Author's note: This story contains depictions of a woman transforming, graphically and willingly, into a sentient male contraceptive. As I suspect this concept may, perhaps, have limited appeal to those not already possessing some form of fetish for similar content, I figured' I'd give a heads-up before you invest time into something you aren't necessarily going to dig.
Contains temporary, self-initiated girlfriend-to-condom TF, one-on-one coupling, and what probably (?) qualifies as vaginal sex. Written in the second person.
*****
"You ready, Mags? Done getting dressed yet?"
"No, I'm not! Stop asking, already!"
The sound of Maggy's annoyed voice emanating from your bathroom door brings a grin to your face. You know she's starting to get a little pissed off at your incessant nagging - but can't help yourself from teasing her. She always gives you the best reactions.
"Well, try to hurry it up, at least! You don't want us to be the last ones there, do you?"
*Click*
The bathroom door opens just enough for your girlfriend's face to pop out and glower at you - though her short brown bangs, still matted to her forehead with the remnants of her shower, do her no favors in looking menacing.
"C'mon, stop it! Don't be a jerk! Or I'll wear YOU over there!"
She glares at you, irritated. Then she disappears back behind the door.
You laugh to yourself at the empty threat, but decide to leave her to her preparations. Walking over to the window, you pull out your cell, content to bide your time as you wait for her; you've still got a little of it to waste, after all. Outside, the sun's nearly completely vanished, leaving only the barest glimmer of natural light still reflecting off of the tops of the surrounding buildings, and only just outlining the distinctive shapes of the campus in the distance. The streetlights illuminating the sidewalks below, however, shine brightly to compensate - and reveal to you the forms of a number of other students, all going about their own business in the twilight. Some traveling in tight-knit, hesitant cliques as they familiarize themselves with the area; others on their own, allowing themselves to settle back into older routines.
And others, you think, wryly grinning, with a more specific goal in mind. One you yourself hoped would soon lead you outside to join them.
Once Maggy was finally done preparing, at least. In the meantime, though, you simply watch the thinning crowds through your new apartment's window. There's a number of "normal", people, of course - most, yourself included, fell into that category when out in public - but the ratio of them compared to the more
interesting
figures was DEFINITELY more skewed towards the latter here on campus than it was back at home. Just looking outside, you can already spot pretty much all the standards, and a few more creative ones besides. An entire group of giggling women, each clearly acquainted with one another, walk together, each of their twitching ears and cat-like tails leaving thin, energetic shadows dancing behind them with every lamppost they pass; across the street, and a ways behind them, a man paces alone, his unnatural, pitch-black skin rendering him nearly invisible, as if he were a shadow himself. You probably wouldn't have even been able to notice him at all, actually - if it weren't for the bright, neon pink shirt he wears, a large, bubbly "
Bad Girl"
clearly printed in cutesy lettering on its front.
You thumb through your phone, briefly wondering whether the shirt or its wearer was the
bad girl
in question - It could go either way around here, really. But it only takes you a moment to find the message you're looking for, and the thought's quickly wiped from your mind as you re-scan the invite, double-checking its contents. Then, satisfied, you place the phone back in the pocket of your jeans. You can hear the sound of a running sink from the bathroom, and briefly entertain the temptation to tease Maggy again; ultimately, however, you decide against it. As fun as doing so would be, in all honesty, her slowness IS starting to worry you a little. Knowing her, you'd have thought she'd have been ready an hour ago, but she seems uncharacteristically...
hesitant,
tonight.
And you really can't figure out why. You KNOW she's not prudish, and it's not like she hadn't known you'd be getting invites; the
event
had practically become common knowledge for just about everyone who wasn't a freshmen. And even most of them were in on it too, these days; a couple more years, and it'd practically count as campus move-in tradition. Pretty much everyone went, if they could. It was a great way to get to know some new people - and have a good time, besides. And yet...
You sigh, flopping down on your shared bed. Ever since the rsvps had come in yesterday, Maggy had just been acting
off
. Usually, she'd be the first one to jump at anything pervy, but you can't deny she's been dropping some rather obvious hints that she has, at the very least, some
reservations
she's keeping hidden from you. And, as much as you like annoying her, you aren't an asshole. True, you've been looking forwards to going as a couple all summer, but if she DOES have some kind of issue with it...
...well, you hope it's only overactive nerves, or something else like that.
*Click*
Your thoughts are interrupted as, in your periphery, you spot the bathroom door opening again - and Maggy stepping out from behind it. Worryingly, a towel is all she has draped around her body; she's even less ready then you'd figured she was. You lazily roll onto your side, propping yourself up on an arm, ready to teasingly chide her slowness again. But you quickly notice a different problem that overrides whatever witticisms you've prepared for the occasion: her amber eyes appear to be avoiding your own.
You watch her for a moment longer, hoping your assessment is wrong. And, well, kinda enjoying the view, too. Maggy's 'normal' body is fairly small in stature, standing just over five feet tall, but her fluffy lime towel's a good bit smaller than even that, and leaves more than enough of her skin exposed to satisfy your tastes. The little bit of extra chub she carries works entirely in your favor, too; she's not fat, by any means - but the little extra heft to her thighs? The slight pudginess of her stomach, the adorably bulbous
bounce
of her bum? They're normally MORE than enough to get you going. The way she left her natural figure as it is just so
uncommon
- and it does some strange fuckin' things to your dick.
You can't deny what you see, though, nor fully enjoy the view because of it. Her steps are weirdly stiff, almost huffy, as she steps across the apartment floor. She only throws a cursory glance back towards you, her eyes irritable, to reorient herself before bending down. Apparently making sure not to accidentally show you too much as she moves to collect a blouse from her hamper.
Something's wrong after all. Her body language practically screams it.
...Damn it. Sometimes you wish you
were
an asshole.
"Mags, you know, if something's bothering you", you finally comment, hesitant to follow through, "We don't HAVE to go. I can explain it to the guys easily enough, tomorrow."
"It's not the guys I'm WORRIED about!" she snaps back, suddenly turning towards you. Her intensity startles you, making you jump a bit on the mattress - but it seems to startle her far more. Her eyes widen, the forcefulness of her outburst evidently unexpected; her cheeks quickly flush with blood, too, making her embarrassment apparent. You stare at her for a second, watching the redness spread rapidly across her face, uncertain how to respond to the uncharacteristic outburst. Then, finally...
"Pfff..."
You can feel the noise building in your chest, although do your best to arrest it, pursing your lips. You bite your tongue, too; you'd read somewhere doing that helped. This clearly isn't the time to giggle at her - you'd prefer to stay on Mag's good side, preserve whatever chance at action you might still have - but her reaction is just too perfect. Like a puppy startled by its own sneeze.
"Don't laugh! Please, just, don't..." she responds. But far less forcefully, this time. She's still squatting by her hamper, and she's still avoiding your gaze, her eyes apparently finding the carpeting to be far more worthy of their attention. This time, however, her motivation in doing so seems a bit different. More than likely, she probably thinks it's doing something to hide the scarlet flush of her face. Though it's
