Reluctantly agree to try the witch costume on, just to see what it looks like... then maybe Pan will help you find a manly costume

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 9:57 PM on Wednesday October 30th, 2024

"Fine," you say, the word coming out more breathless than you intended. You clear your throat. "I mean — okay. I'll try it on. Just to see what it looks like. But then you gotta help me find something actually manly, right? Something for a guy?"

Pan's face lights up like a cat who's spotted a mouse with a broken leg. She presses the costume into your hands, and the velvet is impossibly soft beneath your fingers — softer than anything you've ever touched, almost liquid, warm like living skin. The fabric seems to pulse gently against your palms.

"Of course, sweetie," she purrs, already steering you toward the back of the shop with one hand pressed flat against your lower back. Her fingers are hot through your jacket. "I have lots of options for you. But first — let's see how this one fits. The fitting room is right back here."

She guides you past racks of costumes that seem to breathe in the dim light, past jack-o'-lanterns whose carved smiles look knowing, past mirrors that reflect angles of the shop you can't quite see directly. The fitting room is a curtained alcove draped in black silk, with a full-length mirror that catches the orange glow and throws it back in strange, warm tones.

"Go ahead," Pan says, leaning against the wall outside with her arms crossed beneath her breasts, pushing them up until the corset's lacing creaks. "Take your time. Get comfortable. I'll be right here."

You duck behind the curtain with the costume clutched to your chest like a shield. The alcove is small — intimate — and the mirror stares back at you with your scrawny frame, your rumpled jacket, your face still flushed from standing too close to Pan. You set the costume on the hook and start undressing, telling yourself this is just to see how it looks. She'll find you something better afterward.

Jacket off. Shirt off. The air in the fitting room is warm, almost humid, and your skin prickles. You kick off your shoes, shove down your jeans and boxers, and stand there naked in the mirror — pale, skinny, nothing impressive. Your cock hangs soft between your legs, though not entirely — there's a half-chub you can't quite explain, probably from Pan's proximity and that intoxicating smell.

You reach for the witch costume. The moment your fingers close around the velvet dress, a tingle races up your arm — electric, warm, pleasant. You pull it over your head before you can second-guess yourself, and the fabric slides down your body like water, conforming to every contour with impossible precision.

And then it begins.

The first thing you feel is pressure in your chest — not painful, but insistent, like something inflating beneath your skin. You look down and watch, frozen, as two mounds swell outward against the purple velvet. They grow quickly — A cup, B cup, C cup — the fabric stretching to accommodate breasts that are round and full and undeniably real. Your nipples harden instantly, pressing against the velvet like pebbles, and the sensation is so intense it makes your knees buckle. Each heartbeat sends a throb of pleasure radiating from those swollen buds straight down to your groin.

Your waist cinches inward with a sensation like a warm hand wrapping around you and squeezing. Your hips crack and widen, bone reshaping itself with a deep ache that somehow feels good — a spreading fullness that makes you gasp. Between your legs, you feel your cock shrinking, retracting, the flesh folding inward as something wet and new opens up in its place. Your balls draw up and disappear, absorbed into your body, and in their place you feel the unmistakable sensation of a pussy forming — plump lips, a swollen clit, slick heat already gathering.

Your face reshapes in the mirror — jaw softening, lips plumping, cheekbones rising. Your hair lengthens in a rush, spilling past your shoulders in dark waves. Your skin smooths, tans slightly, takes on a luminous quality. Within seconds, the scrawny twenty-one-year-old guy is gone, and in his place stands a stunning young woman with full breasts straining against purple velvet, wide hips, a tiny waist, and a face that could stop traffic.

The pointed hat materializes on your head. The fishnet stockings crawl up your legs on their own. The elbow-length gloves slide onto your arms.

And then the hunger hits.

It's not a thought — it's a need, primal and overwhelming. Your new breasts ache to be touched. Your nipples throb with every heartbeat, so sensitive that even the velvet brushing against them sends sparks of pleasure cascading through your body. You feel your new pussy clench around nothing, slick and empty and wanting. The costume whispers to you in a voice only you can hear: touch yourself. let someone touch you. you need it.

From outside the curtain, Pan's voice drifts in, rich with amusement: "Oh, Trevor. You sound like you're having fun in there. Why don't you come out and let me see?"