The Beautiful Babe.

 The repetitive thump-thump-THUD of a soccer ball striking the cinderblock wall vibrated through Sam’s desk. He flinched, snapping his mechanical pencil lead against the dense organic chemistry formula on his notebook. Dark smudges stained the page where his finger had dragged across it in frustration. Outside the window, adjacent to his university's apartment-style dormitories facing the field, laughter erupted. Sam rubbed his temples. He’d chosen this room specifically – close to the library, away from the louder frat rows. He hadn’t accounted for the adjacent soccer field used obsessively by the college team, or his specific sensitivity to rhythmic bass-like pounding.  Who plans something like this anyway? The dorm security made excuses for them, not a bit of support for him. Oh you should stay out later? Why are you in the room so early? Didn't they realise how demanding this subject was? What's that? A darn college is made for sports not for studying? Of course! My logic is totally flawed!

The door slammed open, flooding the dimly lit room with harsh fluorescent light from the corridor, and the potent scent of fresh-cut grass and male sweat. Tomás. Sam’s roommate and star midfielder. Puerto Rican national. Sports medicine student. He was often part of that oh so holy chorus of macho plastic ball kicking outside. He stood framed in the doorway, his golden-brown skin gleaming with exertion, damp black hair plastered to his forehead. His soccer jersey clung to a powerful torso. Behind him, leaning against the doorframe  stood somebody else. Even taller and broader than Tomás with a jaw like bedrock. Javier’s dark eyes scanned the cramped dorm space with disinterest before settling on Sam’s hunched frame.

"Um. May I ask who this is?" Sam said, trying to hide the tremble in his voice. Another noisy Latin guy.
"Just an amigo buddy." Tomás sat on his bed with Javi. "Javi this is Sam. He keeps the GPA average for the whole building up, right blanquito?” Sam opened his mouth to ask a question but then went back to typing. Javi and Tomás whispered in Spanish. "Catch amigo" Sam turned round and only barely caught a ball. Just leave me alone. He tried to drop the ball, throw it back. But his hands felt stuck.
"Bro, you seem really stressed lately." He showed Sam a red powder in a baggie.
"I don't do drugs." Sam said instantly.
Before he could react Javi grabbed Sam. Tomás shoved something down his throat. Sam's vision lurched as Tomás' impassive face dissolved into mush.

Sam’s leg spasmed, then he screamed, a sickening crack-pop deep in the joint. His hips felt… a little wider. Unbalanced. He scrambled up and clutched the edge of his cheap dorm provided IKEA desk. Midterms. Friday’s Chem 202 exam. Dr. Bennett said chapter 7 isomers are key… The thought dissolved into static. Warmth thick and heavy, ran like hot syrup between his legs. Am I pissing myself? Wha... so embarassing. What drug is this? What did you assholes give me? He wanted to say, struggled to move his lips. But he couldn't.. his motor functions must be affected. Yes, that was it. What were they planning?  His leg bones cracked eliciting a gasp from Javi. He lost his balance and fell to the floor. Crack, snap. It fucking hurts,  help! Why are you two just staring. He choked a bit. I'll beg if I have to. I don't want to die.

A smoky sigh slid into his thoughts, smooth and lazy: "Ay, bendito… esa cadera nueva… ancha… buena pa’ sentarse en algo rico…" Sam's head swiveled. Who said that? His panic felt thin, papery next to that rich, satisfied Spanish purr. He looked down. His ill-fitting pants strained over hips – round, undeniable curves pushing out. Ay, madre… así se siente la curva… redondeadita… lista pal baileaaah… STOP! That voice, why does it act like mine? Why can't I think in my voice? ¡Oh sí… eso hmmmm! STOP! But the protest felt brittle, while that new sigh lingered, thick with satisfaction. The phantom smell of  coconut oil flooded his nostrils, and the rhythm took over – his unfamiliar hips rocking themselves, a lazy, sensual circle against the edge of the desk. 

