Ask Pan what just happened to you — what was that costume?

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 10:25 PM on Wednesday October 30th, 2024

The velvet slides off my body like a second skin peeling away, and with it comes the reversal — bones cracking back into narrower configurations, breasts deflating, hips narrowing, that awful empty feeling between my legs filling back in as my cock reasserts itself. It's not painless. It's not comfortable. But it's familiar, and I sag against the wall of the fitting room alcove, legs barely holding me up, chest heaving.

I'm Trevor again. Scrawny, pale, male. My clothes are in a pile on the floor where I left them. The witch costume lies crumpled at my feet like a shed skin, the purple velvet already looking dull and lifeless without a body inside it.

But something's wrong. Something's different.

My nipples are still tingling — not the ghost of an orgasm, but an active, persistent sensitivity that makes even the air moving across my bare chest feel like fingers. I press my palm flat against my pectoral and hiss through my teeth. The skin there feels thinner somehow, more alive, every nerve ending still firing like it remembers having breasts and refuses to let go.

"What the fuck," I manage, my voice hoarse and male again but still shaky. "What the fuck was that? What did that costume just do to me?"

Pan is leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching me with those luminous amber eyes. Her smirk hasn't faded — if anything, it's deepened. There's a flush on her bronze skin, a slight quickness to her breathing that suggests she got something out of that too. She pushes off the wall and saunters toward me, heels clicking.

"It did exactly what I told you it would do," she says, her voice warm and unhurried. "It transformed you. Made you into what the costume depicted — a real, living, breathing witch. Gorgeous, powerful, and very, very sensitive." She reaches out and brushes a strand of sweat-damp hair from my forehead. Her fingertips are still warm. "And now you're back. See? No harm done."

"No harm —" I stare at her. My legs are still trembling. I can feel phantom weight on my chest, like the memory of breasts is lodged in my muscles. Between my legs, my cock is half-hard despite everything, and there's a slick wetness on my inner thighs that shouldn't be there — leftover from a pussy that no longer exists. "That was — I had tits. I had a vagina. I came from having my boobs squeezed. That's not normal."

"Normal is overrated," Pan says simply. She crouches down and picks up the witch costume, folding it with care. "My costumes are special, Trevor. They don't just cover you — they change you. Temporarily, of course. Once the condition is met, they release. You're proof of that." She stands, holding the costume against her chest. "Think of it as... a full-body experience. Something most people never get to feel."

I grab my boxers from the pile and yank them on, my hands still shaking. "You should have told me that before I put it on."

"And miss that face you made?" Pan's grin widens. "Never."

She steps closer again, and that scent hits me — cinnamon, musk, and something else, something thick and salty that I can't identify. Her eyes drift down my body with open appreciation, lingering on the tent in my boxers.

"You're still hard," she observes. "Or getting there. Interesting. The costume leaves little souvenirs, you know. Enhanced sensitivity. Phantom sensations. Your body remembers what it felt like to be her." She reaches out and traces one finger down my sternum, and I gasp — the touch sends a jolt straight to my groin that's three times stronger than it should be. "See? Your nipples remember."

I bat her hand away, but the contact lingers like a brand. "I need to go. I need to — I should just leave."

"You could," Pan says, stepping back with a theatrical shrug that makes her breasts bounce in that straining corset. "The door's right there. But Trevor..." She tilts her head, violet-black hair cascading over her shoulder. "You came here for a costume for Megan's party. You still don't have one. And I have so many more options."

She gestures toward the racks behind her, and my eyes follow despite myself. The costumes hang there in the flickering jack-o'-lantern light, shimmering, waiting.