In the dimly lit room, candles guttered low, their flames painting long, restless shadows across the stone walls. Outside, the quiet street of Vandor's capital slept under a heavy summer night, but inside the chamber there was no peace.
There was a man with a long white beard sleeping in bed, or at least he tried to sleep.
His name is Gideon. Or at least that's what he called himself now.
Gideon—the man—felt like a stranger wearing his own skin. It's been a week since he came back home. Seven days since the portal spat him back into the world of men, of swords, of duty.
The hard lines of muscle, the broad shoulders, the heavy hands calloused from decades of wielding a sword—they all felt like an ill-fitting costume. A cage.
His body remembered how to stand, how to walk, how to grip the hilt of a blade with practiced ease. But it didn't feel right. It felt hollow.
What felt real, what felt like home, was the phantom sensation of a soft fullness in his chest. The ghostly weight of heavy breasts bouncing with every step. The memory of a plump ass and wide hips swaying with an effortless, sensual rhythm. And deep within him, nestled where no one else could feel it, was the cool, constant pressure of a golden key pressing against his womb.
A womb he shouldn't have. Yet it exists, locked away.
A physical reminder of the life he was forced to live for many long, blissful weeks. A life of unending, soul-shattering pleasure and absolute submission. A life as Gidea.
And that freaked the shit out of him.
Nightmare after nightmare. He would wake up with a scream, his body covered in sweat, his heart racing.
And then... the wet dreams.
Oh, the wet dreams.
The worst part was, he enjoyed them.
In his dreams he was Gidea again, riding her—his master's—two cocks, her new pussy stretched and filled to the brim, her full breasts bouncing as she screamed her pleasure to the heavens. The memories were so vivid, so real, that he would wake up with a raging hard-on.
And the shame that followed was crushing.
What kind of monster was he? To enjoy such things? To crave them? To miss them?
"NO!" he shouted to the empty room, gripping his hair in frustration. "I am a man! A Grandmaster of the Holy Knights! I serve the Light! I am... not 'her!'"
The name Gidea tasted like honey and poison on his tongue.
But even as he denied it, he could feel the phantom sensations growing stronger. The memory of Master's touch, the taste of her cum, the feel of her cocks filling him, splitting him open, breaking him, remaking him...
And he could feel something else too. A strange heat building deep inside him. A familiar warmth that started in his core and spread through his veins like liquid fire.
Morgana didn't alter his personality or mind; hell, she even healed him, restoring his 'normal' mindset. No, she was smarter than that. She left him intact, a broken shell of his former self, but still him.
All she did was place a blood seal on Gideon like the rest of her men to prevent them from revealing any valuable information they saw or that her daughters might have let slip during sex.
I mean, it happens to the best of us. Sometimes we talk too much during sex.
As for Gideon, she went a step further. She placed a special 'feminization' seal on him that he can actually control and choose when to activate.
If he wants, Gideon can completely forget about the seal and live the rest of his life as a man.
But he can't.
There was a catch.
His lust is slowly building up, and the only way to release it is to become Gidea again and have his 'pussy' fucked. Masturbating and having sex as a man won't work. The more he tries to suppress it, the stronger it becomes, until it's an unbearable, all-consuming fire that threatens to burn him from the inside out.
Morgana wasn't just a mindless slut. She was an artist.
A cruel, demonic artist who enjoyed breaking people and remaking them into her playthings.
And Gideon was one of many of her masterpieces.
"No."
The word came out weaker this time.
He threw the blanket aside and climbed out of bed. He needed to clear his head, so he dragged himself to the washroom. He needed cold. Needed to shock the fire out of his veins before it swallowed him whole.
He splashed icy water on his face, the shock a brief, violent reprieve. Gasping, he looked up into the polished silver mirror hanging above the basin.
But it did nothing to quench the fire burning in him. On the contrary, the cold water made the heat inside him burn brighter.
"A cold shower," he whispered. "That's what I need."
