Chapter 1:
John was not a fan of history. And that was doubly so for history class. Every day, from 1:00pm to 2:00pm, John sat in class, staring at the clock on the wall, slowly ticking away. Slowly, painfully ticking. This was another one of those days. Another slow, painful hour of his life wasted. John blankly stared at the whiteboard as his teacher rambled on. John found that staring at the board was a good way to avoid being called on. It was the students that didn't at least make a small effort to look like they were paying attention that the teacher would always call on.
John's mind wandered to home, to his Playstation patiently waiting for him. To his mother, preparing him an afterschool snack. To a weekend of nothing but hanging out with friends at the mall. His eyes grew weary. John couldn't stop himself from blinking over and over. His mind slipped away as he struggled to stay upright. His eyes stayed closed for longer and longer. The last thing he heard before drifting off was his teacher rambling some nonsense about the Revolutionary War.
John felt like he was floating, drifting about in vast and infinite darkness. His eyes clenched firmly shut, he didn't even care enough to try and open them. In fact, he seemingly didn't care about anything at all. He felt so free, so at peace. His body was like a liquid, drifting and stretching, unrestrained and morphing. A warmth coated him, a comforting warmth like a blanket or bath. John wished he could never leave this realm of bliss. But in that warm embrace, he heard a distant voice.
"Joane..."
It started out soft, but slowly grew louder.
"Joane.... Joane..."
Louder and louder and louder!
"Joane... Joane! JOANE!!!"
John's eyes shot open. The first thing to meet his sight was a brown wooden roof, completely foreign to his classroom. He tilted his head from side to side, trying to to understand his surroundings. He appeared to be lying in a bed. His surroundings seemed foreign to him. a wood-walled room, with wooden roof and floor. a small dresser in the corner of the room, with a hand mirror lying atop it and a window with light shining in. And speaking of light, there was not a single lightbulb in sight. No switches, lamps, or even outlets. The whole room was utterly devoid of any trace of electricity.
John slowly lifted himself off the bed, trying to get a better look around. That's when he noticed the changes in his own body. The first and most prominent being the long, thin, brown strands of hair on the corner of his vision, brushing against his face. He tried to fling them off his face, only to be met with a pain in his scalp. His hands grabbed the hair at the edge of his vision, tracing it up to its source at the top of his head. It was his hair.
John grabbed a loose bunch of his hair and exmained it closely. thats when he noticed his smaller, softer, feminine hands. Then he noticed the weight on his chest. A heavy, pendulous, jiggly weight. He looked down, and was met with a long, white, dress-like shift covering his body. He tremmbled as his hands roamed his body.vHis thinner, shorter, softer body. His globe-like breasts and sensitive nipples hidden beneth his bedclothes. His slender, skinny arms. His soft, flat stomach. His tender thighs and empty groin. He trembled as he lifted up the hem of his white shift. He gazed in horror as between his legs was no longer his manhood, but a brown bush hiding a womanly slit. Complete with a labia, clit, and all the other parts John hadn't paid attention to durring health class.
She screamed.
Chapter 2:
The door burst open. A slightly older woman, most likely in her early to mid 30s and looking straight out of colonial williamsburg ran inside. She was wielding a large wrought iron skillet like a club, firmly gripping the handle with both hands raised over her right shoulder, ready to swing it with a moment's notice. She quickly scanned the room before turning to John. She said something to John, but he couldn't hear her. He couldn't hear anything over the high-pitched scream filling the room. It took him a moment to even realize he was the one screaming, since it sounded nothing like his normal voice.
The woman dropped the wrought iron pan tumble to the floor and grabbed John by the shoulders. She kept trying to say something, but John seemingly couldn't stop screaming. Exasperated, she raised her hand and slapped John hard across the cheek. John immediately stopped, his hand raised up to his face, caressing the sharp, throbbing pain in his cheek. His soft, smooth cheek, without a single speck of facial hair. The woman looked John straight in the eyes.
"By God, Joane! What's wrong with you?!?! I've never heard you scream like that in all my life! I thought you were being ravaged!"
John stared blankly back into her eyes. Joane, he was Joane now. And he was now a she. Tears welled up in her eyes and she collapsed into the arms of the woman. She wept and sobbed like she never had before. Letting all her emotions out in a manner utterly unthinkable were he still a boy. The woman, who only moments ago had struck her hard across the face, embraced Joane in her arms. Resting Joane's head on her shoulder as she whispered sweet, calming nothings to the scared young girl. One arm on Joane's back, the other on the back of her head, holding her like a baby in its mother's arms. And as she cradled her, Joane was overwhelmed by emotion. Sadness, anger, confusion, hopelessness, terror. Though one emotion was suspiciously absent, especially given how close she was to this woman's breasts, and that she could even feel them pressing against her as she held Joane tightly, and that was any form of shame or lust.
"Shhh, it's ok dear," the woman calmly whispered.
"I'm here now, mother is here. You have nothing to be worried about."
"MARTHA!!!" a loud, manly voice boomed from another part of the house, accompanied by the loud slamming of a door and a cacophony of heavy footsteps on the wooden floor. The sudden noise made Joane finch, and grip tighter to the safe, comforting woman for protection. "Martha! Joane! Where are you?!"
"Joane's bedroom," the woman yelled back.
"And by the Lord, be quiet! You're scaring her!"
A hurried wave of footsteps echoed through the house until a large group of men burst into the room. They mostly appeared to be between their 30s and 40s, though one man at the front appeared to be around 16. all of them were dressed similarly, black buckled boots, brown breeches, white stockings, cravats, various combinations of waistcoats and overcoats, many types of felt and fur hats. Most sporting some kind of facial hair. Wielding in their hands a variety of farming implements, some even welding nothing more than big sticks. At their lead was a tall, buff man in his 30s. His skin was a patchwork of white, tan, and sunburn. His hair was a black curly mop, a sharp contrast with his beard which was seemingly very well-kept. Around his waist was a thick leather belt, with a large hunting knife snuggly in its sheath. In his hands was a long, old-fashioned rifle.
As he barged into the room, he swung his rifle around, searching for any sign of some unseen threat. It was at this unfortunate moment that Joane chose to pry open her teary eyes, and was greeted with quite the unsettling view. A large mob of men, all much taller, older, and larger than herself, all wielding makeshift weapons in their hands, all ready for battle. And at their lead was a man with a rifle pointed directly at her. Her heart skipped a beat, time seemingly froze. Memories flooded into her mind, memories she never lived but were as real as any other. A dark woods late at night, a loud bang, fear, pain, blood, warm hot blood, dark like ink. And as the battle-thirsty men stared down at her, she felt the weakness of her new body. The utter helplessness of her feminine form. Smaller, weaker, utterly helpless, her mind running with terrible, awful scenarios. An unfamiliar feeling grew in her loins, as she felt warm, sticky liquid run down her thighs and legs. She lost control of her body, her eyes rolling up towards the sky as the world became a blur. She felt herself falling backwards as a chill overtook her. The frantic yelling of the woman growing dimmer and dimmer, before fading out completely.
