Take the witch costume and head into the changing room to try it on.

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

My hands reach out and take the costume before my brain can mount any meaningful protest. The fabric is impossibly soft between my fingers — the black satin of the corset feels like water, like something alive, warm against my palms in a way fabric shouldn't be. Pan's smile widens, those golden slit-pupiled eyes tracking my hands as I gather the pieces against my chest.

"That's the spirit," she murmurs, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

I mumble something — an excuse, a justification, I don't even know what — and push through the velvet curtain into the changing room. It's larger than I expected. A full-length mirror dominates one wall, framed in ornate black ironwork that looks centuries old. The lighting is warm, amber, intimate — the kind of light that makes skin look good. A velvet bench sits against the opposite wall, and the floor is covered in thick Persian carpet that swallows my footsteps.

I hang the costume on a hook and stand there staring at myself in the mirror. Pale. Gangly. Red hair sticking up at weird angles. Glasses slightly crooked. The ghost of a neckbeard I forgot to shave. I look like exactly what I am — a loser who's about to put on a woman's costume in a magic shop run by a goddess.

"It's just a costume," I tell my reflection. "It's Halloween. People cross-dress for Halloween all the time. This is... this is normal."

I peel off my hoodie, then the graphic tee underneath — some faded Evangelion shirt I've had since high school. My chest is pale and flat, ribs visible, a smattering of freckles across my shoulders. I kick off my cargo shorts and boxers together, standing naked and shivering slightly despite the warmth of the room. My cock hangs small and pathetic between my legs — three inches soft, barely more hard — and I feel the familiar wave of shame crash over me.

I pick up the corset first. It shouldn't fit. I'm a dude. A skinny, flat-chested dude. But as I press it against my torso and reach for the laces, something strange happens — the fabric moves. It wraps around me on its own, the satin sliding across my skin like a lover's hands, pulling tight around my midsection. I gasp. The laces cinch themselves, drawing my waist inward, and I feel a pressure — not painful, but insistent — reshaping my ribcage, compressing, sculpting.

Then the heat begins.

It starts in my chest — a burning, tingling pressure behind my nipples that makes me cry out softly. I look down and watch, transfixed with horror and something else, something that makes my tiny cock twitch despite everything, as flesh swells beneath the corset. Breasts. Actual breasts, pushing outward, filling the satin cups, growing heavier and fuller with each heartbeat. I can feel the weight of them — soft, warm, sensitive — pressing against the fabric. They keep growing, pushing past A-cup, past B, settling into a generous C that strains against the corset's spiderweb lace overlay.

"Oh fuck," I whisper, my voice already higher, softer. "Oh fuck, oh fuck—"

My hips crack and widen. I grab the mirror's frame as my pelvis reshapes itself, bone and cartilage shifting with wet sounds that should terrify me but instead send jolts of perverse pleasure straight to my groin. My ass rounds out, flesh filling in, becoming plump and heart-shaped. My thighs thicken, softening, the sparse hair on them simply vanishing.

Between my legs, my cock is shrinking. I watch in the mirror as it retreats, pulling inward, my balls drawing up and dissolving into my body with a sensation like warm honey being poured into my pelvis. The skin smooths over, splits, and I feel the most alien sensation of my life — a opening, a wet heat forming where my cock used to be. Pussy lips swelling into existence, puffy and pink and already glistening with moisture. My new clit throbs to life, swollen and exquisitely sensitive.

I'm panting. My hair has grown — cascading past my shoulders in waves of deep auburn that catch the amber light. My face has softened, jaw narrowing, lips plumping, freckles fading to a dusting across delicate cheekbones. The glasses have vanished. My eyes are wider, greener, framed by thick dark lashes.

The skirt slides up my widened hips on its own. The striped stockings crawl up my thighs. The pointed hat settles onto my head. And I stand there — a woman. A beautiful, curvy, wet woman staring back at me from the mirror with wide green eyes and an expression of pure, helpless arousal.

And god help me, I'm dripping. My new pussy is soaked, thighs slick, a hungry emptiness clenching inside me that demands to be filled. The compulsion hits like a wave — I want to be touched. I want hands on my breasts, on my skin, worshipping me. The need is so intense my knees buckle.

From beyond the curtain, Pan's voice drifts in, honeyed and knowing: "How's it fitting in there, sweetie? Need any help with the laces?"