Super Wishes and Leotard Dreams, Chapter 1

I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined Superwoman, OF BEING *her*: the impossible taper of her waist, the weight of her breasts against the tight fabric, the way her thighs would gleam under city lights as she landed from flight. My breath hitched. The fantasy was so vivid I could almost feel the cape flaring behind me, the belt wrapped around my hip like a second heartbeat.

Sleep dragged me under like a riptide. The darkness wasn’t just absence of light—it had weight, texture, pressing against my skin like wet velvet. My dream wasn’t a landscape but an *absence* of one, a void so complete I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or closed. Then the female voice came. Not from any direction, but from everywhere at once, vibrating through my bones like a church bell tolling underwater: “Enough with the super wishes and the leotard dreams! ALL THE TIME! I’m tired of hearing you yearning to be something that is out of your control!”

The voice ricocheted through my skull like a bullet—not just words, but a *presence*, coiled in the marrow of my bones. I tried to scream, but my jaw was wired shut. Tried to run, but my limbs were leaden, fused to some invisible plane. The darkness pulsed, contracting around me like a living thing, and then the female voice asked if I got my wish, would that shut me up. The darkness contracted like a lung exhaling, and suddenly I could move—not my limbs, but my head, nodding violently as if my neck had been wound with rubber bands. The voice sighed, a sound like tectonic plates shifting. “Fine,” it said, and the word seared through my synapses like lightning. “Make your wish.”

The sensation hit like a spinal tap without anesthesia—cold fingers of pure thought plunging into my cerebellum, rifling through memories like a librarian gone feral. Birthdays, lecture notes, the exact shade of Benna’s nipples in moonlight (pale pink, like conch shells), Asher’s first stitches (left knee, bicycle crash, seven stitches), Crystal’s ballet recital where she pirouetted into the curtains—all of it yanked forward in a dizzying data dump. Then deeper: the Chester drawer’s trove of spandex, the way the fabric hissed against my thighs at 2:17 AM, the shameful slickness pooling under the star-spangled crotch lining. Nothing was off limits. This force combed through my mind sifting out all of the ingredients of my desires.

The phrases didn’t echo—they *unfolded* inside my skull like origami dipped in liquid nitrogen, crystalline and sharp. “Wish granted. Seven transformation days. During that time, the world won’t notice your changes or your alter egos even after your transformation. Let see if the power gets to your head,” the voice repeated. As the voice faded in a cackle, I could hear her say, “I hope this goes better than the He or She affair.”

I woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. It was 11:05 p.m. five minutes after I fell asleep.

I ejaculated profusely from the boner I had worked up. The dream, or whatever it was, was so intense and erotic!

The wetness clung to my thighs, cooling rapidly against my skin—a sticky, guilty confession. I stared at the ceiling, pulse hammering in my throat. Five minutes. Five minutes that felt like a whole night. My fingers trembled when I touched the damp fabric; the spandex clung like a second skin, the star pattern now warped by the mess. A shudder ran through me—half disgust, half exhilaration.

The bathroom tiles were icy under my bare feet as I shuffled in, the dream’s aftershocks still vibrating through my nerves. The light flickered on—too bright, clinical—exposing the mess I’d made. My reflection in the mirror looked haunted: pupils dilated, sandy hair sticking up in erratic tufts, my jawline slack with leftover adrenaline. I peeled off the damp spandex with a wet sound, the material resisting like it didn’t want to let go. The briefs and old sweat shorts landed in the secret female laundry stash with a slap, the star emblem wrinkled and glistening. I scrubbed myself raw with a washcloth, the hot water turning my skin pink, as if I could scour away the fantasy along with the evidence.

I put my clothes on in the vanity mirror. The fresh boxers felt alien against my skin—too loose, too plain after the tight embrace of spandex. I tugged the white undershirt over my head. The fabric of the new sweat shorts rasped against my thighs, a mundane irritation after the slickness of the costume. I collapsed back into bed, my limbs heavy as if weighted with lead. Sleep dragged me under before I could question why exhaustion had hit so suddenly, so completely.

The first sensation was warmth—an unfamiliar, buzzing energy humming beneath my skin like live wires. I blinked awake at five a.m. sharp, Raccoon’s weight pressing into my chest, her tail twitching against my collarbone. Gently, I scooped her off and set her on Benna’s side of the bed, her fur rumpled with sleep. My limbs moved with an odd fluidity, no grogginess, no stiff joints—just pure, electric alertness.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind me, the sound sharper than it should’ve been—like my hearing had been dialed up overnight. I barely registered the cold tile beneath my feet this time. My bladder emptied in one long, uninterrupted stream, no middle-of-the-night hesitation, no dribble. As I shook off and flushed, the motion felt smoother, almost rehearsed.

