The dressing room.

The time had come at last, I had to restrain myself from running through the dressing room door when the lady opened it for me. The room was a simple fifteen-foot wide and fifteen-foot tall square room with a large mirror attached to the full height of one of the walls. It didn’t look much like a dressing room, the only other thing that hinted at its purpose besides the mirror was a vanity nestled in the corner, but there were no dressers, closets, or anything that could contain clothes. There was, however, a loveseat situated in front of the mirror.

Before I allowed myself to get too excited, I needed clarification, “So what exactly can I change about myself in here?”

“Anything at all to do with your physical appearance,” The lady replied, closing the door and stepping inside, “and I do mean anything. Your gender, your phenotype, your race, the Studio is even capable of things that would ordinarily be physically impossible in your reality, such as wings that would allow you to fly. It’s important to know that these changes will only apply when in the Studio or in one of your created realities. This place has no control over your reality.”

I nodded, it was exactly what I had hoped for. I had plans. Before anything else, I stripped myself down, a bit embarrassedly due to my proximity to this gorgeous woman, and stood in front of the large mirror. Its flawless surface reflected everything I hated about myself back at me. I was ready.

For my entire adult life and most of my teenage life I had a massive dysphoria problem. It would be obvious to anyone who knew me that I hated my physical appearance, but there was a very specific reason why. Ever since I hit puberty I had an obsession with women’s clothing, and I had always wanted to wear it. But when my physical appearance began to grow closer to what it was now I stopped. Anytime I tried I would look at myself and feel disgusted. I just didn’t have the body to pull off the clothes, at least not in the way I wanted to.

“First thing that needs to go is the hair. All of it,” I said. Apparently, I hadn’t been specific enough, as I blinked and was suddenly staring at a strange bald, fat man without eyebrows or even eyelashes. “Oops, I meant all the hair except the hair on my head. No beard or moustache though, please.”

I blinked again and sighed in relief as my black curtain of hair, bushy brows, and eyelashes returned. The rest of my body, however, felt incredibly smooth and soft now that there wasn’t even a trace of hair.

“Next, I need to be skinnier. I want to be thin, as thin as I can be while still being in a healthy range.” This time I was surprised by the feeling first. I felt lighter than air, like I could fly if I just jumped up. The accompanying visual was no less shocking, though, as nearly every trace of fat was gone from my body. It was progress, I was getting there, but there were still things I disliked. If I threw on women’s clothes now and put on makeup, I’d still just look like a guy trying to look like a woman and failing. It needed more.

“Make me look more feminine, not just the face, but proportions-wise as well. Smaller hands, smaller feet, thinner brows, smaller nose, wide hips, long legs,” I paused a moment, catching a glimpse of the lady in the mirror. I still marveled at her gorgeousness, “In fact, make me look like I’m related to you. And make me sound more feminine.”

Her response was a giggle and a nod. When I blinked this time, I found that my request had been done. There were still traces of the old me present, but for the most part I looked like the lady, and the old ghost of my former appearance never made the look feel less feminine. I was staring at the face of someone beautiful. All of the bodily requests were done as well, my hands were petite and slender, my feet were small and cute, my hips and thighs were wide, but had the only signs of fat on my body. Even my chest had been altered, instead of the typical masculine proportions, my chest looked more like what a woman’s chest might look like if she were flat-chested. In fact, the penis was the only part of my body that betrayed my true sex. It was perfect.

My eyes were watering, and before I knew it, I had begun to cry in earnest. I finally looked like me. There was no dysphoria, this was everything I had ever dreamed of being and more.

The lady seemed to take notice of my sobbing, “Is everything all right?” she asked as she crossed the room to my side.

I couldn’t help myself; I turned and pressed my face into her chest, practically bawling into the soft skin. She didn’t verbally reply, and frankly I was expecting some kind of resistance, but instead she wrapped her arm around me and began stroking my hair with her other hand, quietly. The gesture was appreciated and quite comforting, and it was one I was sadly unfamiliar with.

By the time the feeling had passed, we had moved to the loveseat in the room, and I had my head down in her lap while she stroked my hair. “Sorry, I uh, I’m just so happy,” I said, moderately surprised at my new voice, which had raised a couple octaves in pitch. “I had given up hope that I’d ever get to look like anything remotely close to this.”

“I did notice you become visibly excited at the idea of being able to change your physical shape,” she replied, smiling in a crooked but warm smile.

I chuckled a bit, “I tried to play it cool, but I guess it didn’t work, huh?”

She shook her head, “No worries cutie, I’m here to be whatever you need me to be.”

Somehow the way she said this sounded strangely maternal and this, combined with the pampering session she was giving me, was giving me some ideas about the kind of world I wanted to make for myself. I decided now was the time to at least give her an idea of what I desired for this new reality.

“Okay, I have an idea about what I want,” I said.

“Oh?”