even inside me is getting tingly.
I tilt my head, pushing some hair behind my ear without thinking, and I catch him looking at me—really looking. His whole face shifts, eyes wide, and something flickers across his expression that I don’t totally get, but it hits me in the gut.
Huh.
I lean in closer, closing the space between us until my shoulder’s practically pressing against his, and I can feel the heat coming off him in waves. "Look, dude," I say, my voice dropping lower, like we're sharing some big secret. "You look so stressed and pent up..."
His breath hitches, and I grin, letting it hang in the air for a second before I finish, “...and I know how to fix that.”
He freezes, stiff as a board, and I feel a weird kind of satisfaction curl in my chest. It’s not just me, then.
I sit back a little, watching him carefully, and yeah—he’s totally losing it. His fingers twitch, his face is burning up, and I can practically see the thoughts racing in his head.
Poor guy.
But hey... what are bros for?
(Amelia's POV)
Amelia sitting back in the hotel room feels weirdly empty without Clarissa’s usual presence, and the steady hum of the board game sitting untouched on the bed makes it worse. I sit cross-legged, hugging a pillow to my chest, fingers digging into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. Every move I make feels... wrong, like I’m not sitting the way I can feel it lodged in there, and the constant penetrations is causing other issues…
Stacey sits on the edge of the bed, pulling at the cuffs of her hoodie, her lips working around the piercing in her mouth like she’s still trying to figure out what the hell to do with it. I can tell by the way she keeps shifting, shoulders tight, that she’s struggling too. The silence has stretched too long, and I finally whisper, “Do you think they’re... okay in there?”
Stacey shrugs, not looking at me. “Ryan? No. Clarissa? She’s probably having a great time.” She rolls her eyes and glances toward the bathroom door, chewing at her lip ring again. “They’ve only been in there for, like, a few minutes.”
I nod, but the thought of them in there together makes my stomach twist—not in a jealous way, but in an oh god what’s even happening anymore kind of way. I shift, trying to get comfortable. I let out a shaky sigh. “I don’t know how she’s acting like everything’s fine. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”
Stacey finally looks up, her eyes flicking to me, and I know she gets it. “Yeah, well, she’s always been weird. But this...” She shakes her head, pulling at her hoodie again. “This is something else.”
I hesitate, then shift again, wincing as the movement sends a strange pressure rolling through me. My butt hidden from clenches tighter together, and I know Stacey notices because her gaze drops for half a second before darting away. “It’s... hard to sit,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
Her brow furrows, and she leans forward a little. “Like... how bad is it?”
I chew my bottom lip, wincing at the feel of a little blood hit my teeth before I shake my head. “It’s... constant,” I say, squeezing the pillow tighter. “Like, no matter how I sit, I can feel it. It’s just... there. And moving? It’s even worse. It’s like... I can feel it inside, every little, every shift.” I swallow hard, heat rising to my cheeks. “Honestly its like I gotta poop.”
Stacey makes a face, somewhere between sympathy and horror. “Dude. That sounds... awful.”
I nod quickly, burying my face in the pillow for a second before mumbling, “And it’s not just that. It’s the way it... reacts. Like, if I move too much, it’s... I don’t know, it’s sensitive in a way that’s just—” I cut myself off, groaning into the pillow. “I hate it.”
Stacey runs a hand over her face, letting out a low whistle. “Damn, Amelia.” She leans back a little, shifting where she sits, and I catch the way her arms cross over her chest, like she’s holding herself together. “I mean, I get it, though. These piercings? They’re really there.”
I glance up, catching the way she fidgets, her hands ghosting over her hoodie where her nipples would be. “Do they... hurt?” I ask, my voice hesitant.
Stacey sighs, shaking her head. “Not anymore, but it’s like... I can’t forget they’re there. Every time my shirt moves, I can feel them dragging.” She shudders slightly. “The nipple ones are the worst. They’re so... I don’t know, sensitive. I’m trying not to think about it, but it’s like my body won’t let me.”
I wince in sympathy. “Yeah. I keep thinking if I just sit still, I’ll stop noticing, but...” I shift again, grimacing. “It doesn’t stop.”
Stacey lets out a bitter laugh. “Trying to put on my hoodie earlier. I swear, I almost cried. And the lip one?” She sticks her tongue out slightly, tapping the stud with her teeth. “I can’t even talk right without feeling it.”
I hug the pillow tighter, nodding. “Stace.. I lost my anal virginity to a travel bottle...”
