Super Wishes and Leotard Dreams, Chapter 5

“Oh my!” I said allowed not carrying who heard, “I’m almost Superwoman!”

So what changes visited my family? My x-ray vision sliced through the small mansion’s walls like they were tissue paper, revealing Asher mid-flexion in his bedroom smiling at me knowing that Mom was peeking in. His white T-shirt stretched tight across shoulders that had widened —deltoids now sharp enough to cast shadows under the overhead light. The most startling transformation wasn’t his body though; it was his face. His sandy hair, which had been neatly trimmed just yesterday, now fell in sun-streaked waves that brushed against eyelashes so thick and dark they looked artificially enhanced. When he turned toward the full-length mirror, the overhead light caught his eyes—no longer the soft blue of childhood, but a vivid, unnatural cerulean that seemed to emit their own faint glow, like bioluminescent seawater trapped in crystal.

Next, the theater room. Crystal’s silhouette cut a striking contrast against the paused image of Superbabe—the screen’s neon glow tracing the newly dramatic contours of her body. My x-ray vision caught the precise moment her fingers brushed the screen, comparing her own proportions to the fictional heroine’s impossible curves. Crystal’s reflection shimmered against the paused image of Superbabe like a living echo—my x-ray vision stripping away her pajamas to reveal the architectural marvel her body had become overnight. The dip of her waist could’ve been measured with a protractor, the flare of her hips like the curve of a cello. When she spoke to the screen, her voice startled me—no longer the piping chirp of a child, but a low, honeyed contralto that vibrated with eerie richness. “Well,” she murmured, running hands down her sides with clinical fascination, “this is new.” Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her emerald green pajama shorts, stretching the fabric taut over hips that had widened just enough to make her movements fluid, inherently feminine. Her hair had subtle curls now. Then she looked at me hundreds of yards away through the thick walls and said, “Peekaboo! I see you!”

The bathroom tiles squeaked under Ben’s bare feet as he struck his pose—one knee bent, fists planted on hips, chin tilted at that ridiculous superhero angle. Through the marble walls, my x-ray vision traced the seismic shift in his anatomy. His legs, yesterday merely athletic, now resembled marble columns—quadriceps like stacked boulders, calves corded with dense muscle that flexed with his slightest movement. Ben’s reflection in the bathroom mirror seemed to rewrite itself in real time—his jawline sharpening like a blade being whetstone-honed with each passing second. The softness beneath his chin melted away, replaced by tendons that stood out in stark relief when he tilted his head. His lips, once full in a way that had made Benna’s old lipstick application effortless, thinned into masculine precision—the Cupid’s bow vanishing into a stern line that somehow made his rare smiles more devastating.

The fabric of Ben’s loose boxers strained obscenely against his new anatomy, the outline unmistakable even through the bathroom door. My enhanced vision cataloged every millimeter of tension—the way the cotton stretched thin over his swelling arousal, how his fists clenched at his hips like he was physically restraining himself. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, and I realized with a jolt that I could *smell* him from here—musky, primal, the scent hitting my pheromone-heightened senses like a struck gong. “He needed to be relieved,” I thought, “Maybe I should help.”

During my transformation, I felt weightless feet barely touching the grass. Even now I felt like I can slip the bonds of Earth. The grass blades bent beneath my toes without taking my weight, as if I were a water strider skating on surface tension. I lifted one foot—just an inch—and the night air hummed against my sole like a vibrating violin string. Then the other foot. My breath hitched. The backyard stretched below me, moonlit dandelions frozen in mid-sway. Three feet up. Five. The hem of my nightgown fluttered against thighs that no longer belonged to gravity. I gasped and giggled with uncontainable delight—the sound foreign yet thrilling in my new, melodic voice. Flight was obtainable. *Oh my God!* The realization hit like champagne bubbles in my chest.

The first wobble sent me tilting sideways—my outstretched arms windmilling through the cold air—before instinct kicked in. Not balance, not quite. Something deeper, like the sudden understanding of how to blink. My toes curled instinctively, and the world righted itself around me. Seconds later I was performing an air ballet above the frozen pond, my bare feet skimming inches above the ice without strings attached. The nightgown billowed around me like a makeshift cape, catching moonlight in its folds as I spun midair—a pirouette that defied physics, defied everything Jensen Jenkins had ever been. And at that moment, I was a woman wanting to please my man.

I flew to the sprawling Veranda outside our French doors of our master bedroom suite. The French doors rattled under my knuckle. Then I smoothed the silk of my nightgown against my thighs, suddenly hyperaware of how the fabric clung to my new curves. Moonlight caught the sweat beading along Ben’s collarbone when he wrenched the door open, his pupils dilating as he took in my levitating form. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Christ, Jennifer.” His baritone scraped raw. “You’re floating. You look like an angel.”

“I fly like one too,” I melodically lilted, hovering just beyond the threshold, my toes pointed downward like a ballerina mid-leap. The silk nightgown rippled around my thighs, caught between gravity and something far more exhilarating. Ben’s breath hitched—I heard it with crystalline clarity, the way his lungs stuttered, the accelerated pulse beneath his ribs. His fingers flexed against the doorframe, knuckles whitening. “And right now,” I murmured, drifting closer until our faces leveled, “I want to please my man.” My lips grazed the shell of his ear as I added, “Especially when initially you didn’t want to be one.” His shudder vibrated through me. “I want to make it up to you,” I finished, pulling back just enough to let him see the lustful grin curling my mouth.

Ben’s lips parted—not in shock, but in that slow, dawning recognition of a man realizing his wife had just propositioned him in a way that would’ve been anatomically impossible a week ago. His deep voice said, “What do you have in mind?”

Then I told him, “Sit on the recliner and let me do the rest.”

Ben didn’t so much sit as collapse into the recliner. His hands gripped the armrests—not from hesitation, but from the sheer effort of keeping himself still as I floated toward him, silk nightgown fluttering around my thighs like a teasing curtain. The moonlight through the veranda doors painted his sharpened jawline in silver, his Adam’s apple bobbing as I lowered myself gracefully to my knees between his legs.

