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The characters and events depicted in this story are the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to real individuals, places, or situations are entirely accidental and unintentional. The story contains strong elements of interracial sex, transformation, and mystics. If that is not your cup of tea, please move on to another story.
The story is not intended as a work of great literature. It could be void of lots of dialogue, and could be slow-moving. The lack of dialogue is intended towards a concise time line of event. Enjoy reading.
x — o — = — o — x
I was left orphaned at the age of eight, and loneliness quickly became my constant companion. Fading pictures of friends and family stashed in a forgotten drawer. I was born to an Indian prostitute, whom I never saw. My father was presumably a Caucasian, which explains my fair skin.
I didn’t have many opportunities in my life. My aptitude for arithmetic was evident despite my lack of formal education. My ability was recognized by my guardian angel, an Indian part-time tutor at the orphanage, who encouraged me to pursue computer languages.
It took me six years to get a job. My guardian angel departed this world by then. As a thank you, I placed my first pay check on his grave. When no one else would believe in me as a child, he was the one person who lit my path to a better life.
Life, however, had a twisted sense of humour. In my first month at work, my employer presented an off-the-records “favour.” Naivete and loyalty made me accept. What seemed smart turned out to be dangerously illegal. Two weeks in remand, a shattered career, and an empty safety net, I was left with nothing.
But then, I got back on my feet. I flipped off a society that rejected me. I became a hacker. At age 27, my foreign bank account read over 50 million dollars. That was the year 2016. Then, I pulled a few favours and migrated to the United States. I bought a home near Hollywood, in Westlake Village. My work was adequately recognized across the dark web. In the next year, I made another 30 million.
The relevant part of the story for this forum starts in 2017, when I moved to my new home. It was a brand-new gated community with over 300 homes. Neighbours were scarce. Not that anyone would notice me. I was lean, around 90 pounds (~ 40 kilograms) in weight, vastly undernourished. No guy would look at me — a grown Indian woman with virtually no chest and bum. With a hoodie and a pair of jeans, I could easily pass as a malnourished man.
That’s how my life was. Constant work, my empty stomach fuelled by microwaved food for years. I never ate out, nor I ever learned to cook. I have long passed any phases of existential crisis. I simply existed.
Then came my neighbour, a tall African-American. He looked the same age as me. Like countless actors or hot guys, I have seen before, I was instantly infatuated with him. I used to watch him pass by my apartment, every morning on the way to his work. Soon it became a ritual. I liked him better each passing day.
Whenever we crossed our paths, or commuted down the elevator, I was invisible to him. He barely acknowledged my presence. One day, a devilish idea popped into my mind. I hacked the Wi-Fi router of THE one person in this world that interested me.
I found out he works as a photographer. He was tall, almost 6 foot 3 inches, I’d say. He was well built, unlike me. Most people he was friends with were girls. They looked like models, or aspiring models. But the people he really trusted were his family and closest friends.
I stalked his social media accounts. That’s when I saw what was underneath his cool outfits. He had a rocking chocolate body. The chiselled chest, abs like ridges in sun-drenched sand, proudly paraded in a series of beachside pictures. My breath snapped at the sheer breadth of his chest, the way his bulky arms, thick and corded with muscle, cradled a surfboard. He had flawless dark skin complexion, neat hair, framing a face decorated with a neatly trimmed moustache and a hint of rugged beard. Even his legs, glimpsed beneath faded boardshorts, hinted at athletic power and muscles.
The only thing that I didn’t like was how women were falling over him. That was my first hint of jealousy. I understand it. He looks like an Olympian God, perfect embodiment of Herculean seed. Nevertheless, I disliked how they always swarmed around him. Apparently, he was quite the lady’s man.
One day, I eavesdropped on a text chatter, of him telling his friend about me. Two seconds, that’s all it took; five mocking words leaving me questioning if he ever saw me as a woman. The echo of his ridicule lingered like a bad taste in my mouth. I WAS TRULY NON-EXISTENT FOR HIM AS A WOMAN.