He turned and walked over to the bathing chamber. He stripped with jerky, angry motions—tunic, trousers, underclothes—until he stood naked in the candlelight. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. The heavy cock that had once been a source of pride now hung between his legs like an accusation.
He turned the brass tap. Cold water roared into the copper basin. He stepped under the stream without hesitation.
The shock stole his breath. Ice water sluiced over his scalp and shoulders, cascading down the ridges of his abdomen, over the heavy cock that refused to soften. For a moment, the heat retreated, hissing like a living thing denied.
It should have helped.
It did not.
Then it came back twice as strong.
The cold only made the heat inside him sharper by contrast. Every droplet sliding down his abs seemed to trace the path of remembered hands—soft, clawed, possessive. His cock remained stubbornly, humiliatingly hard. The phantom breasts on his chest ached with a fullness that was not there. Between his legs, where only male flesh existed, he felt the ghost of a slick, empty cunt clenching around nothing.
"No," he growled, slamming a fist against the wet stone. "I will not—"
Gideon's hand moved before he gave it permission.
It was not a conscious decision. One moment he was gripping the wall for balance; the next, his fingers had closed around his cock in a rough, almost punishing, and stroked. Once. Twice.
The friction was dry, mechanical, and utterly pointless. It did nothing. There was no pleasure in it, only a pale imitation of what his body remembered. The real ache lived deeper—between legs that should have been soft and open, in a cunt that clenched around nothing, in a womb that pulsed with the need to be filled.
"Fuck," he snarled, forehead pressed to the wet stone. Water plastered white hair to his face. "Work. Just… work."
He stroked faster, hips snapping forward, chasing release the only way a man was supposed to.
Images flooded in—unbidden, vivid, filthy. Gidea on her back, knees forced wide. Master's twin cocks splitting her open, one after the other, until her belly bulged and her mind dissolved into pure, mindless need. The taste of cum flooding her throat. The way her heavy breasts bounced with every thrust. The golden key glowing against her womb as she came and came and came.
"Fuck... no... I am not..."
His free hand slid down of its own accord, cupping empty air where heavy tits should have been, fingers digging into nothing.
Gideon's strokes turned frantic. He was close—his balls drew tight, the familiar coil of male orgasm rising—but it felt hollow, incomplete, like trying to quench a wildfire with a thimble of water. The real need screamed between his legs, in a place that did not exist on this body.
'Please... I want to cum.'
The thought was not his. Or it was. Or it belonged to the part of him that still woke every night slick and aching and empty.
His hips jerked. His fist tightened. And somewhere deeper than conscious thought, something gave.
The feminization seal answered without being asked.
It was not a decision. It was surrender.
A soft pink light bloomed low in his belly, forming a womb tattoo exactly like the one he'd borne for those blissful, horrific weeks. It spread outward like warm honey through his veins.
"NOO!"
Gideon's eyes flew wide. He tried to wrench his hand away, to step out of the water, to scream the activation word in reverse—anything.
Too late.
His cock pulsed once, twice, and then began to shrink. The sensation was exquisite and horrifying: sensitive flesh drawing inward, the heavy balls tightening, rising, vanishing into a smooth, seamless mound. In their place, a soft, plump cleft formed, lips already slick with the wetness that had always belonged to Gidea. His hips flared outward with a wet crack of reshaping bone. Ass cheeks swelled full and round, soft enough to jiggle when the water struck them. Waist cinched. Thighs thickened with feminine softness.
The transformation raced upward. Hard muscle melted into lush curves. His chest expanded, heavy breasts blooming into existence with a deep, aching stretch—full, sensitive, nipples tightening into stiff peaks under the cold spray.
Long golden hair cascaded down his—her—back. Facial structure softened: jawline rounded, lips plumped, lashes lengthened. Even the voice, when a broken moan escaped, came out higher, richer, dripping with involuntary need.
In less than a minute, Gideon was gone.
"No…" The word was soft, almost a whimper. "I didn't… I didn't mean to…."
But it was too late.
"AHHH~"