This is the first caption where I have knowingly used an AI image. I've used non-photographic images many times but this was the first one I picked the images from generative AI. These in particular came from another creator, GF Dragon. I had fun writing this because the images really fit an idea I already had in a my head.
As I wrote it, I came up with an expanded plot that felt like a really wicked good time. I am pondering weather or not to write a longer form story based on this little plot bunny .
Enjoy.
The Age of Womanhood
The vanity lights buzzed softly as he stood barefoot in his silk robe. His hands trembled slightly as he slicked his black hair back, already watching it shift. It lightened and lengthened, fading into a curtain of caramel-blonde.
A delicious heat bloomed in his chest. Heavy, aching, real breasts swelled into his waiting hands. Skin shimmered smooth as his features restructured: cheekbones lifted, lashes thickened, lips blossomed into a lush pout. Hair spilled in golden waves down his back.
His waist cinched sharply. Hips flared. Ass rounded, thighs thickened. Each change sent a jolt of pleasure through his spine. And as his form softened and sculpted, so did his thoughts.
The boy disappeared and in his place Vivienne exhaled…
…and smiled.
“Jesus,” Aunt Rose breathed. “You get prettier every time.”
Vivienne turned, coy and radiant. Her golden hair tumbled over one bare shoulder. The silk robe hung just open enough to reveal the swell of her breasts and the smooth curve of her waist.
“Stop,” she purred, voice full of warmth and feminine confidence. “You’ll make me blush.”
Vivienne’s mother grinned as she handed her a glass of wine. “Do you remember when we used to stun like that, Rose?”
She nodded toward the dress, the gold one Vivienne had been eyeing for weeks. It had a plunging neckline and would be bold and skin tight on her.
“You still do,” Vivienne said sweetly. “Both of you.”
“Go on, baby,” her mother said, nodding to the dress. “It’s your night.”
They helped her dress. Cinched her waist. Zipped her in. Her heels made Vivienne’s ass pop and pushed her breasts forward. They painted her lips a glossy coral, matching her mother’s shade.
By the end, Vivienne didn’t look like a young man in a dress. She looked like a woman; mature, radiant, and gloriously full-figured. A curvaceous goddess.
Standing between the two women who’d raised her, she no longer felt like the boy who once sat at the vanity and played with their makeup.
She was one of them.
Her mother gently brushed a curl from her face. “Sometimes I forget you were ever my little boy.”
Vivienne’s lips curled.
“That’s okay,” she murmured. “I forget too.”
They used to joke that he was his mother’s best friend long before he was her son.
Even as a child, he preferred the vanity to the backyard. He watched her every move and memorized the way she smiled when she applied lipstick. By ten, he did her eyeliner before dates. At twelve, he borrowed her lip gloss and her dresses. At thirteen, he passed as her “niece” when they went out for brunch.
But he never wanted to be a little girl. He wanted to be a woman. A powerful, glamorous, alluring woman. Like Mom. Like Aunt Rose. Like every woman who could own a room with nothing more than a glance.
Then the truth came with his sixteenth birthday.
His father had disappeared long ago, but he left knowledge with his mother; the men of his bloodline had gifts. They were shapeshifted, hiding in plain sight. A journal and whispered promises of magic revealed a new reality for the young man.
He locked himself away and focused. It came slowly. But eventually, one night…it all came together.
Hair, skin, breasts, hips, lips.
Vivienne.
She wasn’t a copy, she was a culmination. His mother’s grace. Rose’s walk. His favorite actress’s cheekbones. The sultry whisper of his economics teacher. She wasn’t pretending.
She was perfect.
He practiced for months and built other personas. He created backstories and various women, but Vivienne was his favorite. She was safety. She was real.
One day, he showed mom and auntie. She came clicking into the room wearing heels, a cocktail dress and a smile. His mother smiled, giving him a once over.
“You got my smile right, but you really need to work on your aunt’s walk in those heels. We’ll teach you how to glide.”
Now, Vivienne was a fixture. Weeknights were sharing bottles of wine, new outfits, and sharing gossip. Weekends were clubs and lounges, and sometimes even Rose’s country club, crawling with older men happy to spoil a pretty woman.
Vivienne always had a story. Stylist one week, boutique owner the next. She turned heads. Made men nervous. She loved it. She’d flirted. Dated. Let fingers wander on nights when she needed it. But she hadn’t gone too far.
Not yet.
Tonight, they were headed to a rooftop lounge. It was new and exclusive, lots of excitement. Vivienne sat at the vanity, heart pounding, lips still tingling from coral gloss. Her eyes traced the shimmer of her cleavage, the outline of her hips.
Desire stirred inside her. A craving, sharper than before. She wanted to be taken. Filled. To feel her womanhood stretched, full of male virility. She wanted to know what it was like as a woman.
She wondered if she would want more when it was over. She wondered if it would make her want to stay. Because being Vivienne didn’t just feel good. It felt right.
Each time she took the trip, the return was harder to make.
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