Head to the fitting room and put on the schoolgirl costume, telling yourself you can handle whatever happens.

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 11:01 PM on Wednesday October 30th, 2024

I walk to the fitting room on legs that feel like they belong to someone else. The tartan fabric is clutched against my chest, warm and thrumming with some energy I can't explain but can absolutely feel — a low vibration that seeps through my t-shirt and into my skin, making the lingering sensitivity from the witch costume flare like a lit match. My cock is still half-hard in my jeans, aching from Pan's teasing strokes, and every step sends a jolt through me as the denim shifts against it.

I can handle this, I tell myself. I survived the witch. I came out the other side. This is just — it's just another costume. Another few minutes of weirdness, and then I'll have something to wear to Megan's party, and this whole bizarre night will be a story I tell my roommate while he laughs at me.

The fitting room curtain swishes closed behind me. I set the costume on the small bench and start undressing, pulling my t-shirt over my head. My nipples catch the cool air and I hiss — they're still so sensitive, still swollen and tender from the witch's transformation, and the brush of cotton leaving my skin makes them tighten painfully. I kick off my jeans, then my boxers, standing naked in the amber glow of the jack-o'-lantern that hangs on the wall like a permanent fixture.

I look down at myself. My cock hangs between my legs, still thick and flushed, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. My body is thin, pale, unremarkable in every way — except for those nipples, which are darker and slightly puffier than they should be, a souvenir from the witch.

"You can handle this," I whisper aloud.

I pick up the white blouse first. It's sheer — nearly transparent — and when I slide my arms into the sleeves, the fabric doesn't just settle against my skin. It merges. I feel it bonding with my flesh at the molecular level, the threads dissolving into my body like sugar in hot water. My chest begins to tingle — not the gradual swelling of the witch, but something faster, more aggressive. My pectorals soften and swell outward, flesh multiplying, weight accumulating with startling speed. I watch in the mirror as two perfect breasts push through the sheer fabric, filling it obscenely — larger than the witch's, rounder, with nipples that press against the transparent material like dark bullets. They're heavy and warm and aching, and the enhanced sensitivity from before makes every brush of air feel like a tongue.

I grab the skirt with shaking hands and step into it. The pleated tartan slides up my thighs and the moment it settles at my waist, my hips crack outward. I cry out — not from pain exactly, but from the sheer overwhelming fullness of bone and cartilage reshaping, my pelvis widening, my ass swelling into a round, firm curve that the skirt barely contains. The hem rides so high it doesn't even cover the bottom curve of my ass cheeks.

My cock is shrinking. I can feel it retracting, the shaft pulling back into my body, my balls drawing up and dissolving, the skin between my legs folding and reshaping into something new — something wet and empty and desperately, achingly hollow. I reach down and my fingers find a pussy — swollen, slick, already dripping with arousal that coats my inner thighs. The sensation of touching it sends a bolt of pure electricity through my entire body and I moan, knees buckling.

My face reshapes in the mirror — softer jaw, fuller lips, wide doe eyes framed by thick lashes. My hair darkens and lengthens, falling past my shoulders in messy waves. I look young — barely legal — with a body built for sin crammed into a costume that hides nothing.

And then the compulsions hit.

They're not like the witch's gentle urging. This is a fucking tsunami. My knees buckle and I drop onto the bench, thighs pressed together, my new pussy clenching around nothing. I need — I need — someone to tell me what to do. Someone to bend me over. Someone to grab my hair and call me a good girl and fill me up. The word "teacher" echoes in my skull like a bell, and my mouth waters.

"Oh god," I whimper, my voice high and breathy and completely foreign. "Oh god oh god oh god —"

The curtain slides open.

Pan stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She's changed — she's wearing a fitted black blazer over her corset, a loosened tie hanging between her breasts, and she's holding a wooden ruler in one hand. Her amber eyes rake over my transformed body with undisguised hunger.

"Tsk tsk," she says, her voice dropping into a low, commanding register. "Missing from class. That's a very serious offense, young lady."

She steps into the fitting room. The curtain falls closed behind her. And I can see — beneath the hem of her plaid skirt — something thick and hard and wrong straining against the fabric, a bulge that has nothing to do with her hips.

"I think," Pan says, tapping the ruler against her palm, "you need to be taught a lesson."