Searching for a cure and School struggles

The next few days were a blur of hushed, panicked conversations, frantic internet searches (yielding nothing, of course, about mysterious feminization curses), and a growing, gnawing dread. Liam was a rock, staying over most nights, sleeping on the floor in my room, a silent, supportive sentinel against the encroaching weirdness. We tried everything we could think of – doctors (who looked at me like I was insane when I tried to explain), priests (who offered prayers and holy water, neither of which had any discernible effect), even a shady back-alley “mystic” Liam found online (who mostly just tried to sell us expensive crystals and incense).

Nothing worked. The changes remained. I was still... this. This softer, curvier, undeniably feminized version of myself, with a pussy where my dick used to be. And the urges... they were a constant, simmering torment. Every time Liam was near, every time I saw a guy on TV, every time I even thought about male anatomy, the heat would flare, the need would claw at me. I fought it. God, how I fought it. I’d lock myself in the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, recite soccer stats, anything to distract myself, to beat back the insistent, humiliating craving. So far, I’d managed to resist. But it was exhausting. A constant, draining battle against my own treacherous body.

The physical changes, thankfully, seemed to have stalled. I hadn’t engaged in any “sexual union,” so the curse, if that’s what it was, hadn’t progressed further. I still looked mostly like a slightly softer, more androgynous version of my old self, at least from the neck up. My chest was still flat (although I had noticed my nipples seemed more pert). My athletic build, though less defined, was still recognizably mine. With baggy clothes, careful posture, and a perpetually hoarse voice, I could almost pass for normal. Almost.

School was a nightmare. I faked a lingering flu, hiding out in my room, avoiding everyone. Soccer practice? Out of the question. How could I explain my sudden lack of... equipment... in the locker room? Coach Davies was already calling, concerned, then annoyed. My teammates were texting, wondering where their captain had vanished.

And then there was Marcus Thorne. He hadn't seen me yet. He’d cornered Liam in the hallway at school, demanding to know where I was, his usual sneering arrogance laced with a thuggish impatience. “Tell Riley he can’t hide forever,” he’d growled. “I’ve got a score to settle with that pretty boy.” Liam had managed to fob him off with some vague story about a family emergency, but the threat lingered. Marcus was a ticking time bomb.