Leah's POV
"I'm doomed to a life of celibacy," I moan, flopping back onto the sofa.
"Don't be so dramatic, Peach. We could always make a new pact if your dry patch stays dry too long." Adam's smirk, paired with his perfectly raised eyebrows, makes me laugh.
The "pact" he’s referring to is the one we made as teenagers. If we hadn't lost our V-cards before starting college, we would be each other's firsts. And yes, it happened, and was awkward, clumsy, and over in minutes. For Adam, it was a stepping stone in realizing he likes cock better than pussy... and for me, it meant having someone I trusted to be that intimate with. I could start college without the weight of my innocence looming over me.
It never damaged our friendship. In fact, it brought us closer. To this day, he is the first person I go to in a crisis. And this crisis? A particularly rough breakup.
"I think I’m going to become a lesbian," I mutter, staring at the ceiling. "Or maybe I'll grow a dick and see what the fuss is about. No commitment. Just tripping and falling into every willing cunt and not being called a whore for sleeping with hordes of people."
Silence.
"Wow, Leah... Just wow." Adam shakes his head, though he is clearly suppressing a grin. "While I'm intrigued about the 'hordes' you mentioned, you shouldn't let that knob get you down. I think a drink is in order. And not the shitty tequila you usually have, something special."
He pulls a frosted bottle from his bag. "My Aunt Doris sent me this. She said it will either put hair on your chest or make your wishes come true."
He pours two hefty measures. "Now, let’s not mention the ex; he’s not worth the breath. What I really want to know is about this fantasy you have of having your very own cock."
I choke out a laugh, the first sip of the drink sending a strange, electric heat through my limbs. "It’s not a fantasy, but I've always wondered what it would be like. What it feels like to touch, to be touched. Is it a heavy weight? How different it is to orgasm. Does it feel the same?" I pause, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Haven’t you ever wondered?"
"Can't say that I have," Adam laughs, though his eyes are bright. "But I can't deny that the idea is hot. You've got me all tingly." He holds up his pinky finger. "Let's make a new pact. The day you grow a dick, and I have my very own lady parts... you'll be my first!"
"It’s a promise," I say, hooking my pinky around his, sealing the deal with a laugh.
____
The memory follows me into the night, settling over me like a haze. I can't get that stupid not a fantasy out of my head. What would it feel like to have a cock of my very own? My hand snakes into my pants. I gently part my folds, fingers pinching and circling my clit. I am soaked.
"Fuck, what is wrong with me?" I say out loud.
I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m curious. I want to know what it feels like, what I would like. Would I want a firm grip or a soft tease? Hard and fast, or gentle and slow? What would it feel like to slowly sink into a warm...
"Ahhh." A muffled groan escapes me, my climax sneaking up on me fast.
"I am one fucked up cookie," I whisper. My eyes close, and I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep before the pulse of pleasure has fully faded.
____
Sunlight creeps through the curtains and brushes against my skin. My head feels fuzzy, but more importantly, there is a strange, heavy weight low in my pelvis. I shift, and a low groan slips out as the friction of the blanket against my skin sends a jolt of electricity straight to my groin. My eyes snap open. I fling the blanket aside like it’s burning me.
My mouth works uselessly, opening and closing like a fish, as my gaze drops to my legs, thicker, hairier, nothing like the feminine shape I’m used to. Nor is the hard cock protruding from between my legs.
"What the actual fuck?"
My voice is a deep, resonant rumble. My hands fly to my face, finding a coarse beard, before my eyes drift down again and land on the big erection jutting proudly from a nest of dark hair. I reach out a trembling finger and poke it, watching it gently sway before grasping it. A groan of unadulterated pleasure rips from my throat.
I'm dreaming, I think. I have to be. All that talk about having a cock of my own, and here I am, one pointing up, seeming to wave at me in jest, as though it’s saying, "Well, you wanted to know."
It feels so real, the way my pulse spikes as my hand drags down the length, the building pressure as my grip tightens. "Mmmhhh... harder," I mutter. Apparently, I do like a firmer grip. I think it, bewildered at how easily the thought slips in. My thumb rubs over the tip and then down the shaft in languid strokes.
Soon, my breath is stuttering out of rhythm. I throw my hands to my sides, clutching the blanket as I drag in deep, shaky breaths. I’m trying to regain control, trying to prolong this experience, trying to hover on the razor-edge of a climax I’m not ready to let go of. But if this is a dream, if I’m about to wake up, I don’t want to miss this chance.
My hand shoots out before I can think. A strained sound escapes my lips as my grip tightens and I fall back against the mattress. Everything in me surges at once, faster, harder, a rush I can barely keep up with. The buildup is frantic, hips jerking with each stroke, pleasure tingling down my spine. My back arches, a jagged groan rips from my throat, and I watch, stunned, as the heat of my cum spills over me in thick, steady bursts.
"Fuck," I breathe. "That was insane."
I sit there in a daze, my cock softening, the cum cooling on my stomach. A smug little ripple of satisfaction threads through the shock of it all. I keep my eyes half-closed, waiting for the inevitable moment I wake up in my own bed, back in my own skin, with nothing but a hazy memory and a damp pair of knickers.
But I don’t wake up.
Instead, pressure in my bladder swells, sharp, insistent, and undeniably real. It’s a heavy, grounding ache that doesn't feel like dream-logic. I wait for the sensation to snap me awake, but the moment drags on, stubbornly persistent.
I stagger upright, my new, heavy limbs feeling uncoordinated as I finally take stock of my surroundings. This isn't my bedroom. I blink at the beige walls, the stack of half-packed boxes in the corner, and the narrow, uncomfortable single mattress. This is the spare room. I must have passed out here after Adam left.
The cold air hits my damp skin, and the reality of the room makes my stomach do a nervous flip. I’m still here. I’m still this.
Gritting my teeth against the mounting pressure in my pelvis, I head for the door. I navigate the hallway with a strange, wide-legged gait, my thighs rubbing together in a way that feels entirely foreign. I reach the bathroom, but as I move to push the door open, my hand freezes on the frame.
I take a deep breath, my chest expanding further than it ever has before, and I finally turn to face the mirror.
