My feminisation.

The change came swiftly. I had heard this was the case with X-Change and had been assured of the brevity of the absolute transformation of my body into a perfect replica of Nikitina Boyarova. Every muscle in my body tensed, and I first collapsed forward to sprawl over the table before jerking upright almost immediately. I threw back my head to scream at the ceiling. My voice broke in mid-scream, my natural baritone replaced by an unmistakably female mezzo-soprano. As my head whipped back, my hair grew in an instant, soft tresses flowing down to fall over my bare shoulders and upper back.

I gasped, shocked by the speed with which I was being remade. I pushed myself upright as a pressure built in my chest and shrieked as, with a disconcerting shift in my balance, an unfamiliar weight blossomed as hard muscle softened to pliant flesh and breasts formed and pushed outward. I felt the newly grown breasts bounce as gravity took hold and they swung as they settled in place. The effect of the pink pill spread down my body; my hips bucked spasmodically as my pelvis widened and opened, refiguring to its new female purpose of compromising speed with the task of childbirth.

The familiar weight of my male genitalia vanished in a mere moment. My stomach churned sickeningly at the bizarre sensation of my testicles and cock retracting inwards, subsumed into the flesh of my groin and a split second later were replaced by an alien, moist and throbbing void. I felt muscles that lacked any point of reference twitch and flex, a newly formed vulva spasming in its first moment of existence. My body twisted and writhed as my skeleton shrank and grew more gracile, male strength, height and sturdiness vanishing and more feminine curves and stature taking their place.

The rate of change slowed as the final finishing touches of the transformation occurred. I raised my head, staring at the now slender and feminine fingers that still clutched the edge of the table in a death grip. The nails sprouted, long but unmanicured. I felt my skin crawl as male body hair shrivelled and sloughed off, leaving only fine hairs on smooth and slender limbs.

I gasped and moaned softly as the disconcerting sensations subsided gradually and I regained my wits and freedom of movement after a minute or two. I straightened up, releasing my grip on the table and standing unsupported on still-quivering, unsteady legs. I leaned down to pick up the bathrobe, feeling the pendulous swing of the newly sprouted breasts, an unfamiliar motion that made me stumble from the alteration to my weight distribution and centre of gravity. I pulled on the robe, the cotton fabric rasping across plump and rigidly erect nipples and sending electric jolts of pleasure that made me shiver.

I padded across the room on small and dainty feet. I had been given privacy for the transformation, but an entire team was prepared and waiting for me to complete my metamorphosis into Nikitina Boyarova. A hairstylist for my presently unkempt and freshly sprouted hair, a manicurist for my nails and pedicure and even a choreographer to instruct me in the daunting task of mastering wearing and walking in women's heels.