"It's these damn tits" muttered the 25-year old blonde woman staring at the full-length mirror in her tastefully furnished apartment. "I graduated top of my class at law school, and no one will take me seriously because of these damn tits."
You can see what she's talking about--her breasts are huge and magnificent. There's enough male left in you that even you find it hard to pay attention to what she's saying. You raise your eyes to her face.
More scenes flash through your eyes. She's been turned down for breast reduction because of a rare blood type. You see the endless mockery and harassment she has received from lustful men and jealous women. You see how difficult she finds it to be taken seriously. You see her finding that someone has left a Hooters job application on her desk as a "joke." You see her future, of professional frustration, of never being able to use her abilities to their fullest extent, of chronic lower back pain, eventual alcoholism and suicide.
"I'd give anything to get rid of them."
By now you realize that in order for your magic to work, you need some sort of consent from the transformee. Anything, you think, includes womanhood.
You wave your wand. The breasts start shrinking before anything else happens. You see your client, as you have come to think of her, with a look of mingled joy and puzzlement. Suddenly she realizes other things are happening to her body. Her hips narrow as her vagina closes. Inside her body, her ovaries are changing into testicles, then making their way downward to the scrotum formed from her former labia. Most of her hair disappears, as what remains forms a classic masculine haircut. Some of her hair reappears, on her newly flat, muscular chest.
Her somewhat larger hands are removing her panties, as she looks down, sure of what she will see. "I'm a man?" he says, hesitantly. "I'm a man" he repeats, firmly, as he runs his hands over his new chest. "Goodbye, tits!" he laughs.