The mirror fogged with condensation as I wiped it with the back of my hand, my breath catching mid-motion. The face staring back wasn’t mine—not entirely. My sandy-blonde hair, usually cropped short and practical, now brushed the tops of my shoulders in tousled waves, the grey at my temples reduced to faint silver threads. My jawline had softened overnight, the angles less severe, the shadow of stubble absent despite not shaving. My lips—Christ, my lips were fuller, pinker, like they’d been plumped with collagen while I slept.

My hands—already smoother, the knuckles less pronounced—drifted upward instinctively, pressing flat against my chest. The gasp that escaped me echoed sharply in the small bathroom. Beneath the thin cotton of my sleep shirt, two unmistakable swellings pressed against my palms. Not the slight pudge of middle-aged pectoral fat, but firm, rounded bumps. I tugged the fabric down with trembling fingers and froze.

My fingers traced the unfamiliar contours beneath my shirt—small but unmistakable. A laugh bubbled up, half-hysterical, as I pressed harder, confirming the reality of flesh that hadn’t been there six hours ago. The dream hadn’t been a dream. The voice hadn’t been a hallucination.

My fingers lingered on the swelling beneath my shirt—too shocked to recoil, too fascinated to stop touching. The rational part of my brain short-circuited. “Was this really happening?” I thought, pinching the soft flesh experimentally. A jolt shot through me, sharp and electric. The sensation wasn’t just unfamiliar—it felt *right*, like a missing puzzle piece clicking into place after decades of searching.

Than I remembered what the voice said about transformations and super wishes. My fingers hovered over my chest again, tracing the foreign curves beneath thin fabric. The changes were small—barely a handful—but undeniable. Like someone had pressed play on a paused movie of my body halfway through its transformation. The mirror fogged slightly with each panicked breath as I gripped the sink, staring at my reflection—no, *her* reflection—with a mix of terror and exhilaration. The changes were subtle but irreversible: the softened jawline, the fuller lips. And then there were the breasts—very small, yes, but undeniably *there*. I squeezed them again, harder this time, just to feel the electric jolt of sensation shoot straight down to my groin. “Oh god,” I whispered, voice already lighter than it should’ve been. Was I turning into a girl? Better yet, a Superwoman? What was the full extent of this wish I subconsciously asked for?

Benna’s scream tore through the house like a gunshot. I bolted, heart hammering against ribs my bare feet slapping against carpet that felt smoother underfoot. My balance was off—center of gravity subtly shifted—but I didn’t have time to process it. I skidded into our bedroom just as Benna turned the bedside lamp on, flooding the room with harsh yellow light.

Benna ran to the bathroom and stood frozen in front of the full-length mirror, her hands gripping the sides of her pajama top as if it might burst open at any second. Her sandy-blonde hair, usually frizzy from sleep, lay flat and heavy against her scalp, the texture coarser between her fingers when she reached up to touch it. “Jensen,” she whispered. Benna’s fingers trembled as they traced the unfamiliar terrain of her own face—the sharper jawline, the pronounced cheekbones that cast angular shadows in the bathroom light. The reflection staring back wasn’t entirely hers anymore. Her forehead had lost its softness, the bone beneath pressing forward with an almost masculine prominence. Benna’s hands had longer fingers, the knuckles more pronounced, the veins subtly visible beneath thinner skin. Her brows were darken, arching higher, and her lips, while still full, lost some of their softness. Her cupid’s bow was sharper.

Benna’s fingers dropped from her face like stones, her widened eyes flicking between her own reflection and mine—my longer hair, my softened jaw, the undeniable swell beneath my shirt. Her breath hitched. “Jensen,” she repeated, voice cracking mid-word in a way that wasn’t just panic—it was deeper, rougher. “What the hell happened to us?”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. The weight of decades’ worth of secrets pressed against my ribs like a second heartbeat. Benna’s transformed face—still hers, but *different*—stared back at me with an intensity that made my palms sweat. There was no lying now. Not when her head looked different, when my own body ached with the beginnings of curves I’d only ever dreamed of.

