— Soooo… well, I guess that’s it for today, right? — I said out loud, addressing mostly myself rather than anyone else. After all, I was home alone, as always this month ever since I found that, very mildly put, strange device among my own old stuff.
I took a couple of steps across the room. My heavy breasts, probably an F–G cup, swayed heavily, making me wince and let out a deep sigh. Goddamn it, as much as it pains me to admit, big tits are a fucking pain in the ass. No, I still love them and adore them, but when they’re on you instead of you looking at them from the outside — that’s a completely different story.
The fabric of the blue bra stretched tighter, the underwire dug into the skin under my shoulder blades, and I instinctively reached my hand back, trying to at least slightly ease the pressure. My boobs swung again, now in different directions, and I almost lost my balance. I had to grab the back of the chair.
— Oh for fuck’s sake… — slipped out of my mouth in the voice of that girl whose photo I once just found on the internet, and which, even for a girl, sounded too… squeaky? Who would’ve thought, right?
I turned my head to the side, feeling one of the braids slap heavily against my shoulder, while the other slid along my collarbone and landed right in the cleavage between my breasts, as if it wanted to stay there forever, and I looked at my reflection out of the corner of my eye.
In the mirror, the girl, leaning slightly and resting one hand on the back of the chair, looked both irritated and somehow… helplessly sexy. The blue leggings hugged her hips so tightly that I could see every muscle when the leg tensed. The big, heavy breasts in the huge bra cups trembled slightly, pulling the straps to what seemed like the limit, after which they were about to snap any second. Just thinking about that made my shoulder ache from the pressure of those very straps.
— That’s it, — I said more firmly. — Enough for today.
My hand reached for the remote lying on the edge of the coffee table, only half a meter from my fingertips.
There it was. That seemingly ordinary TV remote which was actually a completely mysterious and unfathomable device to me. I don’t know how, but it let me change my form and appearance. And for some reason it worked only on me. Yeah, I know it’s wrong, but I had to check. And no, it doesn’t work on random people.
But with me. With me this thing really performed miracles. I mean, all I had to do was point the remote at any image or even someone on TV and press “channel forward,” and suddenly I became that exact person. Returning to my normal body was easy too — I just had to press “channel back.” And yeah, there were a bunch more buttons, but honestly, I already felt uneasy enough, and that one function alone was more than enough for me.
I tried different things. Tried being a macho male with a square jaw and abs you could probably bounce coins off. A nerdy geek with a hunched back and glasses as thick as a finger. Even, damn it, a fucking Superman, though my powers back then were limited to shooting lasers from my eyes that could maybe harm insects with an allergy to the color red.
But becoming a girl, especially with this kind of appearance, I decided to do for the first time. And I really shouldn’t have done it. Everything in this body was wrong. And I’m not talking about the center of gravity and that kind of stuff. No. I’m talking about something else. Something inside me changed when, a couple of hours ago, I finally decided to do this.
And I’m even afraid to think what exactly, because no matter how much I looked at myself in the mirror at those huge tits, I felt nothing but irritation, even though before I became “her” just the thought of seeing her naked made my little friend very much not little at all.
— Okay, Mark, this really was a bad idea… — I said, pointing the remote at the reflection, realizing that never again, under no circumstances in my life, would I turn myself into a girl, and wishing that all of this would just end like a bad dream that I would never, ever tell anyone about.
I pressed the “channel back” button, squeezed my eyes shut, and braced myself for the familiar weak electric shock, but… nothing happened.
I could still feel the unbearable weight on my boobs and the pressure of the straps on my fragile shoulders.
Opening my eyes, I stared at the remote with irritation. I was about to say something nasty, but suddenly noticed that my finger… damn, how thin it is… was not on the “channel back” button, but on the one next to it, with the letter “r” on it.
— Nooo, I couldn’t have… — I breathed out, but it was already too late.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that my room had changed. The familiar mess was gone. No stacks of boxes by the wall, no old chair with a sagging seat. White walls reflected soft, even light, and the floor under my feet felt warm, even hot. In the distance, there was a neat couch with pillows, way too neat for my usual “I’ll clean it up later.” And on the wall, some kind of picture I would never have bought.
I slowly straightened up and immediately felt my breasts pull heavily downward, the bra straps painfully reminding me of themselves, and the cleavage blocking half my view. The braids slid over my boobs, one of them again trying to get stuck between the cups, as if mocking me.
“Fuck you,” I thought, and froze immediately.
From deeper inside the apartment came a woman’s voice, kind of too fast, too sharp.
— Nok, riang reu yang? (Nok, are you done yet?)
— Mai! (No!) — I snapped back sharply, without even thinking.
Fuck, and how does she know my name!? Wait. What do you mean, my name? My name is Mark, what the hell kind of Nok is that? Why did I respond to that name so easily and… wait.
— Mʉ̂a-gîi chǎn phûut wâa… (I just said…) — I started and immediately covered my mouth with my hand. What kind of language is that?!
I swallowed and felt my throat tighten.