Ben’s breath hitched again when my fingers traced the waistband of his boxers—his transformed body reacting instantly, muscle twitching beneath my touch. The fabric strained against him, taut with proof of his masculinity. I glanced up through my lashes, savoring the way his hazel eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the irises whole. His grip on the armrests tightened, tendons standing stark against tanned skin. “Jennifer—” His voice cracked, rough with disbelief and desire.

The memory of Benna’s hesitant mouth—her unsure hands, her frustrated sighs—flashed through my mind as I peeled Ben’s boxers down his thighs. I had catalogued every misstep over the years: the teeth-scrapes, the abrupt stops to catch her breath, the way she’d always treated my cock like an obligation rather than a revelation. Now, with my transformed lips and a hunger I’d never known as Jensen, I pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of Ben’s erection and thought: *Watch this.*

Ben gasped as my tongue traced the thick vein running along the length of him, his hips jerking involuntarily against my face. His sweatpants were tangled around his knees, the fabric still damp from his earlier shower—lavender body wash mixed with the saltier scent of his arousal. I inhaled deeply, marveling at how my enhanced senses could parse every nuance: the way his pulse thrummed beneath silken skin, the musky tang of pre-come beading at his tip, the faint citrus of his aftershave clinging to his newly defined jaw.

Ben’s thighs trembled under my palms as I took him deeper, my lips stretching to accommodate girth that would’ve made Jensen gag. The difference was exhilarating—no strain, no awkward jaw tension, just slick heat and the salt-bright taste of him flooding my tongue. His groan vibrated through me when I hollowed my cheeks, fingers digging into my scalp with a strength that would’ve bruised before my invulnerability.

His cock twitched against my tongue like a live wire—each pulse syncing perfectly with the ragged hitch of his breath. I’d never been so acutely aware of another person’s pleasure before; every suppressed groan, every minute tensing of his abdominal muscles registered like seismic activity through my hypersensitive nerves. The rhythm came unnaturally easy—slow suction punctuated by kittenish licks along his frenulum—as if my body had been designed for this exact purpose.

The realization hit me like a solar flare—*I was getting oddly turned on by turning him on.* His ragged breathing, the way his fingers twisted in my hair just shy of painful, the involuntary flex of his hips against my lips—it all sent electric pulses straight to my newly configured core. My nightgown clung to damp skin between my thighs, the silk friction almost unbearable against hypersensitive nerves. Every gasp Ben made seemed to vibrate through my entire body.

Ben’s breath hitched when my fingertips brushed the sensitive skin behind his knees—a spot I’d discovered purely by accident during our first awkward explorations of his new anatomy. His whole body arched off the recliner with a strangled curse, the leather creaking under his shifting weight. I could *see* the muscles in his abdomen clench through my nightgown’s thin fabric, could *hear* the blood rushing through his veins with crystalline clarity. Every detail registered in hyperfocus, from the way his toes curled against the carpet to the single bead of sweat sliding down his temple.

His fingers twisted deeper into my hair—not pulling, just *holding*—as his hips arched off the recliner with a groan that vibrated through my skull. Then it happened: heat flooded my mouth at the same moment white-hot pleasure detonated between my thighs. My back bowed so sharply I nearly levitated off the floor, silk nightgown sticking to my damp skin as the orgasm ripped through me with the same force as his climax.

Ben collapsed back against the recliner, his chest heaving, fingers still tangled in my hair—though his grip had softened to something almost reverent. Then I swallowed every last drop, flirting as I did—wiping my mouth with the back of my hand in a gesture that felt both practiced and newly instinctive. The taste lingered, metallic and musky, a stark contrast to the cherry lip balm I’d applied earlier. I caught Ben’s dazed expression—his pupils blown wide, lips parted—and finished with the chef’s kiss of winking at him. “Five stars,” I murmured. My voice was lower now, throaty with satisfaction.

The words hung between us, thick with the weight of everything we’d lost and gained. Ben’s fingers trailed down my cheek—rough calluses scraping against skin that had been smooth just days ago—before catching my chin. His thumb pressed against my lower lip, still swollen from use. “How do I like being a man?” He huffed a laugh that sent warm breath across my face. “Like waking up from a dream where I’d been wearing gloves my whole life.” His other hand flexed, watching tendons shift beneath suddenly taut skin. “And suddenly feeling every texture with bare hands.”

“Do you truly forgive me now?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, my newly melodic voice trembling with vulnerability. My fingers twisted in the silk sheets beneath us.

Ben’s thumb stilled against my lip as his eyes—somehow darker now, more focused—locked onto mine. “I love you more than ever, my angel,” he murmured, the baritone rumble of his voice vibrating through my ribs. His words landed differently now, weighted with the physicality of his transformation. When Benna had said *I love you*, it had been soft, hesitant—a whispered thing wrapped in decades of compromise. This was a declaration carved from marble, undeniable.

At 0500, the scent of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee curled through the house like an invitation, though none of us truly needed to eat anymore. Nor sleep for that matter. Alice moved through the kitchen with the precision of a metronome, her spatula flipping pancakes in rhythm with the humming refrigerator. I leaned against the steel countertop—cool against my bare thighs—watching her pour batter with military precision. Ben and the kids were in the dining room as I kept Alice company.

“You’re looking as beautiful as always this morning, Alice,” I said, watching the fluorescent light catch her red hair as she turned the pancakes. The words felt different coming from my lips now—softer, rounder, with none of the awkwardness I’d carried as Jensen.

Alice chuckled, flipping a pancake with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mrs. Jenkins,” she said curling around the words like smoke. The way she said it—knowing, amused—made me wonder if she’d always been this perceptive, or if our transformations had sharpened her along with everything else. She tapped the spatula against the griddle. “Just so you know, the housecleaning staff will be in at seven sharp. Butler and maid. And as head of staff, I will not have tardiness.” Her tone carried the weight of someone who’d overseen palaces in another life.

“That’s great. But Alice, I told you. Jenkins sounds like my mother-in-law,” I said, plucking a stray blueberry from the batter bowl with. “And after everything we’ve been through this week, you’re practically family. Call me Jennifer.”

