Dinner time

With the food on the table and the waitress returning with Jo’s meal your partner turns off the bullet and gives you a brief and oddly frustrating reprieve from your unmanning arousal. You pull yourself upright having been leaning on the table, breasts mashed unthinkingly into the tabletop. “Oh… god…” you mutter as the haze of arousal ebbs sadly away. You had been wanting cock a moment ago and now… you’re not so sure you don’t. No. You’re a dude. Dudes don’t want cock. They give it. With a shuddering breath you turn your plate slightly and breath slowly, control returning.

You are not a dude at the moment and your body clearly wants cock. “Fuck me…” you mutter and then giggle nervously. Your pussy is wet, swollen and hungry. “Don’t do that again. Please…”

Jo grins and shrugs.

The burrito looks monstrous—huge, dripping with hot salsa and cilantro. You reach for your knife and fork, stubborn, still clinging to some scrap of your old self. You cut, conscious of the wet spot on your panties and how hot you are. One bite and it’s instant regret.

The cilantro tastes like dish soap, bitter and wrong, coating your tongue. “Blah!” The hot sauce is too fucking hit! “Crap… this is hot… so hot!” You reach for the IPA and take a mouth washing gulp and it tastes like bitter pine needles. “Ewww! Holy crap everything tastes, like, fucking horrible!” Your face scrunches involuntarily. You gag a little, discreetly, and shove the plate away.

Jo is already laughing under his breath, shoulders shaking. He knew exactly how bad that all tasted. “You smug prick!” You grumble feeling small and foolish. Like you were a young girl whose pallet had not yet matured. It kindof turned you on.

“Here, Princess,” he says, voice low and amused. He slides his own plate and drink across the table without asking and takes yours. Jo’s boring girly food…

The chicken and cheese quesadilla is golden, melty, fragrant with just a hint of mild salsa on the side. The pear cider sits there looking innocent and sweet. “This is more your speed right now.”

You want to argue. You should argue. But your mouth is still recoiling from the cilantro and chilli ****, your stomach is rumbling, and the dull food in front of you looks like heaven. More importantly though, you know you’re wrong and doubling down would make you look even sillier and less mature - which will probably make you hornier. Fuck this body and the libido pill it rode in on…

You take a tentative bite. “Oh god. This is good!” Soft tortilla, gooey cheese, tender chicken, a little rice and beans on the side—comforting, mild, perfect. The cider cuts through with crisp sweetness. You moan—quiet, involuntary—and Jo’s grin turns downright wicked. After a hard days skiing you need fuel and this tastes exquisite as a result.

“Better?” he asks, popping a bite of your abandoned burrito into his mouth like it’s nothing. “Hey this is good!” He sips the IPA. “Hah, I get it now. Your sense of taste is much less acute than mine. This tastes great, the hops, the chipotle, the cilantro- now I know what I’ve been missing! Thanks princess…” he flicks on the bullet to low.

You nod, cheeks still flushed, unable to speak around another mouthful. The vibrator is humming insistently but softly inside you, a constant background pulse that keeps your arousal simmering even as you eat. Every shift in the chair sends a fresh ripple through your core. Your breasts feel swollen, sensitive; every breath makes them brush the negligee.

Jo leans back, sipping his IPA—your IPA—like he’s won something.

“See? Not so bad being me for a night.” His foot nudges yours under the table. “Eat up. You’re gonna need your energy. Private lesson at nine tomorrow, remember? And after that…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

You swallow hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how wet you are, how empty you feel despite the toy, how badly your new body wants to be filled—properly, deeply, by something a lot bigger than a bullet vibe.

The meal passes in a haze. You eat every bite of the quesadilla. You drain the cider. Jo keeps the remote low, teasing, never letting you come down completely. By the time the check arrives you’re trembling, nipples like diamonds, thighs slick beneath the coat.

Jo pays. Stands. Offers you his—your—big hand.

“Ready to head back, baby?”

You take it. Your smaller fingers disappear inside his palm.