The next morning, I dressed up in my best possible pair of jeans and top I had. An Indian bindi (a dot on forehead, a decoration) graced my forehead, a small spark against my usual defiance. Braids tamed my shoulder-length hair, I dolled up a little Şirinevler travesti with make-up, and put on my heels. As I followed him to the elevator, our eyes catching for a fleeting moment. A nervous smile bloomed on my face, hoping to etch a different image in his mind. But the elevator doors whooshed open, revealing only the cold indifference of his phone screen. I was left both angry and sad.
Later that night, I saw a new device connected to his Wi-Fi. It was of a lady. I hacked her phone right away, but I couldn’t see anything. The room was dark, and her phone camera wasn’t helping. But the microphone was connected. Undoubtedly, I heard her moaning in sexual ecstasy. I heard the echoes of sexual activity throughout the night.
She left in the morning. I observed over the next month that that woman frequented his apartment. I stalked her phone and social media accounts. Apparently, she had a boyfriend. But she visited my neighbour just for sex.
Then there was another woman. And then another. The women kept changing, but the nature of their visits didn’t. Whenever I had a faint interest on what he was doing at night, it was always him getting laid.
I found out a certain pattern in the woman that were visiting my neighbour. First, they were hot. They were either models, aspiring models, or just pub hookups. Secondly, they were all in some way committed to another male, either husbands or boyfriends. My neighbour, apparently, has a taste for committed women.
At the time, a big opportunity came my way. With all these jealous and horny thoughts, I doubted my capability of concentration I needed for the job. I ordered a 6-inch dildo, jerked off to a few of his photos, and halted the charade temporarily.
A month’s job turned to three, as my clients’ needs were updated, and so was the payment. It was a gruelling summer, not having any space to stalk over my sexy neighbour. A little peek every two days or so at my neighbour, preserved the aforementioned pattern. Girls visited him at nights and left in the mornings. I finally accepted that that was his lifestyle.
I was giving up. There was no way he would ever see me as a woman. I too have needs of a man in my life, but I needed to settle for the dildo. I woke up to reality, before I could induce an irreparable damage to myself.
Then came a link to a specific dark web portal, as a token of gratitude from my previous client. As I sat on my chair and surfed through the pages, I received a notification of another pretty girl’s phone connected to my neighbour’s Wi-Fi. The buried-out jealousy resurfaced. I opened a bottle of whiskey.
As I scrolled through the dark web portal, I found something interesting. It was the book ‘Liber Corpore.’ It literally translated to ‘The Book of the Body.’ It basically proclaimed that it can change the writer’s physique in any way described in its pages. Also, the pages would never end. Some of its descriptions sounded spooky.
Normally, as a programmer, and a devout anarchist, I rarely believed in mystical stuff. But I was drunk that night. The book was slightly expensive, but I placed the order. I puked off the excess alcohol that my body rejected, cleaned up, forgot about the order, and dropped into a deep slumber.
A week later, I received a normal looking parcel. I opened it to find the book that I ordered. The memory of buying it came back. I checked how much I spent on it. I felt it was a shameful waste of money, which would otherwise fetch me at least a luxury sedan. Besides, it travelled to me all the way from Cuba. So, I couldn’t just throw it away.
I was devoid of work again that night. I sipped on a few more whiskey shots. I decided to give the book a try, it was just a whim. My hair at that time was shoulder length and thin. So, I wrote I wanted thick and long brown hair. I did not see it working in the moments that followed. Soon, I puked, second time in as my nights, cleaned myself up, and slept.
The next morning, I woke up with a weight on my head. I had the shock of my life when I looked in the mirror across the bed. I had long hair that reached my waist, as one might imagine. The scalp was thick, my hair strong and brown. I immediately checked the book. The page on which I wrote disappeared. I realized, whatever was the magic behind the book, it worked!
I went back to the portal and checked the logs on previous users of the book. It was previously used by a Cuban man, who quoted that the book changed his life, and had no more use of it. Hence, he decided to let go of it, for the book to find a new owner.
I needed a full day to process the miracle that had happened to me. I gave my face a dozen inspections. I felt a little more feminine. I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling each strand’s length and thickness. It was astounding. I wondered whether this was a summons to a fresh start. If so, I pondered my next course of action.
I had time to spare that week. I decided Şirinevler travestileri to spend time on myself. I decided to give the book one more shot. It would be an attempt to get the man of my deepest desires. I acquired knowledge by stalking his internet history over the past few months. I grazed though the sites he visited, the porn he watched, the actresses/models he followed or liked, etc. This little project yielded a good result.