Alice nodded in acknowledgement. Her eyes shimmered for just a second—like sunlight hitting a knife blade—before she blinked it away. “Christ, I can’t wait to see you in that Superwoman getup,” she muttered, scrubbing at an imaginary spot on the griddle with sudden intensity. Her spatula stilled.

“Me too,” I smiled. Then, I walked through the door and into the dining room.

While waiting for Alice to serve up breakfast, I sat next to Ben and the kids at the 16-chair table. I absent-mindedly looked at my text messages. The phone screen blurred for a second—not from tears, but from the sheer impossibility of the number staring back at me. Five million, three hundred twenty-two thousand dollars. And sixteen cents. The decimal point taunted me with its casual precision. My thumb hovered over the banking app, half-expecting the digits to rearrange themselves into something sensible—maybe an overdraft fee—but the balance remained stubbornly, obscenely inflated.

I slid the phone across the polished mahogany, watching Ben’s reflection distort in the black screen before his fingers closed around it. His eyebrows shot up when he saw the balance. “Christ,” he muttered, that new baritone rumbling through his chest like distant thunder. His thumb swiped left, then right, as if expecting to find some hidden clause in the transaction history. “Guess department heads and principal pianists make more than I thought.” His laugh came out deeper than intended, the unfamiliar resonance making Crystal giggle into her orange juice.

My thumb jerked across the screen—too fast, too furious—and the news article exploded into pixels as I accidentally used heat vision to melt the device. “Damn it,” I hissed, the melodic lilt of my new voice undercut by fury.

“What’s the matter, babe?” Ben asked with concern in his voice. Heat vision didn’t surprise him anymore.

The ooze of my shattered phone screen glittered on the hardwood like political promises gone to dust. “Seventy-five thousand federal employees,” I said, each syllable sharpening in my throat. “Laid off. Just like that. What is this authoritarian administration thinking!?”

Ben’s hand settled on my shoulder with a reassuring weight that somehow both anchored and electrified me. “We’ll take care of the dictator soon enough,” he murmured, his breath warm against my temple. The promise vibrated through me, more tangible than any campaign speech. His lips quirked in that new way, the left side hitching higher than the right, revealing a dimple I’d never seen on Benna’s face. “But today,” he continued, plucking the molten remains of my phone from my fingers, “you’ll have to settle for getting a new phone.”

I smiled back at him mouthing the word “Oops!”

After breakfast, I got ready for work. The closet door groaned open with a whisper of well-oiled hinges, revealing the cavernous space that still made my breath catch. Artificial light caught motes of dust swirling around rows of designer garments—each piece more expensive and extravagant than anything I’d owned as Jensen. My fingers trailed along silks and cashmeres until they snagged on crimson fabric that seemed to vibrate against my skin. The red fabric slipped between my fingers like liquid silk—cool against my skin despite the morning chill. It wasn’t just a tight blouse; it was armor. Tailored within an inch of its life, the structured shoulders accentuated my narrowing frame while the nipped waist exaggerated my budding hourglass. The plunging neckline revealed just enough cleavage to remind everyone I *chose* this femininity, not stumbled into it. The black leather pencil skirt clung to my elongating thighs like a second skin, the slit up the back promising glimpses of toned calf whenever I took those newly graceful strides in black-tinted pantyhose. Red stilettos—five inches of lethal confidence—waited beneath, their patent leather gleaming like fresh blood. My femme fatale makeup accentuated my sexiness.

After kissing my husband passionately and saying goodbye to my kids, I left for work. The door clicked shut behind me with finality—both an ending and a beginning compressed into that soft metallic snick. Gym bag slung over one shoulder, lunch sack dangling from my fingers, I paused on the porch just long enough to feel the dawn paint my cheekbones gold. Then I leapt. I was flying to work…because I could.

The wind screamed past my face at impossible speeds, yet my invulnerable skin registered only the exhilarating rush of acceleration. Virginia blurred beneath me—a patchwork of forest and suburban sprawl rendered abstract by velocity. At this height, the sunrise painted the world in molten gold, the Chesapeake glistening to the north of me. I banked sharply just for the thrill of it. Fourteen miles disappeared beneath me in less time than it took to tie my shoes.

The treetops parted like theater curtains as I descended, my stilettos sinking soundlessly into the loam of the forest floor. Squirrels scattered—whether from my sudden appearance or the faint electrical hum my body emitted now, I couldn’t tell. I smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from my skirt. Through the trees, the college’s Brutalist façade loomed, its concrete angles softened by dawn light. My enhanced hearing caught the distant click of heels on pavement—Professor Langley arriving early as always—but the quad remained empty.

I walked through the front entrance of the college main building, a giant atrium. It dwarfed the security desk there. The guard greeted me by saying, “Hello, Dean Jenkins.” The words *Dean Jenkins* hit me like a heat vision blast. My left heel caught on the atrium’s marble floor—not enough to trip, but enough that the guard’s chuckle implied this wasn’t the first time he’d seen me react that way. My fingers twitched toward where my phone would’ve been, forgetting again that it was now fused into a lump of molten glass.

“Excuse me—could you repeat that?” My voice sounded alien in its forced casualness, like I was pretending not to notice a knife sticking out of my ribs.

The guard—his nametag read *Hank*—blinked up at me. “Morning, Dean Jenkins.” He dragged out the title like he was savoring the syllables.

The title clung to me like spandex—tight, unfamiliar, but weirdly flattering. I forced my spine straighter, shoulders back, letting my hips sway just enough to justify Hank’s lingering gaze. My reflection in the atrium’s glass doors showed a stranger: towering, golden-haired, moving with predatory grace in a skirt that would’ve made Jensen Jenkins combust. I smirked as Hank tracked me from behind looking at my behind.

The brass plaque gleamed under the atrium’s recessed lighting—*Dean Jennifer Jenkins*—with an authoritative weight that made my pulse flutter. My fingers hovered over the doorknob, tracing its cool metal surface before twisting it open. The office beyond was both foreign and intimately familiar, like walking into a dream I’d rehearsed a thousand times. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined one wall, filled with leather-bound histories and glossy academic journals, while a sleek modern desk dominated the center, its surface polished enough to reflect my startled expression.

