His perfect femboy

Note: Hi everyone. Posting my first story. As the title suggests, I was heavily inspired by Fox Face's 'His Perfect Woman' as well as Tseudo Nimm's 'Witchy Ex-Girlfriend'. So be sure to check out their works!

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The bar was thick with cigarette smoke and the clatter of clinking glasses. Two friends sat at a corner table; their beers were already half-empty. Tim, a tall, athletic man at 6'3", with broad shoulders and muscular arms, sat across from Eric, a slim, soft-spoken guy at 5'5". The two had been friends since kindergarten, and despite their differences, they bonded over their love for video games and action movies. They were always there for each other.

"What about her?" Tim asked with a grin.

"Who?" Eric replied.

"That slut with the big ass," Tim said, pointing at a goth woman in a torn black dress and heavy makeup sitting at the bar.

Eric sank into his chair and said quietly, "She’s really beautiful."

"Then go talk to her," Tim ordered.

"And say what?" Eric asked.

"Hey, bitch, suck my dick," Tim laughed, taking a swig of his beer.

"I’m not sure that’s how I want to hit on someone," Eric said, his eyes dropping.

"Bro, don’t be such a fag. Women love it when you talk to them like that. It reminds them of their natural place. That’s how I started all my relationships with chicks."

"And how’d that go?" Eric asked. "I mean, Isn't that why Lu—"

"Don’t mention her name," Tim snapped, chugging the rest of his beer and standing up. "Watch how a real man picks up whores. Maybe you’ll stop being such a fag." He walked over to the goth woman and started talking.

Eric saw Tim stumble to the goth woman by the bar and began to chat. By their body language' it was clear she wasn't interested in Tim but he didn’t get the memo. Eric edged closer to eavesdrop. He couldn’t hear everything, but he caught the tail end.

"Leave me alone already," the goth woman said. "I’m into the feminine form."

Tim, already half-drunk, exploded. "What a waste, girl. You’re throwing away your biological duty. Women are meant to be loyal to their men."

"Their biological duty?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah! You know, clean the house, cook, and satisfy your man in every way possible."

"That’s what you think women should be?" she asked, her anger visibly rising.

"That’s what the perfect woman should be. Without that, what’s the point?" Tim said with a laugh.

The goth woman fumed. "And what are men supposed to be, in your eyes?"

Tim grinned confidently. "A man’s gotta be the strong one, the dominant one in the relationship. Unless he’s a fag, of course. Then he can’t be a real man."

The air around the noisy bar grew tense. Eric felt the hostility and stepped between Tim and the woman, saying quickly, "Sorry about my friend. He’s drunk and talking nonsense. He doesn’t mean what he says."

The goth woman turned to him, her eyes blazing. "Oh, he means it. And you, as his friend, are just as guilty. You’ve never stood up to the things he says. You always stayed quiet when he disrespected women or gays. So don’t pretend you’re any different."

Eric didn’t understand how this strange woman knew this, but she was right. He loved Tim, but his biggest issue with his best friend was Tim’s sexism and homophobia. Eric had always wanted to tell Tim it wasn’t okay, but he could never find the words. Still, he tried to defend himself. "That’s not true. I don’t have any problem with women or gays. I think it’s totally fine if someone’s gay, no matter who they are. I don’t think like him at all."

The goth woman gave a bitter smile, her eyes glinting with a strange light. She whispered ancient, incomprehensible words. "Let’s see what it means to be the opposite of what you believe. You, the weak one who always stays silent, will be the strong man. And you, who proclaims strict gender norms, will be his perfect partner—the soft, loyal one who only wants to serve." She turned and walked away, leaving the two friends stunned.

After she vanished into the bar’s crowd, Tim leaned heavily on his chair, his face flushed with anger and drunkenness. Suddenly, his expression changed. He put a hand to his forehead, his body trembling slightly. "What the hell just happened?" he muttered, his voice sounding weaker than usual. "My head’s spinning… and my body feels… weird."

Eric, already uneasy from the confrontation, stood quickly and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. "Let’s get out of here. You look like you’re about to puke. We’ll head back to the apartment."

Despite their physical differences, Eric had to support Tim as they left the bar, as Tim’s legs seemed to lose stability, his once-sturdy body suddenly weak.

The walk to their shared apartment, a small place in an old neighborhood, was quiet and tense. When they arrived, Eric helped Tim inside, and Tim collapsed onto the old couch, cold sweat covering his forehead. "I don’t understand what’s happening to me," Tim whispered, his voice trembling. "My body… it feels like it’s being crushed from the inside. My chest hurts, and my hips… they feel like they’re being squeezed."