My man loved women that watched their shape. Thin waist and strong legs are two traits that were quite common. He also liked his mates to have medium to long hair; there were almost no woman with shoulder length hair. There were a few of his friends, but they were never his hookups. Also, they had lean waists, with a hint of abdominal muscles. But the two non-negotiable traits were round ass and great pair of tits. Even that one woman with short hair I saw a couple of months ago, had a great rack, and the hottest ass I’ve seen. I logged in the notebook that I want these features with great specifics and fine detailing.
Next day, I woke up to a mild change in my body. But I had faith in the book and its mystery. My body felt heavy to begin with. There seemed to be a little flesh between my bones and skin.
Meanwhile, I tidied up my apartment. I cleaned out the garbage, dusted my furniture, rinsed my floors, ordered, and holstered new curtains, and quite a lot more. I purchased lots of clothes, both modern and traditional, that would aptly fit my future self. I bought kitchen utensils, and few other appliances that would generally be present in a proper home.
10 days later, all the changes I requested in the book have finally materialized. Since the changes came in anticipated, and in gradual increments, I wasn’t too shocked. But I was dazed at how good I looked. My peachy-cream skin tone didn’t need change. But with little more puff and rounding of my face, I looked a lot better. I didn’t recognize my former self anymore.
I stood in front of my mirror, and looked at myself. My legs and arms gathered enough muscle to have a toned body. My hips grew exactly the amount which would look the best on a full-grown woman, and sat on a ripened ass. I had a pair of perfect-sized DD melons as breasts, where there was previously no meat at all. I received a gift from the book, a perfect hourglass figure, that is too voluptuous to be ignored by a warm-blooded man.
It was a Saturday. I knew my neighbour would be at home. I dressed up in a loose-fitting t-shirt and jeans, properly covering up all my body features. I rang his door bell, and nervously awaited him to answer the door.
“Hi,” I said gleefully smiling, offering a box of sweets. I introduced myself as Mahira, and I invented a fake story on how I moved in as his new neighbour.
“Nice to meet you, Mahira. That’s quite a stash of sweets you’ve got there — bribing the neighbours already?” He grinned, taking a curious peek into the box.
“Guilty as charged,” I laughed. “Moving in can be stressful, got to sweeten the deal somehow.” I gestured vaguely at the boxes piled outside my door.
He cocked his head, his gaze flickering towards the empty corridor towards my home. “Interesting. Didn’t hear much from the apartment before you arrived. Used to be an Indian woman living there, though. Kept to herself mostly, but seemed nice enough.”
“Oh really?” I feigned surprise, subtly studying his reaction. “I didn’t know. She must have moved out recently then, I haven’t met her.”
He seemed interested in my life. We went on to talk about a fake life I had before. I told him I’m married to a great guy that my parents set me up with. He worked in the merchant navy. So, he was away for most part of the year. And, any relatives or family resided in India.
“Anyway, welcome to the neighbourhood Mahira. I’m Malcolm by the way. I am a photographer for Gerard Studios.”
“Nice! I’ll catch you later Malcolm. Bye.” I spoke.
“Sure. That would be my pleasure.”
It was a lingering eye contact, as I felt he checked my body out throughout our conversation. I felt nothing but happiness and pride in my newfound body. From not acknowledging my presence to checking me out, I was ecstatic of the change in the perceived value of my body. I did not see anything wrong with it. Life isn’t how ideal one wants it to be. I learnt that lesson long before, and adapted to it. It was a new lesson that I learnt about humans, and I found only joy in accepting it — that flesh mattered a lot when it came to any romantic beginnings of a relationship.
The next day, at noon, Malcolm knocked on my door. He offered me some pasta, as a courtesy to his new neighbour. I invited him inside, and showed how I made my home. He was impressed. I was dressed in a loose-fitting t-shirt and pants again, which didn’t show any skin. We had a small talk about Mumbai — where I hailed from, merchant navy and other topics of common interest. He Travesti şirinevler gave his mobile number and offered to help me in case I needed something.