The chair creaked beneath me—not the apologetic whine of cheap office furniture, but the rich protest of genuine leather molded to my new curves. I sank into it, my elongated legs stretching effortlessly toward the desk’s opposite side, thighs brushing against its edge in a way Jensen’s stubby limbs never could. The motion sent a thrill through me; even sitting had become an act of casual seduction now.

The knock came just as I was sinking my teeth into a particularly dense passage about Byzantine naval tactics—two sharp raps that echoed through the office with military precision. I knew who it was two minutes before he even knocked. The door swung inward. Ben filled the doorway like a misplaced Renaissance sculpture, his tailored shirt straining across shoulders, sandy hair catching the overhead lights in a way that made my breath hitch.

Ben’s lips curled into that rakish grin I still wasn’t used to seeing on him—all masculine confidence where Benna’s shy smile used to be. “Flew up here to surprise you. Found your old office first,” he said, stepping inside with that new swagger of his, hips no longer swaying but moving with deliberate, athletic precision. The door clicked shut behind him. “Imagine my surprise when Langley informed me Professor Jenkins is now *Dean* Jenkins.” His baritone voice wrapped around the title like velvet, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

Ben crossed the office in three purposeful strides, his loafers—Italian leather, impossibly expensive—barely making a sound against the plush carpet. His cologne hit me first, something musky and expensive that made my new olfactory senses tingle. “Figured I had nothing better to do than fly here and give my wife a proper kiss,” he murmured, fingers already tilting my chin up. The brush of his thumb against my jawline sent an electric jolt through me—the slightest touch now carrying the voltage of our transformed chemistry. My cheeks burned hotter than my heat vision ever could.

Ben’s kiss wasn’t gentle—it was a claiming. His lips crushed against mine with that new masculine hunger, one hand tangling in my waist-length hair while the other pressed possessively against the small of my back. I gasped into his mouth as my hips arched instinctively against him, the swell of my breasts pressing against his now-broad chest. Some distant part of my brain noted how perfectly our transformed bodies fit together—his height matching my own, the angle of his jawline slotting against my cheekbone like pieces of a puzzle we’d been waiting lifetimes to solve.

Ben pulled back just enough to press his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my lips. “The kids flew to school today,” he murmured, and I felt my entire body stiffen—every maternal instinct screaming at the image of Crystal and Asher soaring over Virginia City like fledgling birds. My grip tightened on his biceps, nails digging into fabric that barely contained the hard muscle beneath.

Ben’s chuckle vibrated through my chest as his thumb traced the line of my collarbone. “They’re discreet,” he assured me, voice dropping into that rich baritone that still sent shivers down my spine. “Asher flew low—tree level—and Crystal used cloud cover. I followed them halfway to Salem High just to be sure.” His fingers flexed against my waist, the heat of his palm searing through the silk of my blouse. “No sonic booms, no panicked news reports. Just…” He smirked, “Just some ‘birds’.”

Ben added it like he was commenting on the weather—“Asher’s a senior now, Crystal’s a junior”—while tracing idle circles on my bare shoulder. My breath hitched. Just last week, Crystal had been struggling with fourth-grade fractions at the kitchen table, her feet swinging inches above the floor. Asher had been a gangly seventh-grader tripping over his own voice cracks. Now they were flying through high school. Literally.

Ben’s fingers lingered at the small of my back for a heartbeat longer than necessary—that new, delicious friction of calloused fingertips against silk—before he straightened with a sigh. “Duty calls,” he murmured, rolling his shoulders in a way that made his dress shirt strain across his broadening back. “Rehearsal is in the afternoon and I should practice at home a little on my Stadivarius violin.” He emphasized the word ‘Stradivarius’ giddily because Benna had always wanted a Stradivarius and Ben had her dream come true.

Our lips met again, softer this time—the kind of kiss that lingers, tasting of shared secrets and unspoken promises. His lips briefly scraped my chin in a way that sent sparks skittering down my spine, unfamiliar yet intoxicating. I could feel his pulse thrumming against my fingertips where they curled around his wrist, the rhythm syncopated with mine. Then, with a wink that crinkled the corners of his now-masculine eyes, Ben stepped backward out my office window into empty air.

After I ate lunch I went to the base gym. The locker room smelled of citrus-scented disinfectant and stale sweat, the metallic clang of lockers punctuating murmured conversations as I adjusted the straps of my neon pink spandex leotard. As Jensen, some of my fetish fantasies revolved around Jazzercise woman. Now I could be them. The fabric clung like a second skin, riding up my ass in that gloriously uncomfortable way 80s workout wear always did—but now, with these hips, I finally understood why women complained. My reflection in the fogged mirror showed curves I still couldn’t reconcile with my old self: the waist nipped in tight, thighs rounding out the leg openings, and breasts that were noticeable against the low-cut neckline.

The collective intake of breath was almost comical—a synchronized gasp that made the humid locker room air ripple with tension. Every woman in various states of undress froze mid-motion, sports bras dangling from fingertips, mascara wands hovering centimeters from blinking lashes. Their eyes tracked the way the electric pink spandex strained over my hips, how the ruching at my waist accentuated curves that defied both gravity and genetics.

The gym floor hummed with the rhythmic thud of weights and the whir of treadmills, but the moment my spandex-clad hips cleared the locker room doorway, the room’s tempo stuttered. I stretched deliberately against the doorframe—one leg extended behind me, arms overhead in a languid arc—feeling the burn in muscles that hadn’t existed last week. The neon pink fabric pulled taut across my chest as I arched backward, my ponytail brushing the small of my back. A dumbbell clattered to the rubberized flooring somewhere to my left.

The treadmill belt whirred beneath me at a casual 6.5 mph—laughable considering I could now easily outpace bullet trains—but the stares burning into my back had nothing to do with speed. Every mirrored wall reflected the same scene: men mid-squat forgetting their reps, personal trainers losing their clients’ attention, even the gray-haired colonel on the stationary bike craning his neck so far I heard vertebrae pop. My neon leotard might as well have been a spotlight, the way it clung to every sculpted curve, the high-cut legs flashing more thigh than I’d ever dared show as Jensen.