Tomás’s mocking low whistle cut through the room. Predatory approval.  Javi looked at him unsure. Sam flinched. Yesterday flashed, cramming with Mike from class, greasy pizza boxes at 3 AM… his papers scattered across his dorm bed… all suddenly frail and for nothing. He clawed mentally for day to day details. UNIVERSITY EMAIL PASSWORD?  I.... it's simple stuff, why can't I remember? Sam Kerr, saw beauty and worth in a science other scientists considered dull. Not her, all the second ago born female could think right now was - Aburrido, complicado. But that was going to change. 

Sam gasped in pain. His skin was baking from the inside out. His freckles, those stubborn clusters of rust, blended into the new hot caramel. His scalp itched, he clawed, fingers coming away thick with red straw. Strands of his thinning ginger hair, the hair his mother called "phoenix feather" – lay piled in his palm like torn doll hair. It felt brittle, dead. Horror tightened his throat. As the ginger fell, an oily, overwhelming blackness surged from the roots as his hair grew fast. He looked into a nearby window. Brassy gold flecks appeared like through his meadow color eyes, blooming unevenly, then taking over, leaving him with big amber doe eyes. Bye bye gringo green.

Sam huffed and puffed in labour as his flat nipples puckered into tight, hypersensitive buds. He looked down. His bony ribcage was vanishing. Smooth, taut swells pushed against the thin cotton screen-print. Small, burgeoning breasts. Distinctly female. Round. Firm. His shirt stretched taut, outlining nipples visibly darkening several shades, straining, engorging. He covered them as he lurched his shoulders and tried to hide. Sí! ¡Aquí nacen tus armas, nena! (Your womanly weapons are being born girl) 
The tits growing on the skeletal physique of the suffering geek in front of them looked horrifying, against God. "Acho! Broki. No lo se... parace poco natural." (Dude, I don't know. This doesn't seem natural.) Javier said. Tomás swatted at him.
"Quieres una puta o que? Una novia como yo?" Tomás shook his head.  (Do you want a bitch or not? A girlfriend like mine?) Javi sighed.
Nausea warred with jolts of base arousal. A whimper escaped – half pain, half involuntary thrill. A deep ache of growth. Las tetas… pesaditas… calientes (The tits… heavy… hot… ) The thin cotton shirt strained, distorted, as the swells pushed forward, rounding, deepening, swelling with dense weight.  Pa’ llenar la boca de un macho… (For filling up the mouth of a hot guy.) He groaned, hands instinctively lifting to cradle the aching weight. ¡Tetazas de verdad! ¡Boricua de pura cepa! No como estas gringuitas anoréxicas (Serious coconuts. Purebred Puerto Rican. Not like those skinny white girls.) The nameless crude consciousness took control of Sam's hands. Pure, undiluted pleasure zinged down her spine, settling low and heavy in her pelvis. Feels good... oh fuck.. such rude language. But I'm a rude girl. Tan pesaditas… tan mías… (So heavy... and so mine) No.. Sam’s lost fragmenting consciousness desperately tried to latch onto logic. Primary and secondary sexual characteristics are purely biological signifiers, not intrinsic value… ugh, what does that even mean? Shut up. Instrinsic. It's like natural. Shut up! Of course they're natural. That's not what I meant!

Javi and Tomás were starting to play with themselves now. It was monstrous, but fascinating, the tits on this gringo were just enormous and perfect. Sam saw them and instead of something rational like disgust or fear. Pride pumped hot in his veins. Flip charts? Lab goggles? Stale library air? Aburrido! (Boring!) This new flesh felt REAL