Benna’s fingers twitched at her sides like she wanted to reach for something—me, the doorframe, anything solid—but couldn’t decide which would steady her first. The bathroom light carved harsh lines across her changed face, her new jawline tight with disbelief. I exhaled, my breath shuddering out of me like I’d been punched. “I had a dream,” I began, the words sticking to the roof of my mouth. “Not just a dream. It felt… real. Like someone was listening.”

Benna’s newly angular jaw clenched as I spoke, her knuckles whitening against the sink’s porcelain edge. The words tumbled out—decades of hidden, fetish longing of superheroines and spandex, stolen moments in front of the mirror with tight spandex on, the illicit thrill of ordering my first Powergirl costume off eBay while she was visiting her brother in Newport News. The confession tasted metallic, like licking a battery, but I couldn’t stop. Not when my own fingertips kept brushing against the undeniable swell beneath my sleep shirt—proof that whatever cosmic force had listened wasn’t done with us yet.

“Show me,” she rasped. Her voice had dropped half an octave overnight, the vowels rounder, consonants more deliberate. When I hesitated, she grabbed my wrist—her grip stronger now, fingers longer—and dragged me toward the bedroom. The chester drawers groaned as I yanked open the fourth one down, revealing tight clothes that smelled faintly of spandex and desperation.

Benna’s grip on my wrist loosened as I pulled out the first costume—deep navy spandex with the iconic red-and-yellow “S” emblem stitched across the chest. The fabric shimmered under the dim bedroom light, and for a heartbeat, I swore I saw my own reflection in the satin-lined cape. My throat tightened. “I didn’t just want to *be with* her,” I whispered, running a thumb over the emblem. “I wanted to *be* her. Since college. Maybe longer.”

Benna’s breath hitched—a sound that should’ve been familiar, but now carried the rasp of someone who’d smoked cigars in another life. She stared at the costume in my hands like it was radioactive. “You *hid* this?” Her voice cracked on the last word, deeper than before.

I swallowed. “Not just this. There’s—more.” The drawer was a time capsule of my shame: Wonder Woman’s armored corset, Spider-Gwen’s hoodie, even a custom Supergirl outfit with a skirt shorter than anything Crystal owned. Each piece unfolded like a confession.

Benna grabbed the Superwoman bodysuit, stretching the fabric between her newly thickened fingers. “This is insane.” But the way her eyes lingered on the S-shield—not disgusted, not even shocked, just *hungry*—sent a jolt through me.

I hesitated before admitting the rest. “Last night… something happened. A dream, but not a dream. Like someone reached into my skull and *plucked* the wish out.” I gestured helplessly at my softening jawline, her more masculine finger. “I think—I think I got what I secretly wanted.”

I tell her about the rules of the wish—the seven days of transformation, no one will notice during and after transformation. I said, “I’m not quite sure how this transformation would play out.”

Benna’s fingers—thicker now, tendons standing stark beneath the skin—clenched around the Superwoman costume. “Seven days?” And no one notices?”

“Yes.” I paused choosing my words carefully, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you my secrets for so long. I feel so ashamed of my fetishes and my transgender tendencies.” I asked sheepishly, “Are you mad at me, hun? Can you forgive me?”

Benna exhaled through her nose—a habit she’d had for years, though now the sound came slightly lower, rougher. Her fingers flexed around the Superwoman costume’s fabric, the material stretched taut between her visibly broader hands. “Mad?” she repeated, her voice catching on the word in a way that wasn’t just emotional. The timbre kept shifting, like a radio dial settling between stations. “No. But I am… Christ, Jensen. A *little* upset you didn’t trust me with this.” She gestured vaguely at the open drawer, then at herself—at the sharpening angle of her jawline beneath the bedroom light.

Benna released the costume fabric and stepped back, pressing her palms the fingers thicker, the knuckles more pronounced—against her temples. The motion was so familiar, yet the proportions were all wrong. She inhaled sharply through her nose then continued, “Give me a little bit to process this all.”

I sighed and rubbed my temples—except my fingers met smoother skin than I remembered. “It’s getting late,” I murmured, glancing at the digital clock on the nightstand. 5:47 AM. The early morning light hadn’t even begun to seep through the curtains yet. “We should get Asher up for school before I…” I trailed off, realizing I hadn’t checked my lesson plans for today. Would my students notice if their professor suddenly had shoulder-length hair and the faint outline of breasts beneath his dress shirt?

“As she said, we should see if anyone notices. At school and at work.” She said as if reading my mind.