Stacey’s quiet for a second before she nods slowly. “Yeah. You know the worst part of all of this? Sometimes it’s... not as bad as I think it should be.” Her eyes meet mine, and there’s something vulnerable there, something I don’t think she wants to admit out loud. “Like, it’s weird, but part of me is just... Turned on?”
I hesitate, then nod, my stomach churning. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”
The bathroom is still quiet, and for a second, we just sit there, lost in our own thoughts. Then, out of nowhere, the sound of the toilet flushing echoes through the room, and both our heads snap toward the door.
My eyes widen, and I feel my face heat up. “She seriously just... did that? With him in there?”
Stacey raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Bro, Clarissa’s a whole different person now. Who even knows what’s going on in there.”
I groan, flopping back onto the bed, the pillow squishing against my chest. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
Stacey chuckles, shaking her head. “Yeah, well... too late.”
Before I can say anything else, the game pulses again, the eerie glow intensifying. Both of us sit up straighter as the board lights up with a new message:
“The next player must roll.”
Stacey and I exchange a look.
“Uh... Clarissa’s not even out here,” I say, voice tight.
Stacey stares at the board, then glances at the bathroom door. “Guess the game doesn’t care.”
(Ryan's POV)
I barely had time to react Clarissa's shoulder pressing against mine, solid and grounding. The weight of her presence hit like a jolt, making my breath hitch in my throat. I was already suffocating—trapped in this tight shirt clinging to my chest. And now, she was right here.
Her scent wrapped around me—cheap floral lotion, and something uniquely Clarissa. It should’ve been annoying, too much, but instead, it settled in my lungs, grounding me in a way I hadn’t expected. It reminded me of every bus ride, every late-night hangout we’d had over the years. But this... this wasn’t like those moments.
I couldn't move. My fingers dug into the waistband of the shorts, legs drawn up, trying to make myself smaller, to hold everything in place—literally and figuratively. But Clarissa noticed. Of course, she did. Her hazel eyes flicked down, and that damn smirk tugged at her lips, the one that told me she wasn’t going to let this go.
"Man," she said, her voice low and casual, like this was just another day. "You're pent up buddy. Relax."
Relax? Easy for her to say. My whole body was one giant contradiction. Every breath made my chest push harder against the fabric, I could feel my nipples trying to cut through my shirt like a spear. And below... the shorts weren’t doing their job. Not even close. They were made for a flat front, not for what I had, and I could feel it—straining, pressing, bending trying to figh against the waistband like it had a mind of its own.
Then she reached down.
Her fingers brushed against my shaft from the outside, and a bolt of sensation shot through me. My muscles twitched involuntarily, and a shudder rolled up my spine, my skin erupting in goosebumps my left hand jolted up to her shoulder in shock. I jerked, but she didn’t stop. Her hand settled, firm and sure, fingers curling just enough to grasp the girth and press through the thin material. It wasn’t just the touch—it was the way she did it, like she knew exactly how far to push, how much I could take before I’d break.
“Hey, babe” she murmured, voice softer but still carrying that ridiculous confidence.
I swallowed hard, Babe? I wasn’t a female, but it hit me my pulse hammering against my ribs. The warmth of her palm bled through as she pushed down, pressing against me in a way that made it impossible to ignore just how sensitive everything felt. My body felt like it was buzzing, and no matter how much my brain screamed to stop—to push her away—I couldn’t. I was locked in place, drowning under the weight of it all.
Clarissa shifted beside me, her arm brushing mine again, and suddenly, I was hyper-aware of everything. The slow, rhythmic drag of her grip slowly starting to move, the way her breathing deepened, the almost imperceptible way her gaze lingered. The air felt thick, charged with something I couldn’t name—something that had been there all along, simmering beneath the surface.
I risked a glance at her, at the way her lips parted slightly, her eyes dark and focused, but not teasing anymore. The usual playful arrogance was still there, but beneath it, something... else. Something that made my chest feel tighter than it already was.
And then, without warning, she leaned in.
I barely had time to register what was happening before her lips pressed softly against mine. My entire body locked up, every muscle going rigid, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she lingered, her mouth warm and steady, like she was giving me a moment to catch up, to realize what was happening.
And oh, I realized.
My heart hammered against my ribs, the heat from her body wrapping around me in a way that felt too much. Her lips were soft—softer than I expected—and the press of them sent a slow, curling sensation through my chest that traveled down, making me hyper-aware of every part of myself that didn’t fit right anymore. My hands twitched, and moved to find her waist as I leaned into it. The warmth of her breath mixed with mine, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe.
