Gym Bunny Transformation

Three months ago I could deadlift twice my bodyweight and I thought that meant something. I thought the gym was mine. The chalk, the iron, the grunt of it. I built a body that men nodded at and women looked at twice, and I wore that like armor over whatever soft thing lived under it.

Reese took the armor apart one buckle at a time, and the worst part is I handed her the tools.

She was the new trainer. Calm voice, flat eyes, a way of standing close that made you forget to breathe. The first week she just watched me lift. The second week she started correcting my form with one finger on the small of my back, and that finger stayed in my head long after I drove home. By the third week she had me staying late, after the lights dimmed and the front desk emptied, for what she called extra conditioning.

Tonight the extra conditioning was a pair of pink shorts so small they were a joke, folded on the bench in front of me.

“Put them on,” she said. “Over what you’re already wearing.”

What I was already wearing was the thing I could not look at her about. Lace. White lace panties she had handed me in the locker room an hour before, and I had stood there holding them and telling myself I would walk out. I told myself I had a whole life out there, a truck in the lot, a name people respected. And then I had stepped into them anyway, and the silk had closed over me, and something low in my gut had gone tight and warm and traitorous.

I picked up the shorts.

“Slower,” Reese said. She sat on the leg-press machine like it was a throne, one ankle crossed over her knee. “I want to watch you decide to do it.”

My hands shook. I hated that they shook. I dragged the pink cotton up my thighs and the lace shifted against me underneath and my cock, locked in the little cage she had clicked shut two weeks ago and kept the key to, throbbed against the bars. That was the betrayal I could never get ahead of. The cage was supposed to be punishment. My body kept treating it like a promise.

“There she is,” Reese said.

She. Not him. She had been doing that for days now, dropping the word into the gaps like a coin into a slot, and every time it landed somewhere in my chest and rang.

“I’m not,” I started.

“You’re not what.” She stood. She came across the rubber floor without hurry and stopped close enough that I could smell her, clean sweat and something floral underneath. “Say the whole sentence. Tell me what you’re not, while you’re standing in your little gym bunny shorts with your clitty leaking in its cage.”

The word she used for me made my face go hot. It also made the cage go tight enough to ache, and the shame of those two things happening at once, in the same half second, was its own kind of vertigo. I shut my mouth.

“That’s what I thought,” she said.

She walked a slow circle around me. I stood at parade rest the way she had trained me to, feet apart, hands laced behind my back, chin up, and I felt her eyes go over the body I had been so proud of and saw it the way she saw it now. Not a fortress. A thing being repurposed. The pecs she called my tits. The ass she had me squat to grow rounder every single session, telling me a good girl filled out her shorts.

A clean hard thought cut through the fog, sharp as a slap. I have a sister who thinks I am the strong one. If she walked in right now she would not have a brother anymore. The thought should have put my clothes back on. Instead it pooled low and hot with all the rest, because some sick new part of me wanted to be seen exactly like this, wanted the witness, and that wanting frightened me more than Reese ever had.

“Bench,” Reese said. “On your back. Feet up on the bar.”

I climbed onto the flat bench. The vinyl was cold through the thin shorts. I lifted my feet and set my heels on the empty barbell racked above me, which spread my knees wide, which left me open and ridiculous under the dim lights, a grown man in lace and pink with his thighs apart on the bench where two hours ago someone had been pressing two hundred pounds.

Reese pulled the shorts down to my knees. Just the shorts. The lace stayed.

“Pretty,” she said, looking at the white silk stretched over the cage. She traced one finger up the front of the panties and the touch went straight through the fabric and the metal and into me and my hips lifted off the bench before I could stop them. “Look at that. You moved toward me. Did you mean to do that?”

“No,” I said. It came out wrecked.

“Liar.” She said it without heat, which was worse than if she had been angry. “Your mouth keeps saying one thing. The rest of you keeps voting against it. I only listen to the votes.”

She reached into the gym bag at her feet and took out something that hummed when her thumb found the button. A wand, the head of it the size of a fist, the cord trailing to a battery pack she clipped to the bench. The motor came alive with a low growl and my whole body clenched in anticipation of a thing that had not even touched me yet.

“We’ve done denial for two weeks,” she said. “You’ve been so good at being told no. I want to see if you can be good at being told yes.”

She pressed the wand against the lace, against the cage, against the trapped aching length of me, and the vibration tore through the silk and the metal and there was nowhere for it to go. I made a sound I had never made before. High and broken. Not mine. Or not the me I had walked in with.

“Hear that,” Reese said softly. “That’s your real voice. We just had to find her.”

The wand stayed where it was. My heels slipped on the bar and I scrambled to keep them up because she had not told me I could move them. The buzz built and built with no skin contact, just pressure and hum through fabric, the cage forcing everything inward, and my hips were rolling now, chasing it, grinding up into the head of the wand like an animal, every shred of the man who deadlifted twice his bodyweight gone, melted, poured out through the place where she held the toy.

“You want to come,” she said. Not a question. She never asked questions. “Say it. Use the word I gave you for it.”

I bit down. Sweat ran into my ear. There was a final wall in me, the last one, the one with my own name on it, and I pressed my back against it.

“Say it,” Reese said, “or I take the wand away and you go home like this, locked and crying, and we start over Monday.”

The wall came down. It did not crumble. I shoved it down myself, and the horror of how much I wanted to was the hottest thing that had ever happened to me.

“Please,” I gasped. “Please let your sissy come. Please, Reese.”

“Good girl,” she breathed.

And then she lifted the wand off me. Set it humming on the bench beside my hip, just out of reach, the growl of it filling the empty gym while I shook and clenched around nothing.

“But not like that,” she said. She was already reaching back into the bag, and the thing she drew out this time was longer, and there was a harness, and she stepped one boot through it without breaking eye contact with me. “Sissies don’t get to come from being touched like a man. You’re going to earn it the way you’re going to earn everything from now on.”

She tilted my hips up off the bench with one strong hand under the small of my back, the same place that one finger had rested on the very first night, and I understood, finally, all the way down, what every late session had been building toward.

“Knees to your chest, bunny,” she said. “Hold them there. And keep your eyes on me while I make you mine.”