We trudged together downstairs to wake up Asher. He started classes at Virginia Beach Middle School much earlier than his sister. The wooden steps creaked underfoot—or maybe they didn’t, and it was just my hyperawareness of every sound now, every shift in the air between us. Benna moved differently beside me, her stride longer, more deliberate.

Asher’s bedroom smelled faintly of sweat and stale popcorn, the usual boyish musk—except something was off. The air felt charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. Even in the dim glow of his LED light strips, I could see the changes. His usual tangle of limbs beneath the blue comforter had stretched overnight, the fabric taut over what looked like broader shoulders, longer legs. His jawline sharpened overnight, soft roundness of childhood replaced by angles. Asher’s wrist looked longer. Thicker.

I reached out to shake Asher’s shoulder—only to pause mid-motion. My sleeve rode up, revealing a wrist too soft. Swallowing hard, I gripped his shoulder instead. “Asher. Time for school.”

He groaned, rolling onto his back. I kissed my growing boy on the forehead. I said to have a good day at school and then kissed my wife more passionately than I usually do, saying my morning goodbyes.

I went into my walk in closet upstairs to get dressed. The shirt buttons strained against the soft swell beneath my chest—not enough to require a bra yet, but enough that the fabric pulled differently across my torso. I stared at my reflection in the closet mirror, turning sideways. My clothes-a blue button-down shirt, dress shoes, and dress slacks-fit me even after my small changes. They even looked slightly more feminine.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as I settled into my office chair, the familiar squeak of the wheels sounding louder to my ears. My desk was the same mess of annotated papers and coffee-stained Post-its. Across the aisle, Lieutenant Colonel Hendricks shuffled past with his usual gruff nod, his gaze sliding right over me without pause. No double-take. No raised eyebrows. Nothing.

The indifference was unnerving in its totality. Dr. Chen leaned against my desk, discussing Clausewitz’s paradoxical trinity with his usual intensity, and his eyes never once flickered to the unfamiliar curve beneath my shirt. My fingers—noticeably smoother, the knuckles less pronounced—tapped against the keyboard as I pulled up lecture notes with an ease that bordered on eerie. Concepts I’d struggled to articulate last week now unfolded in my mind like origami, each fold precise, each connection obvious. When Chen mentioned Napoleon’s strategic failures in Russia, I didn’t just recall the textbook analysis—I saw the supply routes etched across my vision like glowing arteries, the numbers of lost horses calculating themselves behind my eyelids. Was I getting smarter? Was my memory less cloudy?

The phone vibrated against my thigh with the urgency of a live wire. I fumbled—my fingers unfamiliar in their new softness—before managing to swipe the screen. Benna’s contact photo flashed. “Hey,” I answered, keeping my voice low, conscious of Hendricks’ cubicle three feet away. “What’s up?”

“Has anyone recognized your changes.” She ask concerned.

“Not one person.” I answered, “It’s like I’ve always had longer hair and baby breasts. Is Crystal changing?”

Benna’s voice came through the phone with a gravelly resonance that hadn’t been there last night. “She is,” she said, “But you’ll have to see it to believe it.”

“I understand.” I was about to end the call when Benna interrupted.

Benna’s breath hitched—before she continued. “I got a call from both school’s counselors. Asher walked into his usual classroom and the teacher looked at him like he’d lost his damn mind. Said he belonged in *eighth* grade, Jensen. Eighth. And Crystal…” Her voice cracked, the deepening timbre betraying her. “She was sent straight to the fifth-grade wing. Like she should have been doing it all year. I think it is one of our changes!”

“Are they okay?! How are they handling it?” I asked amazed.

Benna exhaled. “They’re…fine. Better than fine. Asher told his social studies teacher—straight-faced—that this subject was easy. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And Crystal?” A disbelieving laugh escaped her, lower than yesterday’s. “She corrected the fifth-grade teacher on the multiplication table. Flawlessly. Do you think that Voice of yours is changing us mentally?”

“I don’t know.” I answered softly, “I don’t know.”

The phone pressed against my ear still felt warm from Benna’s bewildered voice as I stepped into the lecture hall. Sixteen Army majors glanced up from their tablets, expressions neutral—professional. Not a single eyebrow twitched at the sight of my softening jawline, the way my hair swished slightly around my neck. One officer on the left side—Major Carson, always meticulous—even handed me a printed roster without hesitation, her gaze sliding past the faint swell beneath my button-down shirt as if it had always been there.