Eric looked at him with concern, but he, too, began to feel changes. A surge of intense heat spread through his muscles, as if every cell in his body was filling with new strength. He felt his shoulders broaden, his arms harden, his spine straighten and strengthen. His height increased noticeably, and muscles he’d never had before began to swell under his soft skin. He tried to hide the strange sensation but couldn’t ignore the wave of physical confidence washing over him. "I’m feeling something too," he admitted, his voice deeper, broader. "It’s like… my body’s changing."

Their clothes tore at that moment, and new memories flooded their minds like a rushing river. They remembered their childhood as close friends, but also the evolution of their relationship in high school: how Eric, once the shy and weaker one, had begun to develop a strong, athletic body, and how Tim, once the dominant leader, had found himself increasingly drawn to pleasing Eric, serving him. The memories painted Tim as someone who chose to submit, dressing in more feminine clothes, cleaning their shared apartment, cooking for Eric, and even offering his body completely. The reality around them reshaped itself: they lived together as a couple, and their environment accepted it as absolute truth.

Tim stood on shaky legs, his gaze fixed on Eric. He saw his friend transform into a tall, muscular man, while his own body shrank and softened. His hips rounded, his waist narrowed, his skin became smooth and glossy, and his chest swelled slightly, forming a delicate feminine curve. "What the hell is happening to me?" Tim shouted, but his voice sounded higher, softer. "I don’t want this! I’m not supposed to feel… the urge to go clean up this mess, make you something to eat, dress up for you like… like a loyal bitch!" He tried to resist the urge, but his hands trembled with an uncontrollable desire to swap his loose shirt for tighter clothes.

They looked around and saw the space transforming completely, as if reality itself was being reshaped to fit their new lives. The apartment, once Tim and Eric’s modest and neglected space, became impeccably tidy and well-kept. The living room was spotless, free of dust or clutter, with a faint scent of fresh cleaning and baked goods. The furniture itself changed to match this reality. Next to the familiar couch appeared a large, luxurious leather armchair meant for Eric, with a small side table holding a whiskey bottle and glasses. On the walls, in glossy black frames, hung photos that had changed dramatically: a high school picture of Eric, a tall, muscular man in a tight sports shirt, standing behind a smaller, softer Tim, his hand resting protectively on Tim’s shoulder. Another photo showed them at graduation, Tim in tight pants and a feminine blouse with a lace collar, smiling innocently next to a confident Eric. More photos documented their shared life: Tim on his knees cleaning the carpets while Eric sat in the armchair, or Tim in tight, revealing clothes, dancing seductively in the living room.

Tim couldn’t believe the photos, and though he’d never seen the clothes he wore in them, he felt a deep, familiar recognition. His hands trembled with an uncontrollable urge to swap his loose, masculine clothes for those, to feel the tight fabric cling to his soft, curving skin, to present himself perfectly for Eric. He stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavily, his gaze darting between the photos and the clothes. "This isn’t my life," he whispered, his voice shaky but higher, almost feminine. "I’m not supposed to wear those things. I’m not supposed to want to clean this apartment, make you dinner, or… strip for you." The new memories whispered in his mind: how many times he’d done this, how good it felt to please Eric, to fulfill his role as the loyal, devoted partner.

Eric, meanwhile, stood at the living room’s entrance, his new body filling the space impressively. He looked around with a mix of confusion and natural belonging. "Everything feels… right," he said in his deep, new voice, his eyes fixed on Tim.

Tim, trembling from the photos that turned the apartment into a stage for a life alien to him, rushed out of the living room. "I need… to be alone," he mumbled, his soft, curving legs carrying him quickly toward his room. He opened the door, hoping to find something familiar, an anchor from his old life, but what greeted him was a room transformed completely, as if taken from a strange, twisted dream.

The room, once a simple, masculine space, had become a luxurious, meticulously designed gaming room. Two dominant workstations took center stage: the first, encased in a glossy black case with pulsing red lighting, looked like a fortress of masculine power. Its screensaver displayed a looping animation of a muscular soldier wiping out a horde of zombies with precise gunfire, accompanied by muffled shooting sounds. Tim felt this was Eric’s computer, a symbol of strength and control.

Next to it stood the second computer, its character entirely opposite: a glowing pink case adorned with feminine touches like painted nails on the sides, pink lily flowers, and lace straps around the unit. Its screensaver showed a vivid, explicit image: Tim, in his new body—small, soft, and curvaceous, dressed in sheer lace panties and high stockings—on his knees, his mouth wrapped around Eric’s cock, his gaze full of passionate desire and complete devotion. The image was a personal photo, taken from a close angle that revealed every detail: his taut cheeks, his eyes rolling in pleasure, and his small, manicured hands gripping the base of the erection.

