Alex’s father had left to get takeout, leaving he and his mother alone to get settled in the motel room.
They stood in the small bathroom. Alex pressed himself close to the glass, nose nearly touching, unable to turn away from the apparition staring back.
He flexed his arms—her arms—admiring the way the skin caught the glare and the muscles shifted beneath, subtly feminine but strong. He bunched his shoulders and watched the triangle of the bikini top draw her breasts together, the deep, impossible canyon of cleavage that seemed both outrageous and wholly natural in this body. He poked at the soft curve, squeezing the flesh with tentative, wondering hands, half-expecting it to be an illusion or a special effect. But it was real, as real as the heat in his cheeks and the tingle in his groin.
"God," he whispered, unable to tear his eyes from the vision: her body, his mother’s, and every movement willed from within. The bikini top pressed her breasts together, a showy cleft in the center. He opened her mouth and ran her tongue over her even, white teeth.
Behind him, Eleanor sat on the closed toilet, starting to grow suspicious of her son’s motives.
It was the small details that did it: the way, upon catching his reflection, Alex’s mouth grew slack and fascinated, the way his newly feminized hands trembled with excitement as he mapped the territory of her—his—body.
At first, she could almost believe his transformations were innocent, a kind of giddy disbelief at the technology’s success. He fingered the fringe of the bikini, tapped at his biceps, twisted around to see the arch of his back and how the elastic of the bottom clung and rode up. But soon, the gestures shifted. They grew purposeful, hungry.
His gaze lingered on the places it shouldn’t: the deep V where the breasts parted, the impossible smoothness of the stomach, the patch of skin at the base of the throat. He manipulated her—their—body with more and more confidence, as if growing into the role with every experimental touch.
Eleanor watched as he pinched the flesh of his new hip, then ran a finger down the seam of the bikini bottom, pausing a second too long at the elastic edge. He watched himself in the mirror as he did it, breath coming shallow and quick, eyes wide with something between terror and delight.
Alex’s hands skimmed higher, up the ribcage, flattening and then cupping the breasts, as if weighing them. He squeezed softly, thumb grazing the darkening nipple through the thin fabric, and a shudder of pleasure passed visibly through him.
He played with the bikini top, pulling at the material until it rode up, exposing the soft undercurve of a breast, the paler skin just beneath the tan line. He watched the movement in the mirror, fascinated by the way the flesh shifted and jiggled as he moved.
And with a single finger, he traced a circle around the nipple, marveling at how it responded, how it puckered and tightened under the touch.
She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn’t. She was transfixed by the grotesque ballet of her son occupying her body, worshipping it as if it were a goddess statue, an idol made flesh.
He adjusted the bikini again, let the strap fall off one shoulder, exposing the full sweep of collarbone and the beginning of breast. The garment dangled askew, half-on, half-off. He slipped a hand under the triangle, touched skin to skin, and gasped—an honest gasp.
"Stop it," she said, but it came out as a whimper, the voice of a child denied a treat.
Alex barely heard her.
"Alex," Eleanor tried again.
He glanced at his mother in the mirror, her child-self reflected as a silent, baleful witness. He flashed her a grin, a smile that might have been innocent if not for the context—the context of what he was doing, of what he had always wanted.
"You shouldn’t be doing this," Eleanor muttered.
He shrugged, the motion causing both straps to slip further.
"Who says?" he asked, "It’s just a body. It’s not even—"
“Alex! It’s my body,” she said, voice trembling with the horror of seeing her own flesh handled like an object, an exhibit, “Your mother’s body. Alex, please. Think about what you’re doing.”
He met her eyes in the mirror.
"Does it bother you?" He knew, intellectually, that this was wrong, but the thrill of it made his heart beat faster.
Then he pulled the straps completely off her shoulders. Her breasts spilled forward with a heavy, biological certainty, the nipples a faint, dusky brown.
Eleanor averted her gaze, “Alex, this is indecent. You’re—”
She couldn’t finish.
“You can close your eyes if you want,” he said matter-of-factly.
He watched her watching, saw the confusion and hurt as he grabbed her breasts in his hands, squeezed them together, then let them drop, testing the weight and inertia of mature flesh.
“You’ve done this on purpose…” Eleanor realized with horror, “You wanted to be me, so you could live out some perverted fantasy. I am your mother!”
“How could you?” she continued, her voice gone papery with disbelief, “How could you do this to me? To yourself?”
Alex turned, arms folded beneath his chest so the breasts lifted and swelled, and faced her directly. He cocked his head with a kind of detached curiosity, as if considering a child’s tantrum from the vantage of adulthood.
“I just wanted to see what it felt like. For a little while,” His voice was calm, almost reasonable, and that made it worse.
“Stop it!” Eleanor shrieked.
She lunged forward, tried to pry his hands away, but he was stronger, and the shock of fighting her own face, her own arms, overwhelmed her so completely she could only sputter, “Please—”
But Alex was beyond shame or mercy. He twisted away from her, laughing.
“Alex,” she said, her voice breaking, “This is not okay. This is—”
She struggled for the right word, “This is sick. You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re destroying something you’ll never be able to fix.”
Alex only smiled. He slipped a hand down, under the elastic of the bikini bottom, and let out a slow exhalation of pleasure.
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