Moments later, the weight room mirrors caught my reflection mid-squat—my thighs flexing against spandex, the neon fabric digging into hips. It was the same pose I’d fantasized about last Thursday, watching a burly sergeant transform into Powergirl mid-bench press in my daydream. Only now the drooling spectators were real, and I was the one making their water bottles slip from sweat-slicked hands.

The epiphany struck mid-bicep curl. The mirror showed no strain in my reflection, just smooth feminine musculature contracting beneath sweat-sheened skin. I bent over with a pose putting the weights on the mat that made three Marines stare. *Why am I even here?* Tomorrow’s transformation would grant me enough raw strength to bench-press freight trains. This was performative. Absurd. Yet my spandex-clad hips kept swaying toward the squat rack anyway, drawn by something older than superpowers—the visceral thrill of being *seen*. So, I sauntered into the locker room, and eventually out the front door never to be seen here again.

I flew home after work and landed on the front ornate porch. The front doors of our mansion—*when did it get this big?*—swung open before my fingertips could touch the brass handles. A draft of honeysuckle-scented air rushed past me as I crossed the threshold, my heels clicking against marble veined with gold. The entry hall stretched upward three stories, a chandelier dripping crystal shards above a curved staircase that spiraled like a nautilus shell.

The butler materialized at my elbow before my gym bag could hit the marble. He had the ageless poise of someone who’d been polishing silver since the Victorian era. Behind him, a maid in a starched black uniform intercepted my lunch container with a curtsy that made her petticoats whisper. Neither made eye contact. Their synchronized efficiency suggested they’d been doing this for years, not hours. The butler’s gloved fingers twitched—just barely—when I dismissed him with a casual wave making a metal note to get names later. The maid didn’t hesitate, though. She whisked my Tupperware toward the kitchen with the precision of a dancer, her petticoats flaring around ankles that never made a sound on the marble. I watched them go, marveling at how easily the house absorbed my presence, as if its very architecture had been waiting for me to arrive.

The sunroom smelled of citrus polish—Ben must have been working through a particularly vigorous passage on his violin during rehearsal. Through the house’s labyrinthine halls, I traced the sound of his heartbeat first, steady as a metronome, then the crisp rustle of sheet music being set aside. By the time I reached the arched doorway, the scent of his cologne—something cedar-edged and expensive, clinging to the collar of his dress shirt—overtook everything else. He sprawled across the sectional like a man who’d claimed the space for decades, one arm slung along the backrest. The afternoon light caught the dust motes swirling around him, turning his hair to gold.

I crossed the sunroom in three strides—just fast enough to make my hair flutter, slow enough to savor the way Ben’s breath hitched when my shadow fell over him. His pulse jumped under my lips as I kissed him. His hands found my waist, calloused fingertips skating over the thin fabric, mapping the dip of my hips like he was memorizing a sonata. I curled in his lap, my body folding into the space between his thighs my hips settling naturally against the hard planes of his body. Ben’s breath warmed my temple as he exhaled, his chest rising against my back in a rhythm that felt like home and foreign territory all at once. His broad hands traced idle patterns along my bare arms, the roughness of his fingertips catching on my soft skin.

“Where are the kids?” I murmured against Ben’s collarbone, my lips brushing the hollow where his pulse beat steady and strong—a rhythm that still startled me in its depth. His fingers paused mid-stroke along my forearm.

Ben’s chuckle vibrated through my body where our torsos pressed together. “Asher bolted the second the bell rang—Monica’s eighteenth birthday party at her grandparent’s house in Norfolk.” His fingers resumed their slow exploration of my arm, tracing the newly delicate bone structure beneath the skin. “And brace yourself—Crystal landed Sandy in *Grease*. First rehearsal was today.”

I was amazed and said, “Our kids are really growing up,” my voice catching on the words as Ben’s fingers stilled against my skin. The realization hit like a thunderclap—not just their physical transformations, but the lives unfolding around them with terrifying speed. Asher’s possible relationship with Monica. Crystal in *Grease*. Just last week, Asher had been stealing cookies before dinner; now he was flying to parties for girls who could legally vote.

Ben’s grin spread slow and wicked as he stretched, the fabric of his dress shirt pulling taut across shoulders. “They’ll be gone till seven,” he rumbled, his knuckles brushing my bare knee—a touch that sent electricity skittering up my thigh despite our decade and a half of marriage. “Which gives us exactly…” His deep voice dropped lower as he checked the Rolex. “…three hours to rediscover what dating feels like when you’re both twenty-six with the stamina of gods.”

I asked him coyly, “What do you have in mind?

He said, “We could stretch our legs: get you a new phone, and see an organ I had in mind.”

“Stretch our legs?” I arched an eyebrow, fingers tracing the newly delicate line of my collarbone. “With the way you’ve been looking at me all day, I assumed ‘stretching’ meant something far more horizontal.”

“Later, babe.” He grinned.

An hour later, the glass doors of the Verizon store exploded outward leaving a bewildered saleswoman behind as Ben I launched skyward at mach speed, my new iPhone clutched in fingers that I put in a hidden compartment of my catsuit.

The spandex clung to my newly elongated frame like liquid silk, every contour of my transforming body black—a color that hadn’t been my taste as Jensen but now felt irresistibly right. Ben’s outfit was the same but with a white and grey superman symbol on his chest-from my once secret stash. Both suits meant to minimize drag. We hovered three thousand feet above downtown Virginia Beach, the wind whipping my waist-length hair into a golden banner behind me.

“So where is this organ?” I asked curiously.

“Cologne, Germany.” He said grinning widely.

All I could muster was “Oh.”

Ben’s grin turned wolfish, his masculine features sharpening with competitive hunger. “Race you there, slow poke” he taunted, rolling his shoulders in a way that made his deltoids flex beneath the tight fabric. The wind caught his sandy-blonde hair as he hovered midair with effortless grace.

