I stripped off my impromptu clothing, bundling up the hoodie and tossing it up to the passenger seat in case I needed it again, while tossing the gym shorts to the back of the van where they would undoubtedly be lost to all time. Then I started pulling tags off clothing, laying out my new acquisitions. Picking up the underwear, I slid them up my legs, standing slightly to wriggle them in place on my butt, feeling a solid sense of coverage as I did. I was normally a boxers guy, but I'd worn briefs on occasion, and these would do. Then I pulled on the hiking pants, and pulled a long-sleeve shirt over my head, the fabric swallowing at least a little of my curves in the process. Finally, I put the socks and shoes on, happy to have footwear that fit properly.
Retrieving my phone, I turned on the camera and flipped it around, staring at myself. "She thinks I'm dressed frumpy," I mumbled out loud and frowned. I spun, looking at myself from all angles. It wasn't that bad, I thought. Probably. You could tell I had a nice ass, the hiking pants did nothing to hide that. The rest of it though, it wasn't exactly designed to show off my figure. But that's what I wanted, right? I'm not looking to show off my figure. I'm here to write code and mountain bike my way through the country.
Except ... No. That's not exactly true, is it? Fiona didn't magically transform me so I could stare at my own tits while enhancing shareholder value. She did it so I could find love. And I wasn't going to find love while dressed in baggy outfits. Probably. Although, I did just get hit on while wearing the least-attractive outfit ever, so maybe it works anyway? "Fuck it," I muttered aloud. "I could get something else, too." Probably a bra, to be honest. I always thought it was dumb, if a chick had an incredible rack, why bother wearing a bra? Just let it all hang out, showing your nipples in thin shirts, encouraging the admiring stares of awestruck hornballs. But walking back and forth across the parking lot? That was uncomfortable. I mean, not painful. Somehow, these magically enhanced uber-tits weren't painful. But awkward, having them bounce back and forth. Like two ferrets thrown in a sack, just wriggling back and forth. Maybe a bra would help.
I tucked my wallet into a cargo pocket on my new pants and stepped back out of the van, re-locking it behind me. Walking around the REI, I found my way to the Victoria's Secret and stood outside, suddenly nervous. Look, us guys don't feel comfortable going in there. The store is very clearly not for us. I mean, yes, obviously, the sexy clothes are for us. To look at and remove. And yes, sometimes guys who have girlfriends might go in and buy something, but that's never been me. This was unknown territory, in more ways than one. I took a deep breath and opened the door, striding in before my brain could panic and send me feet another direction.
"Welcome," a middle-aged woman called out as she spotted me entering. "Can I help you with anything?"
I shook my head in the negative, blonde hair swirling about me, "Just looking at the moment." I did not want to get dragged into another conversation. I made my way over to a giant rack of bras and fucking hell. I had just bought a size-large shirt. I was planning on buying a size-large bra to go with it. That was not going to work. What do these sizes even fucking mean? Numbers and letters? Cursing to myself, I turned and marched back over to the saleswoman. Blushing furiously, "I would like your help finding a bra that fits me, please. I would like to buy several once I find my size."
She had a knowing smile on her face, "Of course, dear. Many women struggle to find the right size bra, it's perfectly normal. We've all been told we're size such-and-such and go through life only to find later it's completely wrong and we'd be much more comfortable in something else. Let's step back here, we can go behind the privacy screen and I can get my measuring tape, okay?" Nodding, I followed her, having no idea what she was talking about but going with the flow.
We walked over the changing rooms and she pulled out a cloth measuring tape. "Can you lift your shirt up, to just below your breasts? That way I can measure your ribcage accurately." I complied and she wrapped it around me, pinching the tape and glancing at it. "That's a thirty-eight inch measurement." She then glanced at my breasts, covered by the shirt. "You're definitely in the Ds. If I had to bet, I'd say double, but it could be triple. Hard to tell with the shirt on. I'll get you a few and you can try them on." Shrugging, I waited as she walked off and returned a minute later with several pieces of lacy fabric, escorting me to a changing room.