Her hand curled lightly against my penis, grounding me, moving up and down and holding me there in place as she deepened the kiss just a little—just enough to make my pulse skip and my stomach twist. It wasn’t like one of those casual, joking pecks she’d thrown at me in the past to mess with me, to get a rise out of me. No, this was something else. This was deliberate. Real.
I could feel the tension in her, the way her body pressed against mine, hesitant yet insistent, like she was testing the waters. The pressure of her lips was firm, unwavering, and when she tilted her head slightly, I felt a shiver crawl down my spine. I couldn’t help but lean in, just a little, and the second I did, her fingers squeezed tighter against my dick, pulling me in deeper.
The kiss stretched on, longer than it should have, longer than it needed to, but neither of us moved to end it. My mind was racing, a chaotic whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Clarissa, my best friend, was kissing me—really kissing me—and I wasn’t stopping her. Worse, I didn’t want to stop her.
My lips tingled under hers, and every second that passed only made the strange knot in my stomach tighten. It felt... good. Too good.
Finally, she pulled back, just enough to hover there, her forehead brushing against mine. Her eyes stayed locked on me, searching, measuring, as if trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.
Neither of us spoke. We just sat there, breathing each other in, the silence between us thick with something I didn’t want to name.
Then, in true new Clarissa fashion, she smirked, the edge of her mouth curling up in that familiar, cocky way that made my stomach do another flip. “Told you you were hot,” she murmured, her voice low and teasing, but there was something underneath it, something softer.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry, and I couldn’t force a comeback. I could barely think. I was hot? Looking like this?
What the hell was happening to us?
Her hand shifted suddenly again, a slow, deliberate movement that sent another ripple of heat through me. I sucked in a shaky breath, my eyes flicking down to where her hand rested, to where our legs pressed together, and when I looked back up, she was watching me—really watching me. Not with her usual smirk, not with that teasing glint, but with something softer. Something that made my stomach twist in ways I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
My lips parted, but the words stuck. Her gaze flicked down for just a second, and before I could think too much about it, she leaned in slightly, her breath warm against my cheek.
"You're such a dork," she whispered, but it didn’t carry the usual bite. It sounded... fond.
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. "Yeah... I guess."
Her hand squeezed slightly, an almost absent-minded gesture, but it sent another wave of something unfamiliar crashing through me. Not just awkwardness. Not just embarrassment. But something deeper. Something... new.
The weight of the moment pressed in on all sides, thick and unrelenting. For the first time, I wasn’t just seeing Clarissa as my best friend—I was seeing her as something... more. And from the way her hand moved that slow, where it rested, I had the sinking feeling she might be feeling the same way too.
I wasn’t ready for that thought. Not yet.
And judging by the way Clarissa’s smirk softened, neither was she.
(Clarissa's POV)
My hand moved, pressing against his penis, palm pushing inward on the thin material of his volleyball shorts. The heat of him radiated against it, the girth beneath tensing like a coiled spring. His breath hitched, sharp and uneven, and I could feel the shudder that rolled through him, the flicker of something—uncertainty? Embarrassment? He didn’t pull away, though. That was enough for me.
"Dude," I murmured, my voice casual, steady, the same way I’d talk him down after a bad game. "You're wound up tighter than a bad shoelace. Relax."
He sucked in a ragged breath, his shoulders drawing in even tighter like he was caught between running and staying. But he stayed. I pressed down with a little more intention, slow and sure, feeling the slight resistance from his hard member, the way his thighs instinctively clenched beneath my touch.
No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just the steady, grounding presence I knew he needed.
My eyes drifted down before I even realized what I was doing, and damn... the shorts weren’t hiding much. The way they strained, the way he was trying so hard to keep it together—I pull back the waistband and snaked it out, it hit me in a way I hadn’t been ready for. And then I saw it, really saw it. It was different. Really different.
The absence of what I’d expected his balls, sent a jolt through me, my fingers stilling briefly in surprise. A cut scar right where they should be, a flicker of something passed through my chest, an instinctive double-take, but just as fast, it settled. It was still Ryan. Still my best friend. And in a way I hadn’t expected, it was kind of... Beautiful, and without those ugly things kind of feminine...
"Bro," I said, a soft smirk tugging at my lips, in a soft whisper to myself. "Where did your balls go?"