“You’re on, flyboy,” I shot back, rolling my shoulders as my voice took on that new husky lilt—the one that made Ben’s pupils dilate whenever I leaned into it. The wind tore at my words as I added, “But try not to cry when you’re eating my stratospheric dust.” My lips curled into a smirk that felt foreign yet exhilarating, the kind of taunt old Jensen would’ve choked on mid-sentence.

Our eyes locked for only a fraction of a second—just long enough for me to catch the competitive glint in Ben’s hazel irises—before we exploded forward in unison, the shockwave of our departure causing a galeforce wind below. The transition from stillness to light-speed was instantaneous for me, a blink of existence where Virginia Beach’s skyline dissolved into streaks of color before reforming as the Gothic spires of Cologne Cathedral. My momentum carried me slightly past the city limits before I banked hard, the G-forces that should have liquefied a human body merely tickling my invulnerable skin.

Ben materialized fifteen seconds later—a lifetime at our speeds—hovering above the Rhine with his sandy hair mussed from the atmospheric friction. His chest rose and fell beneath his “S” shield, though I knew he didn’t need oxygen anymore. The incredulous stare he leveled at me could’ve melted tungsten. “You cheated,” he accused, his voice carrying effortlessly across the hundred-yard gap between us.

“What do mean?” I said irritated.

“No way could you have gone that fast! I lost visual with you the second we left!” He growled.

The retort died on my lips as my enhanced cognition abruptly connected disparate memories—late-night fantasies in Jensen’s recliner, tracing comic panels with trembling fingers, whispering into the darkness *I wish I could be her, stronger, faster than anyone*. The realization hit with the precision of my new eidetic recall: that childish desire had been literalized by whatever cosmic force rewrote our existence. My throat went dry mid-taunt.

I gathered my thoughts and told Ben, “When the Voice scoured my brain for a wish, it may have picked up that as Jensen I may have wanted to be the most powerful superhero on earth. That would mean my powers would be better than you and the kids in some areas.”

Ben’s laughter rumbled against my shoulder where we hovered above the Rhine, his breath warm against my newly sensitive skin. “Well, that explains why you dusted me back there,” he admitted, fingers tightening around my waist. His grip sent a pleasant shiver through me. “But tell me this, flygirl,” he murmured, lips brushing my earlobe in a way that would’ve made the old Jensen stammer, “did you *also* wish to be the most beautiful? Because that part definitely took.”

I blushed and then said, “Let’s go see this organ of yours.” The double entendre hung between us, charged with the electricity of our transformed bodies and the dizzying freedom of flight. But I wasn’t joking. Ben’s answering grin was pure masculine mischief—a look that still sent butterflies ricocheting through my newly streamlined abdomen.

Moonlight streamed through the cathedral’s stained glass as we snuck in through the door of the roof. Why would church officials lock the roof? The vaulted arches swallowed Ben’s startled gasp when his soles touched the marble floor, our muffled laughter bouncing off saintly statues that suddenly seemed complicit in our heist. “Quiet,” I hissed, pressing a finger to his lips—then yanking it away when his tongue darted out to lick me, the unexpected warmth sending a jolt straight to my nervous system.

Ben’s fingers traced the swell of my hip as we hovered in front of the cathedral’s massive organ, its gilded pipes towering like a metallic forest. “You realize,” he murmured against my neck, his breath hot even through my invulnerable skin, “this thing has stops labeled *Vox Humana* and *Tremulant*.” His chuckle vibrated through me as he demonstrated exactly how tremulous a human voice could become when teased by superhero fingers moving faster than sound. We undressed at superspeed and went to the bench. The organ’s bench groaned beneath us, its ancient wood protesting our weightless passion until Ben stabilized it instinctively with a flex of his biceps.

The organ bench was narrower than expected—its polished wood pressing uncomfortably against my bare thighs until Ben hauled me onto his lap. My back arched against the keyboard as his hands found my hips, guiding me into a rhythm that made the pipes above us shudder in sympathetic vibration. I gasped as my elbow hit a stop knob labeled *Vox Angelica*, and suddenly the cathedral filled with unearthly harmonics, the sound wrapping around us like a third lover. We thrusted rhythmically to the music the keyboards made.

Ben’s mouth found mine just as my climax hit, muffling the cry that would’ve echoed through the nave. His own release followed—triggered by the convulsive grip of his muscles—and the organ bellowed a D minor chord so profound it rattled the stained glass. For three suspended seconds, the entire building hummed with our pleasure before the pipes sighed into silence, leaving only our panting breaths and the scent of ozone from overloaded circuits.

The janitor’s flashlight beam cut through the cathedral’s gloom just as Ben’s teeth grazed my earlobe—we froze mid-kiss, my x-ray vision tracking three figures fanning out below us. Their muttered German swirled into my superhearing: *”Wer hat die Orgel benutzt?”* I squeezed Ben’s bicep, my fingers sinking into muscle denser than oak, and felt his responding grin against my temple. We dressed at superspeed and snuck to the roof at superspeed.

Ben’s hand clamped over my mouth as my shoulders shook with silent laughter, the wind whipping my hair into golden tangles around us. We hovered thirty feet above the cathedral’s slate roof—close enough to hear the caretakers’ baffled muttering about phantom organists, far enough that their flashlight beams barely licked the tips of my soles. My catsuit’s material stretched taut across thighs that still trembled from pleasure, the spandex cooling rapidly in the February air despite my invulnerability to temperature. That was a most excellent way to end date night.

Later, just after 7 p.m. our family gathered for our nightly meal. The noodle broth steamed between us, its aroma sharp with scallions and sesame oil—though to my super-smell, it carried the chemical tang of monosodium glutamate like a neon sign. Crystal slurped with uncharacteristic elegance, her newly elongated fingers cradling the ceramic bowl as if it were fine china. Across the table, Asher hunched over his bowl like a predator, chopsticks flickering at speeds no normal teenager could manage—though he’d slowed himself to merely impressive velocity for Alice’s benefit. Our head housekeeper/chef moved between kitchen and dining room with preternatural efficiency, her sensible flats whispering against the marble tiles.

“So Crystal,” I got her attention and asked with curiosity, “How did musical rehearsal go?”

