The Feminine Horizon

The click of heels echoed crisply through the stone halls of the University of Guelph’s Gender Studies building. Doctor Shirley Yathers, her cherry-red nails wrapped delicately around a coffee cup, stepped into lecture hall B-109, the flutter of her pleated pencil skirt swaying softly with her entrance.

She walked gracefully—there was no other way now—with the effortless sway of someone who had long since surrendered to the balance-shifting power of five-inch heels. The podium welcomed her like an old friend. Her students were already seated, their smooth legs crossed at the knees, frilly skirts fanned out beneath them, hands folded primly with fingers tipped in every imaginable shade of lacquered femininity.

She set her cup down, cleared her throat—lightly, politely, never harshly—and flashed a gentle, lip-glossed smile.

“Welcome, everyone,” she chirped, then immediately winced inwardly. The tone had come out just a little too bubbly. She drew her shoulders back. “To GSY 3001: Feminist Theory in the Post-Glitch World. I’m Doctor Shirley Yathers. She/her. You’ll find I prefer precision in language, nuance in thought, and courage in interrogation.”

She placed a manicured hand flat on the lectern, fingers flaring out like petals. “But we’ll get to all that,” she added, her voice curling unintentionally into something almost... sultry.

The room was silent, attentive. Every student, like her, had the same physical form: five-foot-five, delicately boned, bare smooth legs, expert makeup, waspish waists cinched above fluttery panties and bras that, even under modest blouses or shirts, hinted at frill and lace. They were all eighteen—or at least, they looked it. Had for years now. The oldest in the room might be seventy-five, a grandmother under that soft-skinned face, but no one would know it to look at her.

Shirley took a breath. “Let’s begin with what we know,” she said—firmly. But still, it came out sing-song sweet, like she was telling a bedtime story.

She raised one dainty finger. “First came the lips. Pillowy, glossy, unmistakably coded. The first physical feminization. Many thought it was temporary. It wasn’t.”

Another finger. “Then the body hair disappeared. Not waxed, not shaved—gone. We were smooth as porcelain. Overnight, the difference between men and women... softened.”

Another. “Then came the voices. High-pitched. Sweet. A natural flirtation in every syllable.” Her lips twitched with a hint of a smile. “Even those of us trying very hard to maintain a serious tone.” The class laughed. Shirley let herself chuckle, just for a moment, before reining it back in.

She moved on, her hand flowing through the air in a dance of graceful gestures. “Then we dressed the same. Frilly bras and panties—****. And then, only skirts. Pants were simply… gone.”

The images came to mind unbidden—men in boardrooms, construction sites, courts, and churches, all in miniskirts, heels, bras peeking from their dress shirts. All carrying themselves with the same dainty gestures, the same painted smiles.

“The changes came slowly,” she continued, now pacing softly before the class, her hips swinging with every step, “but they never reversed. Waspish waists. Dainty hands. High heels. Makeup. All of it. Then our bodies reset. We became 18. And we stopped aging.”

She turned to face them again. “And finally, five years ago—the flattening. The evening out. The final equalizer. No more towering figures or bulky frames. Just… this.” She gestured to her form. “Slender. Soft. Identical in height and proportion.”

She let it sit there a moment, then leaned onto the podium, her elbow resting lightly, her fingers playing with the end of her pointer.

“What does this mean?” she asked. “What does it mean for feminism when femininity is no longer optional? When womanhood is not a category but a default aesthetic? When identity and expression are shaped by forces we cannot control, and must perform, even when we resist?”

The final word came out a little breathier than she liked—perform—like it belonged in a burlesque show, not a lecture. Her lips pursed. Her hand rose again in a soft, slow wave, buying time to pull herself back to neutral.

“In this course, we will not ask what happened. We will ask what it did to us. To language. To power. To sex. To consent. To gendered ****. To female solidarity. To queer theory. To patriarchy.”

She paused. Her smile softened into something thoughtful—professional, she reminded herself, not teasing.

“And I want each of you to consider this question over the semester: Has it gotten better or worse for women? Are we freer? Or just evenly distributed in our performance of the same polished submission?”

Silence. The students, each a mirror of her own physical form, sat rapt.

Then—

It hit.

A jolt—not painful, but visceral. Like the room had been turned inside out for a half-second. Shirley gasped, catching herself on the lectern. Her delicate hands spread wide, fingers twitching, her heart skipping in her chest.

The students were murmuring. Confused. Shifting in their seats.

She blinked.

And then she saw it.

“Oh…” she whispered, her glossy lips parting.

Everyone had enormous tits.

Tits. She hated that word, didn't she? What was it that she usually called them? Briefly, the word breasts flitted across her consciousness, but she dismissed it. That word felt dirty, gross. No, she would have never said that. There had to be something else. Jugs? Fun-bags? Maybe it was melons. They were certainly big enough to merit the comparison. Bigger, even!

She glanced down.

Her own knockers were huge. Monumental. Straining against the sheer blouse and the lacy bra beneath. Cartoonishly perky. Obscenely bouncy. Her blouse had barely held up; buttons strained across the swell of her chest like a damsel in distress. She could feel them. Heavy. Prominent. They moved when she breathed, jiggle physics brought to life.

The students looked stunned. One clutched their chest, eyes wide. Another giggled, a nervous, bubbly sound. “Oh my God, look at these honkers…” she squeaked. Then blinked in surprise. “Wait... honkers? I didn't mean... I don't know the word... gazongas??”

The whole room was full of them. Row after row of identical, dainty figures with massive milk makers, every one of them blinking down at themselves in disbelief.

Shirley swallowed. She reached up with one trembling hand—so soft, so graceful—and touched the top of one bulging mound.

“Whoppers,” she whispered. “What the fuck…”

She cleared her throat, trying to regain composure. Her voice, still sweet and high, wavered.

“Well, class…” she said, awkwardly adjusting her blouse with both hands. “It appears… our reading list will need updating.”