The Pretty Great Shift - Brother TG Swap

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   I don’t know if we’re the unluckiest men in the world or the luckiest. Me and my brother were hiking the Canadian Rockies in late fall when we got caught in an avalanche. I took a powdering and twisted an ankle, while Liam took the brunt of it. He was swept off a ridge, breaking his legs and likely worse.

“Don’t bother,” he groaned as I started digging him out of the snow drift. “I’m going nowhere like this.”

“You kidding? I’m only digging you out so you can carry me down,” I joked weakly, forcing a smile. I knew things were bad. Even if I dug him out, he was a big guy then, there was no way I could lift him.

“Just leave me.” His eyelids drooped. The snow around him was turning bloody pink terrifyingly fast.

“You’ll be fine. A couple of bandaids and you’ll be fine.”

Then the darndest thing happened. It was like the world shifted. Where my battered brother had been a moment ago, a young woman lay, looking up at me, shivering as the cold air flowed into her loose-fitting clothing, but bright-eyed and bushy tailed, and with not a scratch on her.

“... Liam?”

“I’m hallucinating,” she murmured, staring at her hands before slipping them down the neck of her jacket to grope her tits. That was my brother alright. She wriggled her slim body easily out of the mold in the snow of a much larger man.

“You're not the only one,” I stared. “But if you can hallucinate and walk, I’ll take it.”

We got down from that mountain as fast as we could, not daring to acknowledge what had happened in case reality realized its mistake and corrected it. Liam was as agile as a gazelle as she scrambled from rock to rock. True to my word, she helped carry me the last few miles, slipping her slender form under my arm to take the weight off my twisted ankle.

We hunkered down in the survival cabin expecting help to come get us in a day or two. They never did. We later learned, upon returning to what was left of civilisation, that a thing called the Great Shift had knocked out most of the emergency services, and those that were left were too busy sorting out the chaos in the cities to worry about two idiots up a mountain.

We might have rationed our firewood better if we’d known we’d be there all winter. It was a bitter one. The winds howled, the snow piled up against the cabin door. Huddled tight together, sharing our body heat, we lasted a few months before our naturally impulses overrode our squeamishness. My fingers were blue, but at least my cock was warm inside him. When we were cold, we fucked. When we were horny, lonely and missing our girlfriends, we fucked. Mostly it was the tedium of the long dark. We fucked just to pass the time.

When the spring thaw finally came, Liam was far less gazelle-like as we descended to the valley, her arms wrapped protectively around her heavy abdomen. They'd stocked the cabin with everything for survival - condoms not included.

The-Not-So-Great-Shift - Breeding Season

 After the Great Shift, population numbers were in severe decline. It wasn’t just the people who perished on Shift Day or those we lost in the months of chaos afterwards, it was the birthrate - about a third of what it had been before the Shift.

   It was understandable. Practically every existing relationship in the world had been ripped asunder, partners dispersed across the globe (with many millions still trying to find their way back home) or placed in bodies completely incompatible with their ex-spouses. Reforging those broken pairings and forming new ones was slow. Half of men were now women, and half of women were now men, and -for the most part- sexualities had been unaffected, rendering around half of the population technically gay overnight.

Then there were matters of age, religion, culture, and language, all of them scrambled. The awkwardness and generational divide of dating a smoking hot, teen blonde with the personality and values of 90-year-old Sudanese man. Finding common ground was hard these days.

It wasn’t that babies weren’t being conceived - with sex being one of the few universal cultural touchstones we still had in common, there was plenty of it going on (too much if you ask me), but few males had the nurturing instinct that a lifetime of hormones and cultural programming instilled. Most ex-males avoided pregnancy like the plague.

Ultimately the state intervened once it became clear how dire the situation was. The Compulsory Coupling Draft, the government called it. My blood ran cold the day they announced it. Forced breeding. We - everyone with a functioning uterus, female-born or not- was to be assigned a partner. A stud. We were to be bred like animals! Me! A respected surgeon and father of four! Given to some man to be impregnated again and again like some puppy mill. I was only just coming to terms with the fact the uterus between my legs might actually be mine, and now I was being told it was actually property of the state.