Crystal’s chopsticks paused mid-air, her blue eyes glinting with theatrical mischief. “Sandra Dee is *so* extra,” she declared, flipping her honey-blonde hair over one shoulder with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Like, the director wants me to play her like some porcelain doll, but I keep thinking—” She dropped her voice into a valley-girl purr, “—wouldn’t she *totally* have snapped her gum and told Danny to shove it if she had *our* powers?”

Ben chuckled into his miso soup, the deep timbre of his laugh resonating against the porcelain. “Careful, Chrissy,” he said, gesturing with his chopsticks—his forearms corded with muscle that flexed beneath rolled-up sleeves. “Next you’ll be rewriting Grease with superpowers.” The casual display of strength still sent a thrill through me.

Crystal giggled—a sound like wind chimes caught in a summer breeze—and nudged Asher’s ribs with her elbow. “Sooo,” she drawled, twirling a lock of honey-blonde hair around one finger, “Spill, bro. How was Monica’s birthday party? Did you spend extra time with Monica outside the party?”

Asher rolled his eyes—an exaggerated teenage gesture that sent his sun-streaked hair flopping across his forehead. “Dude, Monica’s grandparents own this *ridiculous* mansion,” he said, fingers twitching toward his phone before remembering house rules about devices at dinner. His voice cracked slightly on “ridiculous,” betraying lingering adolescence beneath his baritone. “Like, marble floors, a pool shaped like a guitar, and these creepy-ass portraits of some blonde lady from the 80s in a red sportscar everywhere—”

“Christie Brinkley,” Ben and I said simultaneously. Our exchanged glance carried thirty years of shared cultural memory—me remembering supermodel posters hidden under college textbooks, him recalling one of Benna’s childhood favorite movie *National Lampoon’s Vacation*.

Crystal’s fork clinked against her plate, her newly elongated fingers drumming an impatient rhythm. “Wait—*the* Christie Brinkley? As in, Monica’s *grandma* is a rich supermodel.”

Asher grinned—the kind of smirk that already looked devastating on his sharpening jawline. “Not just rich. Like, *obscenely* loaded.” Then he looked around, “Like us, apparently.”

Then, I pressed, “Did you get to talk with Monica alone?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, my melodic voice carrying an edge of maternal curiosity that would’ve sounded absurd coming from my old masculine throat. My fingers tightened around my wineglass stem—another unconscious feminine affectation—as Asher rolled his eyes again, but this time with a flush creeping up his neck.

Asher’s blush deepened to the roots of his sandy-blonde hair. His fingers tapped arrhythmically against the tabletop. “We…uh…talked by the pool after cake,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat when his voice cracked. “She knows every line from *The Incredibles*. Even the director’s cut scenes.”

Crystal’s fork froze midair, her blue eyes widening with theatrical shock. “Oh my God,” she breathed, her voice dripping with teenage melodrama. “You quoted *The Incredibles* with her? That’s basically your version of Shakespearean sonnets.” Asher kicked her under the table—hard enough to make a normal person yelp, but Crystal just smirked, her invulnerable shin absorbing the impact without a flinch.

Asher’s fingers twitched against the table. “Not just talking,” he admitted, the baritone rumble in his voice betraying how much deeper it had dropped since breakfast. “She, uh…said yes. Tomorrow. Comic Emporium.” The last two words came out in a rush, like he’d been holding his superbreath.

Ben’s chair scraped back as he stood and clapped Asher on the shoulder. “That’s my boy,” he boomed, his deepened voice vibrating the silverware. His grinned making him look like some storybook king acknowledging his heir. Crystal squealed—an actual, high-pitched sound that made Raccoon bolt from the room—and launched herself at Asher with enough force to topple normal siblings. They didn’t budge, their superhuman balance keeping them upright as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Oh my god oh my god!” she chanted into his collarbone, which had somehow become more defined since lunch. “You have to wear the navy blazer! The one that makes your shoulders look—” Her hands flew to her own shoulders, framing them dramatically. I felt my lips curve without conscious thought, watching them. I smiled at him, “I’m happy for you, bud!

Changing subjects, Ben said, “Speaking of pools, how about trying the natatorium under the mansion after dinner?”

Ben’s suggestion hung in the air like the scent of chlorine already clinging to our imagined swimsuits. “The Jenkins’s private natatorium?” Crystal gasped, her fists clenched with excitement. “With the underwater speakers and the glass observation tunnel?”

We all agreed heartily. Crystal was already halfway up the stairs to get into her swimsuit before the last syllable faded, her coltish legs eating up three steps at a time with that eerie grace that still startled me. Asher lingered just long enough to shoot me a look—half teenage embarrassment, half silent plea—before blurring after her in that speedster streak I still couldn’t track properly.

The master bedroom door clicked shut behind us, muffling the distant sounds of Crystal’s excited chatter and Asher’s super-speed rustling. Ben moved with that new, deliberate stride of his—hips no longer swaying, shoulders rolling forward like he was perpetually ready to brace against something. His fingers worked the buttons of his dress shirt with unconscious precision, the fabric straining slightly across his back. I watched him for a moment, cataloguing the way his trapezius muscles shifted beneath his skin, before turning to the Chester drawers.

Ben vanished into his walk-in closet with a gust of displaced air—too fast for human eyes, though mine caught the faint blue streak lingering in his wake. The sound of hangers rattling betrayed his impatience. I, on the other hand, wanted to satisfy a Jensen superheroine fetish curiosity: How would it feel like swimming as Mera from Aquaman in her costume? My fingers traced the embossed scales of Mera’s costume where it lay folded in the Chester drawer, its emerald fabric shimmering even in the dim bedroom light. The material felt alien against my skin as I stepped into it—cooler than spandex, with an almost liquid resistance that clung to my sculpted hips like a second epidermis.

Ben emerged from the closet in a blur of crimson and cobalt, the way the Speedo clung to his new anatomy that made my breath hitch. The fabric strained against him like it was fighting for its life. His mouth dropped as his gaze traveled down my body, taking in the Mera suit’s plunging neckline where it cupped my barely-there breasts, the way the scaled material emphasized every dip and curve of my waist.