I stepped in, closing and locking the door behind me, and glanced down. I had three bras, labeled 38D, 38DD, and 38DDD. Interesting. I stripped the shirt off, glancing at myself in the mirror. Fucking hell, I thought once more. I turned back and forth, admiring my breasts, taut stomach tapering into the hiking pants. I gently lifting my breasts, feeling the heft, before remembering what I was supposed to be doing in the change room. Hint: it wasn't fondling my tits. I picked up the first one, the 38DDD, and slung my arms through the loops, then glanced down. How was this supposed to latch? I reached behind me, trying - and failing - to grasp the hooks. Look, I had a girlfriend for a few months in high school and she let me touch her boobs. And she laughed at me the few times I tried to unclasp her bra, so it's not like I have no experience with this. But taking one off is a lot different than putting one on. Spinning back and forth, cursing, I tried and failed again and again to clasp it.
"Going okay in there, dear?" The saleswoman was waiting right outside and probably heard my whole profanity-laced rant about bras. Well, maybe it wasn't the first time she'd heard a customer bitch about that, who knows.
"Working on it," I grumbled. Finally, I pulled my arms back out, spinning the bra around and clipping it in front of me, then sliding it to the proper orientation, and slipping my arms in, sliding it up into position. Success! It fit okay, but felt a little loose if I shook my boobs back and forth. I took it off and repeated my new process with the 38DD, which fit much better. Snug, comfortable. I liked that one. I tried the 38D just to confirm and they felt pretty squished. It did make my cleavage massive, so that's not all bad, but probably not something I'd enjoy wearing on a regular basis. Staring at myself in the mirror, I had to admit that seeing the boobs in a bra was not all that bad, it certainly did nothing to reduce the raw appeal my body seemed to be radiating. So at least I've got that going for me.
It's okay, Tim. You're just - borrowing - this body. For a while. Until the universe fixes its glitch, right? It's like cosplay, okay? We're putting on a costume, with tits.
Taking it back off, I slipped my shirt on overhead and stepped out, handing the 38D and 38DDD to the saleswoman. "This one fits very well," I said, holding up the 38DD.
She grinned, "Perfect. I've got an eye for these things. Okay, so now we know your size. Are you looking for regular daily bras? Something spicy for date night? Or a sports bra for working out?"
Shrugging, I wasn't really sure, but "All of the above? I don't mind buying a bunch." She escorted me back over to the racks, helping me pick out three more sturdy bras, two very flimsy lacy ones, and two sports bras.
"Anything else I can help you with, or are you ready to check out?" Now that she mentions it, maybe I should grab a few more things.
Frowning, I glanced around, taking in the store. "My, uh, " - oh fuck, what am I trying to say here? - "friend says that my underwear is frumpy." I blushed furiously, no idea why I just confessed that. And friend? That's a strong word for a cashier at a store that I'd known for all of five minutes.
With a knowing smile, she led me over to a different section of the store, filled with racks upon racks of panties. Glancing toward my hips, then up at my face, "Any preference on size?"
"I'm a size eight," I said, hoping that was the right measurement.
She nodded, "Okay, some of ours are in those sizes, but otherwise you should probably grab a Large. Our more practical line is over there, but it sounds like you're looking for something a little more date night, so we have a bunch of fun cheeky cuts here, as well as thongs. I'll let you browse for a bit."
My cheeks were burning as I raised a trembling hand, browsing through the racks of scandalous underwear. There was absolutely no fucking way that I was going to wear these things, but at this point I also felt stuck. My stupid mouth had gone and talked without permission, asking for help buying non-frumpy underwear, so now I had to buy non-frumpy underwear. Whatever, fuck it. It's just money, and I don't have to wear them. It would be less awkward to buy them and throw them away as to explain that I had changed my mind and wasn't going to buy them. Right? Right. I grabbed a trio of cheeky cut panties, some lace, a few satin, some thongs, none of which would ever see the light of day.