Tim recoiled, his body shaking, his hand covering his mouth in fear. "No… this can’t be real," he whispered, his high, soft voice sounding like a choked whimper. But as he looked at the image, a new memory burst into his mind like a dam breaking. He remembered that day vividly: two years ago, he’d begged Eric to photograph him while he sucked him off, because “it’ll prove how much I love you.” He remembered the excitement he felt as he knelt, the salty, warm taste filling his mouth, and the pride swelling in him as Eric held the phone camera and snapped the shot. The memory was so vivid, so tangible, that Tim felt his body respond involuntarily—a small, soft erection stirring between his curving thighs, and an overwhelming urge to drop to his knees again and prove his devotion.

Eric, who had followed him, entered the room and stood in the doorway, his new body filling the frame. His broad shoulders and muscular chest made him an imposing figure, and almost unconsciously, he placed a hand on the doorframe in a natural stance of dominance. His eyes scanned the room, and the new memories awakened in him too—memories of nights when he sat in the black gaming chair while Tim knelt on his lap, sucking him off during a game, or cleaned the room in revealing clothes so as not to disturb him. "This is our room," he said in his deep voice, not fully understanding why the words felt so natural.

Tim remained frozen in front of the pink computer, torn between the horror of the image and memory and the uncontrollable urge to surrender to them. His hand trembled, and he gripped the desk to keep from falling to his knees.

On the desk next to the pink computer lay neatly organized files of screenshots and photos, and the moment Tim looked at them, more memories stirred. He saw a folder named "For Eric's Viewing," containing short videos he had recorded himself: one where he cleaned the room on all fours, wearing only stockings and a pink corset, while Eric sat in the gaming chair filming him; another where he prepared dinner in tight clothes, a short skirt and a crop top that exposed his belly, then dropped to his knees and offered himself as dessert. These memories weren't just images—they included the sensations: the calm he felt while scrubbing the floor, the embarrassing thrill as his body moved in the clinging outfits, and the deep satisfaction that flooded him when Eric confirmed he was "fulfilling his role."

On the wall behind the pink desk were small shelves holding objects that made the memories even more real: a small metal plate engraved with "In Service to Eric," where he often kept leftovers when feeding Eric by hand; a little jewelry box containing dangling earrings, ankle bracelets with tiny bells, and a necklace with a tag reading "I ♥ Eric." Each item triggered another memory: he remembered wearing the necklace as a symbol of his devotion, even when they left the apartment together.

Tim collapsed into the pink computer chair, his hands gripping the edges of the desk as cold sweat covered his forehead. "These aren't my memories... I'm not supposed to be like this," he whispered, but his voice cracked, and the new urges grew stronger. His body trembled with the desire to slip on the ankle bracelets, put on the necklace, play one of the videos, and start reenacting what they showed. The inner struggle became more tangible: part of him clung to his old identity, but a larger part, bolstered by these memories, wanted to surrender, to turn the pictures and videos back into reality.

Eric stood beside him, gazing at the objects and photos as new memories awakened in him too. The natural sense of ownership intensified, and he felt the need to guide Tim, to remind him of his place. Tim, still shaking from the flood of memories that overwhelmed him in the room, rose from the pink chair and tried to escape the images and items demanding his submission. He hurried out of the room, his soft, curving legs carrying him to the kitchen, hoping to find something simple and familiar to hold onto. Eric followed quietly, his new, impressive body filling the narrow hallway.

But the kitchen, like the rest of the apartment, had completely changed, transformed into a space reflecting Tim's new role. The counters were spotless and gleaming, with no trace of mess or dirty dishes. The shelves were lined with fully stocked counters of kitchen tools designed for elaborate, devoted cooking: shiny pots, specialized pans for complex meals, and baking molds for cakes and pastries. On the wall hung a professional knife block next to a shelf of leather-bound cookbooks, their titles explicitly stating their purpose: "The Complete Guide to Cooking for Your Man," "Recipes for Devotion in the Kitchen," and "The Art of Daily Service."

More memories flooded Tim like a deluge. He remembered the daily routine that had become an inseparable part of his life: every morning starting with preparing an extravagant breakfast dressed in sexy clothes, his thighs rubbing together with every movement. He recalled the evenings preparing more elaborate dinners, kneeling on the cushion to reach the low counter, his soft body shifting in the tight outfits. The memories included not just the actions, but the accompanying feelings: the deep satisfaction when Eric tasted the food and nodded in approval, the pleasure in fulfilling his role as the one who tended to his partner's every need, and the uncontrollable urge to continue serving even after the meal—by cleaning the dishes, and perhaps by offering himself for the rest of the evening.