My thoughts blurred together, overlapping in ways I couldn’t quite separate. Was this the game messing with me? Or was it just me? Did it even matter? The rawness of my soft hand on his large member, and I mean large, a present from the first turn of the game—it felt right, in a way that steadied the weird storm building inside me.
I exhaled, letting my breath even out, feeling the way his chest swelled beneath the stretched cotton of his shirt. The way his legs started to spread out, like he was giving up on to the last bit of control he had left. Everything about him felt so unfamiliar, yet somehow, I recognized him in it all.
I leaned in slightly, letting my shoulder press against his a little harder, breathing him in—his body wash, the nervous sweat, the lingering cheap floral body spray I always wore. It should have been awkward, but instead, it felt like an anchor, holding us steady in the chaos of everything happening. My fingers stayed where they were, resting lightly against it, my thumb tracing small, absent circles without thinking like a joystick, like I needed something to hold onto just as much as he did.
Ryan swallowed hard, his lips parting slightly, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The way he looked at me—wide-eyed, unsure, but trusting—was enough.
And suddenly, something shifted in me. Something I wasn’t ready to name yet.
I wanted to be here. Not just because of the game, not just because we were stuck in this weird mess together, but because... because it was him. And that realization curled deep in my chest, heavy and warm in a way that made my pulse quicken.
For the first time in a long time, I let myself admit it.
Maybe... I wanted him. And maybe... that was okay.
(Ryan's POV)
The tension had been building for what felt like forever, winding through me like a knot I couldn’t untangle. Clarissa sat close—too close—her shoulder firm against mine, grounding me in a way I wasn’t ready for but couldn’t pull away from either. Her presence was steady, familiar in a way that should have been comforting, but right now, it just made everything feel more real.
I swallowed hard, staring down past the unfamiliar swell of my chest, to the soft female hands holding my rod as if it was at her mercy. And everything about my body felt foreign, out of place, and yet there was no escaping it. My legs were open wide, my left hand wrapped behind Clarissa back, and my right sitting on my right thigh, but Clarissa was right there, watching me with that infuriating smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
She murmured, voice low and easy, “You gotta relax sweat cheeks, You’re wound up tighter than a bad shoelace.”
I let out a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way my chest rose and fell. “I’m trying,” I mumbled, voice tight and raw, but it felt useless.
Clarissa leaned in, and her hand started moving faster, a grounding touch that sent an unwanted shiver through me. “C’mon,” she coaxed, her voice softer now, more certain. “Let It out."
My throat felt tight, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to do just that—breathe. But every inch of me felt hypersensitive, like my skin was too thin, like I was too aware of everything at once. The press of her body against mine, the weight of her arm draped casually over her knee, my back arched as I slightly bucked my hips upward with her rhythm.
And then her grip got tighter in response to that and she moved, fast, steady, rythmic and deliberate.
A ragged breath slipped out of me before I could stop it, my muscles tensing under her touch. The heat of her palm seeped through like a quiet, steady burn on my skin. I knew I should pull away, say something—anything—but I couldn’t. I was locked in place, my chest rising too fast, my hands gripping the fabric of my shorts like they could stop what was already happening.
Clarissa’s voice dropped lower, right next to my ear, a teasing lilt still there, but softer, almost... understanding. “Show me baby,” she murmured. “Do it for momma.”
I exhaled shakily, "momma?" what the fuck… my head tilting back against the cold wall, my whole body wound so tight it felt like I might shatter. But with every movement of her hand, the tension shifted, coiling deep in my stomach, building into something I couldn’t fight anymore. My breath hitched, the pressure swelling, and I bit down hard on my lip, trying to hold it in—but it was too much.
A deep shudder rolled through me, and I felt everything inside me give way. My muscles locked, then melted, a sharp, overwhelming wave of sensation crashing through me in a way that left me reeling. My vision blurred for a second, my breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps, my hands trembling as they clenched into fists against my thighs.
Clarissa didn’t say anything, didn’t pull away. She just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, her grip grounding me as the aftermath settled in, heavy and unrelenting, pulse after pulse of cum. My body felt shaky, overheated, and the damp stickiness hitting and clinging to me was something I couldn’t ignore. My breath was still coming in shallow gulps, and I could feel the way my chest rose and fell under the tight fabric of Amelia’s shirt, each movement only making the situation worse.
And then I noticed it.
