Free

The club pulsed with an electric heat, neon lights splashing color across the walls and bodies writhing on the dance floor. Tor Hobbes leaned against the bar, one elbow bent delicately, fingers tapping the stem of his glass with the casual, unthinking grace of someone born into this fragile, glittering world. The fruity drink — something sweet, almost syrupy — kissed his pillowy lips as he took a long sip, feeling the beginning tugs of **** softening the restless edge inside him.

He hated this. Hated that he even wanted to belong here.

Everywhere he looked, there were bodies — tiny waists, plump jugs barely contained by micro-blouses, frilly skirts swishing against perfectly sculpted thighs. High heels caught the light, casting glittering starbursts across the dance floor. Every gesture, every glance, dripped flirtation like syrup from a spoon.

Tor knew, with a bitter little twist in his heart, that he could not tell the men from the women. Not really. Not anymore. They were all delicate hands painted in shimmering colors, all lush lips pouting around pink cocktail straws, all thick asses straining against satin and lace. His father's voice — flirty and singsongy after the world had broken — echoed faintly in his mind: "Make sure, sweetheart. Always make sure."

He grimaced, drained his glass, and pushed it across the bar with a little flick of his dainty, manicured fingers.

"Another, gorgeous?" the bartender chirped, in the same high, musical voice everyone used now. Their massive tits jiggled slightly as they leaned in, a rhinestone-studded bra barely restraining the soft weight.

Tor nodded mutely, angry with himself, angry with the world, angry with the way his own waist tapered like an hourglass inside the tight glittering skirt he wore, angry with how easily he balanced on five-inch platform boots like he had been born for it.

The drink arrived. He didn't taste it, just felt the cold against his lips and the burn as he swallowed. He thought of his friends — all so effortlessly happy, pairing off, laughing, kissing, melting into each other without a thought. Thought of his mother, dressed in a lacy minidress last Thanksgiving, giggling and flipping her pretty little bobbed haircut while she baked pies.

Tor wished he had the courage to stand up to his parents. Their old-fashioned, traditional points of views had, as far as he could tell, isolated him needlessly. Life was different now. Why complicate things? All of his best friends didn't care anymore. Man? Woman? What does that even mean?

Maybe it's me that's broken, he thought, shame burning hotter than the ****. Maybe if I move away... maybe I can fix it.

He lifted his drink again — and the world shivered.

A ripple passed through the club, a second of dizzying dislocation that left Tor clutching the bar, blinking rapidly. The music stuttered — just a beat — then roared on, heavier than before. A few people looked around, confused, but most just swayed with it, intoxicated by rhythm and drink.

Tor's heart hammered in his chest. Was that—?

He knew the history. Knew the stories they'd taught in school, even if he hadn't lived through the great glitches himself. He turned his hands over in front of his face, checking. No change. His nails were still glossy and pink, the little heart stickers still perfectly applied. He ran his hands down his body — his waspish waist, his flat stomach, the heavy shelf of his jugs snug against his beaded halter top. Same.

A scream cut through the music.

Tor whirled, heels clicking against the polished floor. Near the restrooms, a figure — short plaid skirt, towering heels, trembling hands — had lifted the front of their panties, exposing themselves to the room.

There, shameless and shocking, bobbed a thick, throbbing cock — and below it, the unmistakable folds of a glistening pussy.

The air seemed to suck itself out of the room.

Tor stared. His mouth went dry. His drink slid from his hand and shattered against the floor.

Someone else — a girl, no, a guy, no — lifted their skirt, too. Gasps broke out. Laughter, wild and unhinged.

Hands trembling, Tor stumbled back from the bar. He grabbed the hem of his own glittery pink skirt, heart in his throat, and yanked it up. His matching panties strained against the fullness between his legs. He pushed it aside.

A thick cock twitched against his thigh.

And tucked sweetly underneath — soft, pink, wet — was a perfect little pussy.

He couldn't breathe.

The world spun. The years of shame, of anger, of confusion collapsed like a house of cards in the wind.

There is no difference anymore.

The thought came with the pure, crystalline clarity of revelation.

He wasn't broken. He wasn't wrong. The world had changed — not into something twisted, but into something true. A place where he didn't have to fight his instincts or second-guess every spark of attraction.

The music swallowed him whole. His legs moved without thinking, high-heeled boots clacking a rhythm that the lights seemed to chase. He was laughing — a breathless, beautiful sound he barely recognized as his own.

Bodies pressed close — smooth arms, pouting lips, lush curves, eager eyes. Gender dissolved like sugar on the tongue.

Tor let go.

He danced — reckless and radiant — under the pounding beat, the flashing lights, the hot, musky air of the club. He was free.

For the first time in his life, he was free.