From deeper inside the apartment came footsteps, and in the doorway appeared a woman with obviously Thai features. Short, lean, with a neat ponytail and the look of someone who’s used to giving orders. Mrs. Pimphimon. Or, as we all called her:
— Phim-jêe (Pim-jay)
— Chǎn sǐ khray ìik? (Me, who else?) — she shot back quickly, already pulling out her phone, — Mii ngaan wan-ní mái? (Do you have work today?)
Work?.. Well yeah… I always have work, what kind of dumb question is that?!
— Mii sì! Thîi Sukhumvit. Sǎam chûa-moong. (Of course I do! On Sukhumvit. Three hours.) — I answered, frowning and using a tone like she’d touched a nerve.
Right away a bright, almost tangible image flashed in my mind: a tall foreigner, an American around forty-five, with a red face and that stupid smile that always makes you want to laugh and punch him at the same time. Loves drinking beer during it. Loves when it’s slow. Loves when you look up, straight into his eyes. Loves when you take it deep and don’t rush to finish. Blowjob — his favorite word; he even says it with an accent, like it’s the name of a cocktail. “Nok, you give me best blowjob, yes? Long time, no rush.”
Damn. I’d better not forget to bring those pineapple-flavored condoms this time. At least it won’t taste like sucking on a medical glove.
Wait. What the…
— Nok! Ao! Nîi bpen remote arai? (Nok! Hey! What kind of remote is this?) — thundered Mrs. Pim almost right next to my ear, but somehow from below, and I jerked so sharply that my breasts swung painfully, and the remote almost slipped out of my sweaty fingers.
— Nîi… nîi khɔ̌ɔng chǎn! (It’s… it’s mine!) — I blurted out way too fast and way too high-pitched, immediately pointing the remote at the mirror and pressing the same button that had brought me here.
The remote blinked with a weak LED, and in the same instant the space seemed to compress and then unfold again, but not the same.
My ears popped. The floor under my feet vanished, replaced not by parquet or tiles but by packed clay mixed with dust and tiny stones that dug right into my bare soles. The air became thick, humid, saturated with the smell of campfire smoke, wet greenery, fried rice, and something sweetly rotten. Shit, looks like someone tossed an overripe mango nearby again and it’s already starting to ferment.
I inhaled sharply and immediately coughed. My boobs swung again — but now not inside a bra. The fabric was gone. Instead of the blue lace bra, I was wearing only a narrow strip of bright red cloth tied behind my neck and back, barely covering my nipples. My heavy breasts now rested freely on that piece of fabric, and every breath made them rub against the rough material. Instead of leggings, which sure as hell annoyed me with how tight they were, now I had something even more humiliating. A short skirt made of the same fabric, tied at the hips with a knot that looked like it could come undone any second, and underneath it there were no panties at all. Just the hot, wet Thai air clinging instantly to the skin between my legs.
The braids were gone. Instead my hair was pulled into a high bun decorated with wooden beads and a couple of bright feathers — red and yellow. Thin bead-and-metal bracelets wrapped my wrists, the same kind on my ankles, and they jingled softly with every movement.
I stood in the middle of a bamboo hut with an earth floor. The walls were woven from bamboo and palm leaves, the roof made of the same leaves, thin rays of sunlight breaking through the gaps. In the corner a small fire pit smoldered, with a soot-darkened pot hanging above it. Nearby lay a mat with folded clothes on it and some kind of fabric bag.
The remote was still in my hand, but the moment I looked at it, I squealed and threw it at the wall, as if it were something terrifying. Something I wasn’t supposed to see!
It hit the bamboo wall with a dull thud and burst into small pieces that scattered all over the hut.
— AAA! Nekamara! — I screamed with an almost animal shriek that echoed off the bamboo walls and rushed somewhere into the jungle behind the hut.
Immediately light poured into the hut, but then disappeared behind the huge silhouette of Tôon, my husband.
His broad shoulders and heavy chest, marked with old machete and thorn scars, filled the whole entrance, and I instantly rushed toward him, tripping with my bare feet over stones and roots.
— Tôon! — tore from my throat in a voice that wasn’t mine, hoarse and desperate. — Tôon, chǎn klua! (Toon, I’m scared!)
He stepped forward, and I felt even smaller the moment his huge hand rested on the back of my head and the other on my back, pulling me in so tightly I stopped breathing for a moment. My breasts pressed against his chest, forcing my spine to arch.
— Bpen arai!? (What happened!?) — he growled, quickly scanning the hut, his gaze darting toward the remote’s pieces scattered on the floor.
What happened?!
What happened?...
That thing… thing? It’s a remote and it… it… it broke?! Fuck! What have I done! And why the hell am I hugging this giant like he’s my…
I jerked my head toward the broken pieces and froze — there was nothing there anymore. No black plastic, no batteries, no burned arrow. Only dust, tiny stones, and a few dry leaves the wind had carried in through a crack in the wall. As if the remote had never existed at all. As if I had invented it myself in a fever dream.
I pressed myself against Tôon even closer, as if he were my only hope for… for what? I didn’t even know for what, but I needed it right now.
— My woman scared of air in hut?
I wanted to scream: “No! I’m not scared of any damn air! And I’m not your woman! I’m Mark! This is all a mistake, the remote!”
But instead I only pressed myself against him harder, as if afraid of my own thoughts.