My eyes widened in horror as I glanced down at the mess—a lot of it—splattered across my bare thighs, some on the shorts, and even on the shirt around my breast, dripping onto the tile between us, and, oh God, some of it... on Clarissa. My stomach dropped, and I felt my face flush so hard I thought I might pass out.
Clarissa followed my gaze, and for the first time, she actually froze. Her eyes darted from the mess smeared across my self to the splatter that had somehow made it onto her arm and the hem of her shorts. There was a beat of pure silence, thick and awful.
Then, she blinked, and in, a slow, wide smirk crept onto her face. “Dude,” she said, staring at the streak across her forearm with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “You really were pent up, huh?”
I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut and burying my face in my hands. “Clar, I swear to God—”
“No, seriously,” she cut in, laughing now, that deep, frat-boy chuckle that made my stomach twist even more. “I mean, not gonna lie... kinda impressive.” She flicked her wrist, like she was inspecting damage from a paintball fight. "I should start wearing a raincoat around you. If you think im that attractive."
I let out a strangled noise somewhere between a whimper and a growl, shifting awkwardly against the wall. My legs were still trembling, and the sheer wrongness of everything—my body, my mind, the mess—made my skin crawl. “This is not funny.”
Clarissa wiped at the streak on her shorts with the edge of the shirt she was wearing, then shrugged like it was just another Tuesday. “Dude, it’s a little funny.” Her voice was light, teasing, but not cruel. “I mean, c’mon. Who doesn't want a quick rub?”
I peeked through my fingers at her, my stomach flipping over itself. “This is, Clar. This is... humiliating.” My voice cracked, and I wanted to sink through the floor and never come back.
She huffed a laugh, nudging my shoulder. “Bro, Shit happens—literally, in some cases. Just learn to aim next time, or even warn me.” She waggled her eyebrows at me, and I groaned again, shaking my head.
“Clar,” I muttered, voice raw, “next time?”
Clarissa’s expression softened, just a little. She leaned back against the wall, wiping her arm down with a towel she found hanging off the rack. “Look, man, it’s no big deal. You’re going through... some stuff,” she said, voice dipping lower. “And, hey, at least now you know everything’s, uh... still operational?”
I shot her a glare so sharp it could’ve cut steel.
She grinned, unfazed. “What? I’m just saying, not a bad stress test.” She wiped her arm again and shrugged. “You good?”
I swallowed hard, the weight of everything still pressing in. My chest, my legs, the weird dampness sticking to my skin, the way Clarissa wasn’t treating me any differently, despite everything. I let out a shaky breath, looking at the mess between us, then at her. “I don’t... I don’t know,” I admitted.
Clarissa nudged me lightly with her shoulder again, her voice quieter. “Hey, you’re still you, okay? A little mess doesn’t change that.” She gave me a crooked grin. “Besides, I’m gonna be telling this story for years.”
I groaned, but there was a small, reluctant laugh buried under it. “Wait your not gonna tell Stacey and Amelia are you?”
“I dun know yet.” She tossed the towel at my chest, smirking as I caught it with fumbling hands.
I sat there, legs still trembling, trying to process what had just happened—what she had done, what I had let happen. My heart pounded too hard in my chest, my body still humming with something I didn’t know how to deal with. And Clarissa? She was just... there, not making a big deal out of it, like it was just another day, another joke between friends.
But it wasn’t. Not really.
I exhaled, running a shaky hand through my hair, staring hard at the floor tiles beneath me. My body still didn’t feel like mine, and now... now I wasn’t sure it ever would again.
And Clarissa? I had no idea what any of this meant to her. But I knew one thing for sure—nothing between us was going to be the same after this.
Clarissa stood up, stretching like she hadn’t just been sitting on the bathroom floor next to me during... all of that. I watched her in silence, still trying to gather the shattered pieces of my dignity while the air between us hung thick and heavy with something I couldn’t name.
She walked to the door, one hand on the handle, but then she paused. For a second, I thought maybe—maybe—she’d finally say something normal, something reassuring. Instead, she glanced down at me, her hazel eyes gleaming with that same infuriating smirk tugging at her lips.
“You know,” she said, her voice low and teasing, “you’re gonna have to return the favor next time.”
My entire body locked up, heat rushing straight to my face.
She just winked, completely unfazed, and pulled the door open like she hadn’t just shattered my last shred of composure. “Catch you later, princess.”
And with that, she was gone, leaving me sitting there on the cold tile, heart hammering, brain short-circuiting, and legs still trembling from something I wasn’t ready to admit—especially not to myself.