“You look great, Jennifer,” Ben stammered.

“Likewise, handsome.” I licked my lips as I looked at his package.

The basement door groaned open to reveal a cavernous natatorium—its Olympic-sized pool glowed an impossible cerulean under recessed lighting that mimicked midday sunlight. Chlorine mixed with the faint ozone of supercharged bodies as Asher torpedoed past in a blur of red and black, his swim jammers slicing through water like they’d been designed by NASA. He surfaced with a gasp, shaking droplets from his hair.

Crystal’s bikini wasn’t so much fabric as it was architecture—strategic triangles of iridescent hot pink scales that somehow both concealed and exaggerated every new curve. The top clung like a second skin, its high-neck halter design plunging between breasts, the metallic threads catching light with every breath. The bottoms rode dangerously high on hips that had widened just this morning, straining against thighs that now tapered into coltish elegance. The way it moved with her made it look grown into her skin. Asher’s wake sent Crystal tumbling backwards with a shriek that dissolved into laughter, her body arcing through the air with unnatural grace before she twisted mid-fall—bare toes skimming the water’s surface like a skipping stone. She landed cross-legged on the pool’s edge, still giggling, fingers brushing droplets from breasts. Ben’s chuckle reverberated through the chamber, his arms crossed over a chest that now highlighting his musculature.

The chlorine-scented laughter still hung in the air when Asher launched himself backward into the water, executing a perfect flip that sent a wall of water cascading over Crystal. “Asshole!” she shrieked, but her outrage dissolved into giggles as she shook water from her honey-blonde hair—hair. Her bikini straps dug into shoulders , the iridescent fabric straining against curves that belonged on a magazine cover rather than a sixteen-year-old.

The laughter bounced off the natatorium’s tiled walls, mingling with the sharp scent of chlorine and the rhythmic slap of water against the pool’s edge. I leaned against the diving board, watching them—really *watching* them—for the first time since the transformations began. Asher surfacing with a cocky grin, water sluicing off his broad shoulders. Crystal flicking her hair back with an effortless, almost *practiced* femininity. And Ben—*Ben*—his biceps flexing as he adjusted his swim trunks, the dip of his waistline drawing my eye lower than it ever had before. Man, my life was good!

The clock read 11:45 p.m., but exhaustion was a distant memory now. Still, I closed my eyes, savoring the quiet hum of the house, only to feel my eyelids flutter open almost immediately. A flicker of gold pulsed behind them—my x-ray vision activating without conscious thought. The layers of drywall and flooring dissolved into a grayscale panorama. Below me a few stories, Ben’s broad-shouldered silhouette wound up for a roll, his bowling arm a study in masculine precision. The alley was another upgrade in our ever-evolving home. The recliner sighed under my weight as I stretched out, my spine aligning with the chair’s contours in a way that felt almost too perfect—another side effect of my elongating frame. My eyelids closed again.

I jerked awake mid-air—not with the startled flail of someone falling, but with the smooth recalibration of someone who belonged there. My toes brushed empty space three feet above the recliner’s leather, and when I inhaled, the scent of ozone clung to my skin like a second layer. 12:02 a.m. February 24^th. *Completion day.* Already I felt different—not just in body, but in the very air around me, as if the molecules themselves parted in deference. My bare feet lifted from the carpet without thought, the world tilting as I arced toward the full-length mirror in the bathroom in a streak of red and blue.

My reflection was a stranger sculpted from marble and lightning. Shoulders first—where yesterday they’d still carried the residual breadth of maleness, now they tapered into slopes so sleek they made my old swimmer’s frame look clumsy by comparison. The mirror showed the exact moment my clavicles decided to become art; those collarbones didn’t just appear—they *declared* themselves, sharp enough to rest champagne flutes upon, casting shadows that accentuated the new hollows beneath them. My cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass. My lips plumped without asking permission, the bow of my upper lip now so pronounced it looked painted on. When I blinked, my eyelashes brushed my eyebrows—actual friggin’ *eyebrows*, arched and perfect as if drawn by a Renaissance master.

The ceiling loomed *closer*, the showerhead suddenly at eye level when yesterday it had brushed my collarbones. My spine crackled like popcorn as I stretched, bare toes curling against nothing, and realized with dizzying certainty: I’d grown eight inches in my sleep. Seven feet tall. A laugh bubbled up, higher and richer than my old voice, bouncing off the marble tiles like wind chimes. The mirror reflected a goddess’s silhouette—legs endless as redwoods, torso elongated with a giraffe’s impossible grace.

My fingers traced the hard ridges of my abdomen—not just toned anymore, but *chiseled*, each muscle group pronounced. When I flexed, entire mountain ranges shifted beneath golden skin, pectorals lifting with impossible symmetry. The transformation had carved valleys between my obliques so deep I could’ve lost a pencil in them. My thighs, once thick with swimmer’s muscle, now tapered into sculpted power—quadriceps like braided steel cables, hamstrings strung tight as bowstrings. I turned sideways and gasped—my latissimus dorsi flared like wings ready for flight, stretching the skin across my back into a living anatomy diagram.

The weight was obvious—a delicious, impossible pressure against my ribs as I arched my back. The swell beneath my top had transformed overnight from pert handfuls to something obscenely generous, twin moons of flesh straining against stretch fabric. I looked at my reflection in the bathroom’s mirror and grinned widely like a Cheshire cat.

Then, I saw it hanging on the walk-in closet door.

The costume suspended like a holy relic against the door with boots below it. The costume hit me like a déjà vu—deep sapphire spandex with crimson accents, the S-shield molded to suggest musculature that hadn’t existed on me a week ago. My fingers trembled as they brushed the fabric; it felt alive, thrumming against my hypersensitive fingertips like the skin of some extraterrestrial creature. This was the moment I waited my whole life for: wearing a Superwoman costume as a woman! I grabbed iconic costume version of Superwoman and put it on. The costume slithered over my skin like liquid silk—no, not silk, something older and stranger—its molecules aligning with mine in a way that made my new nerve endings sing. I looked in the mirror in the bathroom and cried with joy.

I am Superwoman! My reflection showed …