As I was getting ready to walk up to the register, I did spot a really comfy looking pajama set, so I added that to my basket. Ooh, leggings. I'll bet my ass would look great in those. Okay, so maybe I added some pairs of leggings to the basket. Not many, just like four. Look, I need to be comfy when I'm sitting down coding all day, and maybe these would be better than hiking pants. Don't judge me.
I finally marched up to the checkout, depositing the large mound of clothing in front of the helpful saleswoman. As she rang it up, she glanced at me, raising an eyebrow. "Looks like quite the wardrobe overhaul, dear. But I think you'll enjoy this - and perhaps your friend will, too." I blushed furiously, that was not what I had in mind, but she just smiled knowingly and continued adding it up. "Looks like your total will be six hundred and seventy four dollars, eighty nine cents." Numbly, I handed over the credit card to get swiped and picked up my belongings, heading back out. The cost didn't matter, but the implication was sinking in.
Each store was representing an entirely new set of clothing, replacing something I used to be with something completely new and unexpected. Chipping away at who I was, one frumpy pair of underwear or lacy bra at a time. I wasn't sure how I felt about this. I could process later, I supposed. I didn't have to have all my shit straight right now. I could go full crazy meltdown later, right? I arrived back at the van, unlocking it and climbing in, locking the door once more, and laid out the clothing.
"This is starting to get out of hand", I mumbled aloud, the soft voice still unfamiliar in my ears. Pulling the tags off everything, I tucked the trash into one of the bags, which I shoved to the side of the van. I then pulled my shirt off, clumsily strapped myself into the bra, and pulled the shirt back on. There we go, a little extra coverage and security. Much more comfortable. Glancing down at the rest of the pile, I sighed. What a waste of money, buying those panties. I should have just said I changed my mind. On the other hand, I wonder how the leggings would feel?
On a whim, I slipped my shoes off, wriggling my butt as I pulled the hiking pants down and set them to the side. I picked up the leggings, then frowned. I'm no expert at women's fashion, but I'm pretty sure the phrase "panty lines" exists for a reason. And generally it wasn't a good one. Do I care? I'm not trying to impress anyone. Besides, I'm not going anywhere, right? I'm just staying in the van. My stomach growled, letting me know that it was nearing dinner time.
Fuck. Okay, so I'd go out and grab dinner somewhere. And maybe I'd wear the leggings while I did. Maybe. And if I was going to wear the leggings, then I probably shouldn't wear the panties from REI, because they might look awkward. Which meant that I would be putting on the flimsy stuff. I just ... No. Look, it's one thing to wake up as a chick, and put on clothes that feel normal but are shaped for a different body. Even the bra, it's equipment for body parts I don't normally have, and so while it's weird, it is what it is.
But lace panties? There is no way I can wrap my brain around slipping lace panties on, whether I have a dick anymore or not. Not gonna fucking happen. I pulled the leggings up, wriggling them over my hips, and glanced down proudly at myself. It wasn't the worst look I'd put together today, although that wasn't saying much. White and pink trail shoes, silver leggings, and a pink colored long-sleeve top. I turned my computer's webcam on, admiring myself in the monitor as I turned around, running my hands across my butt as I - oh for fuck's sake. Very visible panty lines.
I turned slightly, frowning down at myself. "I am only doing this because it looks weird not to do this," I said out loud to myself as I undressed once more, slipping the full-coverage panties off and placing them to one side. "And I am absolutely not wearing butt-floss." I picked up one of what the saleswoman had called "cheeky cut" and blushed once more. The sheer, lace fabric was pink in color and completely unsubstantial. I slipped it on, noting a keyhole cutout on the back baring part of my butt, the curves of my ass exposed, the pink lace cupping my - fuck. I whimpered slightly, staring down at myself, biting my lower lip as I stared at my zoomed-in lace-covered crotch on the computer's screen, as being viewed by my webcam.
Did I really look that fucking good? Shaking myself out of my daze, I quickly pulled the leggings back on, double-checking to confirm that my underwear was much less obvious. Okay, crisis averted, I decided. Now I can go get myself some dinner. And maybe a cold shower. Taking a deep breath, I stepped from the van once more.