The words poured out of me like I’d opened a floodgate—dates, battles, geopolitical nuances I hadn’t consciously memorized snapping into razor-sharp focus mid-sentence. I watched Major Carson’s pen freeze above her notepad as I described the Siege of Vienna with such vivid detail it felt like I’d been there. My voice carried a new resonance—a cadence that made even the most sleep-deprived officer in the back lean forward. I have never felt this comfortable in the classroom.

The lecture ended twenty minutes early—something I’d never done before—but the material had flowed so effortlessly, so *perfectly*, that I couldn’t justify dragging it out. The officers filed out, murmuring among themselves in that impressed-but-professional way soldiers do. I pretended to shuffle papers at the lectern until the room emptied, then sagged against it, pressing my palms flat against the cool surface.

I drove home from work upbeat and energized. The garage door groaned shut behind me with its usual sluggishness, but when I stepped into the kitchen, I froze. The gawdy hardwood—scuffed and dull just this morning—gleamed underfoot like polished marble, veined with threads of gold. The builder-grade stove had been replaced by a stainless-steel behemoth with more knobs than a spaceship. Even the overhead lights, once harsh fluorescent tubes, now cast a warm, diffuse glow from recessed fixtures I’d never seen before. The whole house was renovated like this I realized.

Crystal came gracefully up the stairs to greet me, her movements fluid in a way that made my breath catch. Just yesterday, she’d bounded up two steps at a time with the clumsy enthusiasm of a ten-year-old. Now she ascended like a dancer—hips swaying subtly, her spine straight as a reed. The outfit she wore—the same pink unicorn-print blouse and black leggings Benna bought her last Christmas—hung differently. The fabric rode up her legs, exposing slim, coltish limbs. The shirt strained across shoulders that had broadened overnight, pulling tight where new, subtle curves pressed against the fabric.

“You look beautiful, Crystal!” I stammered.

The peck on my cheek burned hotter than any kiss Benna had given me in years. “You look different too,” she said, her voice carrying a new, melodic lilt that didn’t belong to a fourth grader. Her eyes—still that impossible blue—held a knowing amusement as she studied my face. Then she turned, hips swaying in a way that made my stomach clench, and grabbed the Cheetos from the pantry like she’d done it a thousand times before. She had. The bag crinkled in her grip as she descended the stairs with the poised confidence of a girl who’d aged a year overnight.

Benna came into the living room, her footsteps heavier than usual—not just from the weight of her transformation, but from the tension still lingering between us. Yet when she leaned in to kiss me, her lips were still Benna’s—although less soft, very familiar, even if the pressure behind them felt tentative, testing.

“I shouldn’t have—” My voice cracked mid-sentence. I cleared my throat and said. “Christ, Benna, I didn’t mean to drag you all into this.”

Benna hesitated—just a fraction of a second—before her fingers flexed, the knuckles more pronounced now, tendons shifting beneath skin that had tightened overnight. “Come here,” she said. She led me by the hand toward the studio, our footsteps echoing through the house’s new marble foyer. The violin gleamed under recessed lighting. She sat—no, *settled*—onto the chair with a confidence that wasn’t hers yesterday.

Her bow danced across the strings with a precision that made my breath catch—not just because of the music, but because Benna had never played like this before. The Chopin nocturne unfolded effortlessly beneath her bow, each note sang perfectly, the phrasing so intuitive it felt like breathing. When she finished, the last note hung in the air between us, vibrating in the suddenly-too-large room.

Benna paused with a genuine smile, her newly angular jaw catching the light from the chandelier overhead. “If it comes with improvements,” she said, flexing her violin fingers—longer now—before pressing them gently against my collarbone, “maybe I can live with it.” A warmth spread through my chest at her words, the first real forgiveness since I’d confessed my secret. “And forgive you,” she added, softer this time, as if testing the weight of reconciliation in her deeper voice.

“Um …I think we’re getting superpowers,” I murmured, tracing the smooth line of Benna’s newly defined jaw with my fingertips. “Starting with eidetic memories and heightened intellect—I can *feel* it. Like my brain’s been…” The words died in my throat as she grabbed my wrist.

Benna’s grip tightened around my wrist—not painfully, but with a certainty that sent a jolt through me. “Come with me,” she said, her voice carrying an edge of excitement. Before I could protest, she tugged me toward the kitchen, her stride longer, more purposeful. The marble tiles sheens under our feet as we crossed into the larger space than the old kitchen. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, glinting off stainless steel appliances that looked like they belonged in restaurant.