The man I was given to, Cathlene, was a thug and a brute. Testosterone psychosis. By all accounts, his body had been an affable family man once and his mind that of a sweet grandmother. Some women don’t cope well with being thrown into a brain with foreign, male impulses, which can run unchecked, making monsters out of the mildest ex-women. Even if I could escape the draft, there was no escaping Cathlene once he discovered the delights of breeding me. When I tried, the beatings began.

I’ve been lucky so far. I’ve yet to fall pregnant, though not for lack of Cathlene trying. The state monitors all fertiles closely, knows precisely when they’re ovulating. This month, it hit at work. There’s a special breeding room the hospital sets aside for staff-use, lilac-painted and decorated with photos of babies. I strip, lie back and stare at the ceiling. Cathlene spreads my legs eagerly and has his rough way with me.

“Perhaps this will be the month,” he croons, and I try not to flinch as he strokes my abdomen. The thought of my belly swelling with this man’s child makes my skin crawl.

I stifle noises of discomfort as he mounts me, knowing he hates anything other than my fake orgasms. His leering face is red and sweating as he rocks above me, growing in pace and intensity until he’s practically berserk, slamming me against the bed as he all-but foams at the mouth. A sticky warmth blossoms within me and I shudder, turning away. Suddenly he grabs my neck, squeezing. “You didn’t say ‘thank you’,” he snarls.

“Thank you,” I croak out.

“Hngh. Good girl.”

The Not-So-Great Shift - Part 2

 

When the Great Shift hit, it had been fifteen years since my retirement as an commercial pilot. One moment I'm sharing a meal in the south of France with my wife. The next instant I’m standing in a plane. The atmosphere is one of bewildered panic, turning to pandemonium as everyone starts talking all at once, staring around themselves in disbelief, and groping themselves en mass.

A lifetime of training tells me not to panic in a crisis and I try to remember that as I glance down and see the valley of my own cleavage bulging out of the low-cut uniform. The blue dress is pulled tight over broad hips. Perched atop a pair of glossy red heels, my slender ankles ache, as if they're 10 hours into a long shift.

Am I an… air stewardess?

The plane lurches. I'm tossed hard against one wall. Thankfully this body comes with plenty of padding. The passengers are screaming now. The tannoy dings.

“Uh. Um. Either I’m having one wild dream or this is your captain speaking,” comes the terrified voice.

The plane begins to bank alarmingly, the ground swinging into view on the left of the aircraft, blue sky to the right. Now the Captain is screaming. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck. That’s not meant to- Oh fuck. Does anyone know how to fly a plane?!”

Kicking away the heels, I ford my way through the people spilling into the aisles, racing for the cockpit.

The Not-So-Great Shift

 

They're calling it the Great Shift. Hell if I know what's so great about it. In its wake came anarchy. Nobody knows who is in charge anymore, or who is who at all. Prisons emptied out overnight, inmates roaming free in their acquired bodies, murdering and stealing. People wearing the bodies of cops take what they pleased. The Police, FBI, CIA, judges, politicians, almost the entire backbone of law and order are now scattered to the winds in bodies unsuited for authority, or on the other side of the planet. The president himself is in diapers for crying out loud.

Resources are getting scarce. Nobody knows how to do the jobs their bodies once did. The global supply chain collapsed. They say the oceans are adrift with thousands of cargo vessels captained and crewed by people who’ve never seen a boat in their lives. Thousands of planes fell from the sky in the minutes after the Shift.

I’m one of the unlucky ones. I didn’t even get a flesh and blood body. I woke to find myself trapped in this fuckdoll, my humanity stripped. I barely made it home through the chaos. My house was deserted. Whoever or whatever is in my body, it isn’t here now. Maybe just trying to get back to their family, same as everyone else.

I hear looters next door. They’re moving from house to house, scavenging anything they find. I'll be damned if that includes me. I’m under no illusions what awaits me if they get their hands on me.

Whatever happens, they’re not taking me alive. Assuming this rubber body of mine can even die.