I’m six months pregnant now. And yes, I know what you’re thinking.
Here’s the thing: six months ago, I wasn’t even a woman. My name was Ethan. I was 22, living in my mom’s basement with no job, no direction, and a PlayStation addiction. That all changed the day my mom offered me $5,000 to play a part—her best friend’s son, Josh, needed a date to an engagement party to save face after a breakup.
“Just pretend to be his girlfriend for a few hours,” she said, waving around this dusty old book like it was a cookbook and not, you know, a spellbook. “You’ll wear a nice dress, smile, and we’ll get that radiator in your car fixed.”
“I’m not exactly girlfriend material,” I told her, arms folded.
“Well,” she said with a gleam in her eye, “not yet.”
She opened the book, read a string of words in some ancient-sounding language, and that’s when my body caught fire.
It wasn’t literal flames, but it might as well have been. My skin tingled, muscles spasmed, and I fell to my knees, panting. My bones cracked and shifted. I could feel my waist pulling in, hips flaring out. My chest ached—then swelled, my hands trembling as I watched soft, full breasts rise on my chest. My voice cracked, then smoothed into a higher, softer pitch.
There was an overwhelming rush—a flooding of hormones, sensations, feelings. Everything felt more intense. My skin was more sensitive, my sense of smell sharper. My whole body was alien but... somehow exhilarating. I felt warm and soft and dizzy in ways I couldn’t explain.
When it was over, I was gasping on the floor, every inch of me changed. My mom helped me up and grinned.
“You’re beautiful,” she said. “I think I’ll call you Melanie.”
“Are you insane?” I squeaked.
She spent the next two hours teaching me how to walk in heels, pluck my eyebrows, and apply makeup. The dress she picked clung to curves I didn’t know how to own yet. But when I saw myself in the mirror, I did a double-take. Melanie was hot.
The party was surreal. Josh was tall, charming, with a smile that melted my freshly feminized brain. He played the doting boyfriend role perfectly—his hand on my back, whispering jokes into my ear, making me laugh in this soft, musical giggle that made me cringe and blush.
But it wasn’t just an act. There was chemistry—real, electric, and building all night. After we slow-danced and shared a few more drinks, it was like our bodies were magnetized. The touches lingered, the eye contact deepened, and when he offered to take me home, I nodded before I could think.
We barely made it through his apartment door before we were kissing. His hands were all over me, discovering this new body I barely knew myself. He ran his fingers through my hair, down my back, teasing the edge of the zipper on my dress. My breath was already short, my thoughts a haze of hormones and need.
When he finally undressed me, I felt like I was being unwrapped, discovered. His hands were warm and patient, like he was learning every curve, every breath. I was flushed, tingling, and burning with a need I hadn’t expected—deep, instinctual, and unstoppable.
When we lay together, he took his time. He kissed me everywhere, tracing patterns on my skin that made me arch into him. When he finally entered me, I gasped. It was deep and stretching, but my body welcomed him. I clung to him, the sensations almost overwhelming. Each thrust was slow, then faster, building rhythm like music I’d never heard before but instinctively knew. I felt full, wanted, feminine in a way that made my toes curl.
The climax hit like a tidal wave, stealing my breath and turning my world white. I screamed, not caring who heard. When it was over, I lay there panting, shaking, filled in every way.
And emotionally? I felt cracked open. Raw. Beautiful.
Afterward, we lay tangled in sheets, my head on his chest. I was dazed, soft, smiling despite myself.
“Are you okay?” he whispered, brushing my hair back.
I nodded. “Yeah... I think I am.”
I tried to sneak in wearing his hoodie, but Mom was already at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading her spellbook like it was the Sunday paper.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said without looking up.
“Hey,” I mumbled.
“Where’d you go last night?” she asked casually.
“Out. Just hung out with Josh a bit.”
“Oh? Hung out?” she teased.
I sighed. “Fine. We had sex. Like... a lot of it. The kind that makes your legs jelly and your soul feel like it got turned inside out.”
She cackled. “My baby girl got laid! Was it magical?”
“Don’t use that word.”
“I mean, technically, everything about you is magical now. Was he gentle?”
“Yes.”
“Was he thorough?”
“Oh my god, Mom.”
She waved her hand. “Relax, you’re a grown woman now. I just hope you’re not pregnant.”
I froze. “Why would you say that?”
She thumbed through the spellbook. Her face paled.
“Uh... Melanie, that was a fertility spell.”
“A what?”
“It increases libido and fertility. If used on a man, it transforms them into a woman with the same effects. But it only lasts a month if no conception occurs. If you got pregnant... the change becomes permanent.”
Three weeks later, that pink plus sign appeared. I stared at it in horror. My mom peeked over my shoulder and winced.
“Well,” she said. “Guess you’re Melanie for good.”
The bump came slow, but it came. First it was a soft swell. Then a noticeable roundness. Then one morning I woke up and couldn’t see my feet anymore. Now? I waddle. I drop things I can’t pick up. I wear stretchy clothes and Josh’s oversized flannel shirts.
Josh’s hand lives on my belly. He talks to our daughter like she’s already here.
“Hi baby girl. Daddy’s got snacks. Tell Mommy to stop eating all the pickles.”
“You got me pregnant,” I told him one day, pointing at my belly. “You did this to me.”
He shrugged. “And I’d do it again. You’re adorable when you waddle.”
I stared at him then, belly huge, skin glowing, nipples sore, and thought... yeah. He would. And part of me—more than I expected—loved that. The sex was good. It was more than that. It made me feel alive, desired, real. The idea of another kid someday? Weirdly enough, it didn’t sound like a punishment. It sounded... kind of like a prize. Like love made manifest.
We laugh constantly. When I started lactating, he panicked more than I did.
“Mel, your boobs are leaking.”
“I know, Josh! I’m becoming a dairy farm.”
My mom’s no help.
“Moo,” she texted once.
I called her and screamed.
She also got me a shirt that says, “Magically Made Mama.”
I wear it ironically. Sort of.
Josh and I made it official after the first ultrasound. Seeing that heartbeat flicker on the screen did something to us both.
He kissed my forehead and whispered, “This is real. You’re real.”
He proposed in BabyMart, kneeling with a pacifier and a ring.
“Only if you promise to never use magic again,” I joked.
“Deal,” he said.
Now, I’m waddling around, surviving on ginger ale and antacids. I have names picked out, nursery Pinterest boards, and a fiancé who treats me like I’m carrying royalty.
I didn’t choose this.
But somehow, this life chose me.
And honestly? I think it got it exactly right.