Benna’s fingers closed around the chef’s knife—its polished blade catching the morning light—and before I could react, she drew it swiftly across her wrist. My heart lurched violently. “Benna, what the—” The protest died in my throat as the knife’s edge slid harmlessly over her skin, leaving no mark, not even a whisper of redness. She exhaled sharply, her broader shoulders relaxing. “Invulnerability,” she murmured, turning her wrist to examine it. The pulse beneath her skin throbbed steadily, untouched. “I noticed that I didn’t feel hot or cold earlier today. You know I always do. Then, I did some experimenting…”

The knife felt cool in my palm, its weight unfamiliar—too light, too balanced, like something crafted for a surgeon rather than a home cook. I hesitated, pressing the blade against my own wrist where Benna’s fingers had just been. My pulse thrummed beneath the steel. Then, with a breathless chuckle, I dragged it sideways. The edge glided over my skin like a lover’s fingernail, leaving nothing behind but goosebumps and a giddy rush of disbelief. I laughed—a bright, startled sound—because it should’ve hurt. Because the knife had been sharp enough to slice tomatoes paper-thin yesterday. Because my body was rewriting its own rules, and the absurdity of it all bubbled up like champagne in my throat.

Later, at baseball lessons, Asher swung the bat with a crack so sharp it sounded like a gunshot. The ball rocketed into against the wall—a perfect line drive that would’ve cleared the batting tunnel if the wall hadn’t caught it. His private coach, Mr. Stout, blinked behind his wire-framed glasses. “Hell of a swing, kid. Since when did you start hitting like a the best batter in Virginia Beach?” Asher just grinned, rolling his shoulders in a way that made his T-shirt strain across his broadening back. I watched from the side, gripping the seat beneath me as if the world might tilt sideways any second.

The pitching machine whirred, and Asher adjusted his stance—feet planted wider, knees flexed—his entire body humming with coiled energy. Another pitch came. Another crack. Another ball ricocheting off the wall with enough force to dent the padding. Stout rubbed his jaw. “Your swing’s completely different.” He stepped closer, squinting. “Your stance—it’s like you grew two inches overnight.” Asher flexed his fingers around the bat, his voice cracking. “Practiced a lot,” he lied smoothly, the words rolling off his tongue with charm.

Later, I relayed Asher’s baseball prowess to Benna as we all sat at the dinner table. The spaghetti smelled richer than usual—the garlic more pungent, the tomatoes brighter. I watched Asher spear three breadsticks at once, his forearm flexing with a teenager’s hunger despite his still-childlike face. “Coach Stout said he’s never seen him swing like that,” I murmured to Benna, nudging her thigh beneath the table. Her knee pressed back—solid—and I caught the faintest tremor in her fingers as she twirled pasta around her fork. “He asked if Asher’s been training with high school players.”

Crystal stabbed her fork into the spaghetti salad with a precision that shouldn’t belong to a fourth much less fifth grader, twirling the noodles effortlessly before bringing them to her lips. “Did you use fresh basil?” she asked around a mouthful, her voice carrying an unfamiliar lilt—not quite childlike, not quite adolescent. Benna blinked, her newly angular jaw tensing as she glanced at the herbs still clinging to the cutting board. “Yes, but how do you know? You usually don’t eat what we eat. You’re very picky!”

Crystal swallowed her bite with an uncharacteristic grace, dabbing her lips with a napkin in a motion too refined for a ten-year-old. “I could smell it,” she said, tilting her head slightly—an unconscious gesture that made her honey-blonde hair cascade over one shoulder. “The basil, it taste better now.” Her eyes flicked to mine, blue and suddenly depthless. “Everything is.”

Asher’s fork hovered mid-air, his gaze flicking between Benna and me with an unsettling sharpness. His once-boyish features had taken on a harder edge overnight—jawline sharper—but it was the intelligence burning behind his blue eyes that unnerved me most. “You’re different,” he said slowly, voice deeper than it had been at breakfast. “All of us.” His fingers tapped the tablecloth in a quick, rhythmic pattern—not nervous, but calculating. “You *know* that there is something happening to us.”

“Yeah,” Crystal asked quixotically, “What’s going on?”

Benna’s hand found mine beneath the table, her fingers—longer now, the knuckles more pronounced—squeezing tight. The glance we exchanged held years of silent communication: resignation, trepidation, the unspoken agreement that truth was inevitable now. Our children weren’t just noticing the changes—they were living them with terrifying acuity.