Tim leaned against the countertop, his hands gripping the edge, trying to push back the overwhelming images. "I'm not a chef... I'm not supposed to be on my knees cooking for you," he muttered, but his voice sounded weaker, and the impulse to start acting—checking the fridge, pulling out ingredients, wiping down the already clean surfaces—overpowered him. His body trembled slightly, as if every cell remembered the movements, the feel of the tight apron, and the relief in fulfilling his role.

After the flood of memories left Tim shaking and confused, he backed away from the room, trying to resist the uncontrollable urge to begin the grooming ritual. Eric, sensing the surge of memories in himself as well, quietly suggested, "Let's go to my room." Tim, without another word, followed, his soft legs carrying him quickly to the bedroom.

When the door opened, the room—once a simple space with a single bed and few personal items—had completely transformed into a distinct couple's bedroom, designed around their new dynamic. In the center stood a large, heavy king-sized bed covered in glossy black satin sheets, with numerous pillows of varying sizes, some intended for support in intimate positions. Beside the bed were two nightstands, each reflecting the new personality and role of its owner.

The right nightstand, for Eric, was large and massive, made of dark wood, topped with a shaker, sweatbands, and sports watches. The left one, for Tim, was smaller, adorned with delicate pink decorations and lace, containing items suited to his new role: carefully folded lace panties, a small anal plug with a pink jewel at the end, connected anal beads on a chain, and a thick collar with an attachment ring.

Tim stood in the middle of the room, his gaze shifting between the nightstands, his body trembling from the combination of shock and the uncontrollable urge to surrender to the memories. "This isn't... I don't mean to sleep with you. I'm not supposed to be this ready for you." The two stood in the center of the bedroom, surrounded by the nightstands and images filling their minds with memories of devotion. Tim's inner struggle, gradually cracking in every room they entered, reached a breaking point. He turned to Eric, his eyes burning with a mix of uncontrollable desire and desperation. "I can't... I can't keep fighting this," he whispered in his soft, high voice. "I need you. Now. Fuck me. Take me like you always have." Eric, his new muscular body filling the space with natural confidence, nodded slowly, influenced by the memories and the wave of ownership washing over him. They moved closer, their hands trembling as they stripped each other's clothes. Shirts fell to the floor, followed by pants, until they stood completely naked.

Eric stood as an incredibly built athletic man: broad shoulders, a muscular chest with defined abs, thick arms, and strong legs. Between his thighs rose a long, thick cock, its head flushed and glistening. In complete contrast, Tim's body was the opposite: narrow feminine waist, curving juicy thighs, and a full, plump, completely smooth ass without a single hair. His skin was silky and shiny, his chest slightly swollen from the changes, and his erection—small and cute, barely visible—seemed negligible compared to Eric's. Without the cock, he could easily be mistaken for a woman. Tim glanced at his own erection, a flash of embarrassment in his eyes, but before he could dwell on its tiny size, his gaze locked onto Eric's massive cock. Desire flooded him like a torrent, and he lunged forward, his small hands gripping the base of the huge erection. "This is all I care about," he gasped, his voice full of urgency. "Fill me up. Show me my place."

They fell onto the king-sized bed, Tim pushing Eric to take the lead. He positioned himself on all fours, his plump ass raised and presenting his smooth hole, begging in a trembling voice: "Put it in. Fuck me properly." Eric, driven by their shared desire, grabbed Tim's thighs with his strong hands and began pushing inside. Tim cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure as the thick cock breached his entrance, stretching him to his limit, but he didn't pull away. He pushed back, forcing Eric deeper, slapping against his overflowing ass with every thrust. The sex was wild and unrestrained. Eric pounded into Tim fast and hard, his hands gripping the narrow waist and leaving fingerprints on the smooth skin, while Tim's ass jiggled and bounced with each penetration. Tim moaned loudly, his body shuddering, his hands clawing at the sheets, but he kept demanding more—deeper, harder—his expression triumphant in the desire that had conquered him. His small cock leaked nonstop, leaving a puddle on the sheets, while his hole stretched around the massive shaft and clenched with every withdrawal. Eric bit his shoulder, pulled his hair, and spanked his plump ass until both their bodies were covered in sweat and trembling from end to end. When they reached climax, Tim screamed as Eric's hot cum filled him to overflowing, his body convulsing and milking the pulses, while his tiny erection spurted its thin load onto the sheets. They lay side by side, breathing heavily, Tim's body limp and satisfied, completely full, as Eric stroked his smooth skin. They both fell asleep next to each other, knowing their lives had changed.