The next day, I texted him. I told him I was tired of all the household errands, and wished to catch a break. He said he was feeling bored too. As the conversation progressed, I told him I loved the actor whose movie was playing in theatres. He offered to take me, if I allowed him. I politely declined at first, saying it wouldn’t be nice to go to movies with another male who is not my husband. He made a joke about which era I was living in, and that going to movies with friends is a casual thing. I came across convinced, and we agreed on a time for the movie.
That was my first theatre experience in years. The last time I went to a theatre, it was for finalizing a deal. We went to the mall in his car. He aided me in shopping a few casual clothes, and we grabbed a quick bite of KFC while we were there. I was wearing my casual t-shirt and pants yet again. He asked if I ever wore other than t-shirt and pants. In response, I said that I had ordered some clothes and they were on their way.
We had a great time at the mall. After the movie, he escorted me to my door like a gentleman. I loved the way he treated me the entire time. He wasn’t flirtatious, but he never stopped giving me the looks or attention.
The next morning, I saw a lady leaving his flat. I checked on his internet traffic. It was both good and bad result. While I was upset, he hooked up with another girl right after a great ‘date’ we had, he later admitted to his friend, his enormous urge to get laid came from his desire for his new hot neighbour. I couldn’t help but feel pleased by his feelings towards me. Besides the girl and Malcolm planned their hookup days in advance. He hadn’t fucked anyone all week. He must be bursting after a long abstinence, and my presence pushed him over the cliff.
Later, I texted him that I saw a girl leaving his home that morning. I teased him about it, and I could tell he was nervous. Perhaps he believed that me being aware of his hookups would jeopardize his plans with me.
But I felt, I needed to step up my game. The next morning, I asked him to help me get a bunch of new packages from security post of our gated society. In a few minutes, he picked them up, and arrived at my door.
I opened the door to give him a great morning treat. I was in a casual chiffon saree with a matching blouse. The attire by itself did not exude sensuality. But I presented myself as if I just rushed out of shower, put on some clothes over my wet body, and answered the door in a hurry. My hair was wet and sticking to my forehead, and my open back. The blouse was damp, clinging to the shape of my bra-filled breasts. The saree stuck to my waist, allowing my navel to be partially visible.
I gestured him to come inside. After he walked into my home, I asked him to set down the packages in a corner. He turned around to register my full picture. The saree was full, but the pallu (long part of the cloth that is draped over the shoulders) was coiled and set between my heaving breasts. The dampness of the blouse was evident, making it obvious of my heavy breathing. My breasts moved up and down in an obvious way. It was the first time I was showing off my body to a guy. I thought it would be easy, but his stealing glances at my figure made me nervous, especially at my chest. The heaviness in my breath was natural as a tingling feeling took over my empty stomach. As I stood there in shallow heat between us, I experienced what it felt to be a woman.
I thanked him for his help. After a little small talk, he said he was getting late. He went on his way. I liked the feeling of showing my body for my neighbour. Undoubtedly, he reciprocated the interest, but I maintained my innocence in this charade.
Soon we were texting a lot. He constantly kept me company whenever I felt bored. On one occasion, I told him how excited I was about a new TV series. I knew he was a fan of that franchise. So, I chose it as my lure. He politely suggested that we watch it together, if it was okay with me. I reluctantly accepted, but was ecstatic inside.
For the series watching night, I dressed up in casual Kalvin Klein tank top that had flimsy noodle straps, and some pyjamas. The top showed a decent cleavage down my chest, just a fold of skin between my hefty breasts. It also left bare most of my toned abdomen. I revealed my long neck and upper chest by pulling my hair back into a ponytail.
I headed over to his apartment. He was enthralled with my appearance in modern attire.
“Here they are, my new clothes. How do I look?” I asked him.
It would certainly make him understand why I wouldn’t wear modern tops in public. My breasts were a little too large not to draw dirty attention. He glanced at my abdomen, and then at my long legs. The pyjamas fit my thighs perfectly, not hiding the fact that they were quite toned.
“You look great! It’s getting harder for me to believe that you are married.” He welcomed me inside, and showed around his flat. He then ushered me to a 2-seater sofa. His furnishings were aptly designed to fit his bachelor lifestyle, including the plush leather sofa that would comfortably host just two people.
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