Benna exhaled sharply through her nose—an old habit that looked strangely masculine now with her sharper jawline—and set her fork down with deliberate precision. “We think,” she began, then stopped, her deepening voice catching slightly. I watched her throat work as she swallowed. She continued, “We know something’s happening to all of us. It started with your Dad’s dream,” she said, watching Asher’s fingers drum against the table—too fast, too precise for a twelve-year-old. Crystal’s eyes, already too knowing for a fourth grader, flicked between us with unsettling focus. We tell them mostly everything: The voice, my dream, the wish, and our eventual transformation. We omitted the part that I actually *wanted* to be Superwoman as part of my transgender, superheroine, spandex fetishes. That was too personal of a detail for my kids to know at least, yet.

Crystal’s fork clattered onto her plate, the sound sharp in the sudden silence. Her eyes—already too blue, too deep for a child—narrowed. “You mean like… superheroes?” she asked, her voice lilting between excitement and disbelief.

I said hesitantly, “You may become superheroes in six days. Your transformations are already happening now.”

Asher’s fingers stopped drumming mid-beat. His eyes—sharper, bluer than they’d been yesterday—locked onto mine with an intensity that made my pulse stutter. “You’re serious,” he said flatly. Not a question. His voice had lost all traces of childhood uncertainty overnight, settling into something resonant and adult. I only nodded.

Crystal shrieked—a high, girlish sound that momentarily erased her eerie maturity—and leapt up from the table so fast her chair screeched across the hardwood. “Superpowers? Like flying?” She bounced on her toes, her honey-blonde hair swinging wildly, and for one fleeting second she was just a little girl again, eyes wide with wonder.

The sound of Crystal’s giggles bounced off the vaulted ceilings of our transforming dining room halfway between suburban practicality and mansion-like grandeur—as she grabbed Asher’s wrist with both hands. “We’re gonna be *superheroes*, dummy!” she squealed, shaking his arm with enough force that his entire body wobbled. Asher’s lips twitched, then cracked into a grin so wide it looked painful, his jawline stretching with the unfamiliar motion.

Asher’s laugh burst out—a cracking deep sound that shouldn’t have come from a twelve-year-old’s throat—as Crystal yanked him into an impromptu dance, their socked feet sliding across the kitchen tiles. For a heartbeat, they were just kids again: Asher’s gangly limbs flailing without coordination, Crystal’s honey-blonde hair whipping like a golden banner as she spun.

The laughter swelled until it filled the half-transformed kitchen, bouncing off marble countertops that hadn’t existed yesterday and echoing against vaulted ceilings still stretching toward some impossible architectural zenith. I caught Benna’s gaze across the table—her newly angular jaw slack with disbelief, those hazel eyes I’d loved for fifteen years now brighter, sharper, more *alive*—and something unspooled in my chest. She threw her head back and laughed too and for the first time in years, our mirth didn’t feel like a performance. It was raw. Effortless. Like our very bones were vibrating with it.

The house settled into an eerie quiet as the kids retreated downstairs without prompting—Asher with a yawn, Crystal pirouetting down the hallway with impossible grace for someone who’d been ten years old that morning.

The click of Crystal’s bedroom door echoed through the hallway with finality—too deliberate, too *adult*—as if she’d been closing it behind herself for years. Asher’s voice drifted from his room, murmuring something about “testing thermal vision in a week” before his light snapped off. No demands for bedtime stories. No last-minute requests for water. Just two children who weren’t children anymore, sliding seamlessly into independence like they’d rehearsed it.

The look hit Benna mid-stretch as she stood from the table. Her hazel eyes flicked to mine, and for a second, time stuttered. I saw her pupils dilate, the way her breath caught just slightly. Five years of marital lethargy dissolved in that charged silence. Perhaps it was that new mirth we found at dinner time—the way laughter had loosened something in my chest, unspooling years of tension between my ribs. Or perhaps I was just energized and frisky, this strange alchemy of youth and power humming beneath my skin. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. All I knew was that when Benna’s fingers brushed mine clearing the table, electricity crackled up my arm, and for the first time in a decade, I was *hungry*. It felt like we were in our 40s again.

Benna’s breath hitched when my fingers curled around her wrist—her skin still smooth against my own, which had already softened overnight. There was a moment where we just stared at each other, the air between us charged with something electric, something neither of us had felt in years. Then, without a word, I pulled her toward our bedroom, her footsteps heavier now moving with a deliberate, masculine confidence that sent heat pooling low in my stomach.

Benna’s hands—already broader, fingers thicker with the promise of tomorrow’s transformation—pushed me backward onto the bed with masculine-like movement. The unfamiliar roughness of her palms scraped against my collarbone as she straddled me, her thighs pressing against my hips. I could feel the heat of her through the thin cotton of her pants. My breath caught.

The laugh burst out of me before I could stop it—high and breathy, not quite my old voice but not yet the melodic chime it would become. “We better do this now, in our current forms,” I gasped between breathless chuckles, running my hands up Benna’s arms, “before we have completely different plumbing.”

Benna’s laughed as she pinned me. Her thumbs traced the faint swell beneath my nipples—so small still, but undeniable—and when she leaned down, the scrape of her new jaw against my throat made me gasp. “Different doesn’t mean worse,” she murmured, and the gravel in her voice curled my toes. I’d never heard her sound like this. I’d never *felt* like this.

The clothes hit the floor in a tangle of cotton and heat. Her breath hitched when I pushed into her—half gasp, half groan—her body arching against mine with a fluidity that felt both alien and intoxicating. The friction was different now, our angles all wrong in ways that shouldn’t have been right, but were. Her thighs clenched around my hips—still soft, still *hers*, but firmer.

The climax hit us like a freight train—Benna’s body locking rigid above me, her hips stuttering against mine as she let out a ragged groan that sounded nothing like the quiet sighs I’d known for fifteen years. I arched beneath her as I spilled into her, my own cry catching in my throat as pleasure ripped through me in waves that left my vision spotting at the edges. For one suspended moment, we weren’t a middle-aged couple clinging to fading youth—we were something *more*, something electric and impossibly alive, fused together by sensation neither of us could name.

The sheets clung to us—damp, twisted, smelling of salt and skin—as we untangled ourselves. Benna rolled onto her back beside me, her breath slowing into something slightly deeper, more resonant than the soft rhythm I’d fallen asleep beside for fifteen years. Moonlight caught the new sharpness of her jawline, the shadowed hollows beneath her cheekbones that hadn’t been there this morning. She caught my wrist, her grip firmer than before, and pressed my palm flat against her breasts. Her heartbeat thudded against my fingers—steady, strong, *different*.

“I can feel it,” she murmured. Her voice rich as bourbon. “Like… Violin strings tightening under my ribs.” She laughed softly at my expression. “Too poetic?”

“Everything’s poetic tonight.” I traced the unfamiliar swell of my own chest where flesh slightly curved outward. My nipples burned where Benna’s calloused fingertips had grazed them. Everything burned.

Then we got ready for bed and fell asleep dressing in sleeping gear. Sleep came like anesthesia—swift and thick. I dreamed in flashes: soaring over skyscrapers, my cape snapping behind me; Benna catching a falling train with one hand; the children laughing as they raced each other across the Atlantic. The visions bled into sensation—weightlessness, impossible strength, the rush of wind between my empty thighs—until consciousness returned with the scrape of claws against wood.

Raccoon’s claws raked down the bedroom door with the precision of a metronome—three strokes, pause, three strokes again. The sound sliced through my dreamlike haze of flight and power, dragging me back to a body that no longer felt entirely mine. I blinked at the digital clock on the nightstand: 5:01 AM glowed in toxic red. Beside me, Benna still slept.

The mattress groaned as I peeled myself from its warmth, my bare feet hitting hardwood that felt smoother than I remembered. My bladder—another change, I realized, since yesterday. I’d barely needed to piss at all. I padded across the bedroom, noting how my hips rolled differently with each step, the subtle sway that hadn’t been there yesterday making my thighs brush together in a whisper of skin.

The bathroom door swung open without a sound—another subtle change, the hinges moving with supernatural smoothness—and I flicked on the light. The sudden brightness made me squint, but when my eyes adjusted, I nearly stumbled back into the doorframe. The mirror reflected a stranger who was undeniably me, yet not the me I’d seen yesterday.

The reflection stole my breath. I touched my throat and found the Adam’s apple nearly gone, just the faintest ridges. But it was my torso that made my pulse stutter. The swell beneath my nipples had become unmistakable curves, small but firm enough to press against the thin cotton of my sleep shirt. I peeled the fabric up with trembling hands and choked on nothing. Small breasts. Actual friggin breasts—not much bigger than a small handful, but perfectly shaped, the nipples pinker and more sensitive than they’d ever been. My waist nipped in sharply above hips that flared just enough to make the silhouette in the mirror undeniably hourglass.

It was obvious now. I was turning into a supermodel. If not… Superwoman.