Javi glared. Is he… admiring ME? Something fluttered beneath the layers of horror. Sí... mírame... (Yes... look at me)... she breathed internally, a smug purr overlaying Sam's confusion. Él quiere. Yo quiero... ¿verdad? (He wants. I want... right?)  This was new. An attraction. A base desire Sam had never directed at another man, especially not one who had violated him. It felt like falling into a deep, warm pit. He moaned as his nipples stiffened. How can you fight this? Whoever you were before. These things are set to anticipation. For the male gaze.
"Princesca." Tomás said while staring at her.
"Esto es un poco gay?" Javi said.
"Acho. No callate" Tomás replied. He liked the words this guy used. Princesca, reina. Better than instrinsic, all words about him too. Words that made him feel special. A new memory criss-crossed his mind's eye. Neon lights flashing on wet pavement, her hips grinding against faceless leather pants, a wild pulse THUMP-THUMPING in her cunt... MY cunt!? That's insane, I don't have a vagina. But I didn't have tits a minute ago. Heh.. hahaha...hehehahaha. Hmm hmm... that's not rational is it stupid white boy? He thought to himself.

He hummed tuneless Bachatón. Why am I? I don't like this music. It's mindless, low effort. I don't like it. Get your music out of my head. Doctor.. "Need a doctor, or call my mom. My head.. somebody in my head. I'm so dizzy. I need a doct-medico"
"Callate. Deja que la corriente te lleve." Tomás rolled his eyes. (Just shut up and let the current take you.). Sam's eyes widened. I understood that. Why can I understand that?  "Pl-please-YEEEE—!" Sam screamed. His accent tilted over. Vowels warped – the crisp American "ee" in please smeared into tenderized Spanish "í": "Plisss-YIIII..." A trace of islander Spanish, blurring against textbook grammar-school American English.

"Ni siquiera un hombre de verdad." (You were not even a real man). He shook his head madly as if he could dislodge the sexy crooning voice from his brain. Skinny thighs padded with dense muscle and a delicious layer of softness. Calves smoothed and tendons stretched. Gone was the angular frame and chicken bone arms. Lush flesh bloomed, plush, sensuous fullness over resilient muscle. He felt voluptuous. Then his ass suddenly inflated, knocking him off balance. Pesa más este culo que tú en tu mejor día, universitario. (This ass weighs more than you on your best day, college boy.)

Funny... not pale, ginger, spectacled anymore. I look like a streetwalker. I can't breath with these melons. That's YOU now. You SCARED of being white trash?  No… scared of being Latina trash. Yo no era como ÉL. (No… I wasn't like HIM.) He thought.. I'm not him anymore.  Who am I? He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping his own new, dark forearm, digging her nails into the warm cinnamon skin. My race. Sam grappling with the nuances of privilege for the first time in his life. What? I'm just white, it's not earned or unearned. It doesn't mean anything! Too much, too loud, too physical. Sam absorbed it. So fuckin' what if I'm too loud? The whites are just jealous of my confidence and sexy voice. Of my slutty tats.

Ink began to spread across her body. Deeply, like it was pushed up through her muscle, seeping into her tan canvas. A thick, slightly blurry black line, like a bad prison tat, snaked from her inner wrist towards her elbow. Etched clear as day in thick, blocky "cholo-style" Old English letters, riding the dramatic curve of her new hipbone: SLUT. On the back of her left hand TOXIC. Oh Jesus, no. Not that word. Anything but –¡SÍ! The voice whooped, delighted. She traced the bold letters . ¡Exacto! Bien clavao’. ¡Claro y honesto! Hombres saben lo que consiguen.  (Nail on the head. Clear and honest! Men know what they gettin') A sudden trail of white-hot pain stabbed at the small of his back, right above the full rise of her new ass. He arched and gasped. He knew without looking, saw the day "he" got them. Dagger? Snake? Flor de barrio? He yelped as more designs appeared across his arms. It's so degrading, so de-humanizing. Ugh what? It's so human. It's art chacho. El piel blanca acabadita de pintar... buena pa' nada. (That white skin just got painted over... good for nothin'.) . Yo SALIÓ... ¡y salió BIEN! (I came out… and came out GOOD!) What you think you so pure?

The earlier memories deepened, feeling more formative. Teenage, grinding thoughtlessly at a San Juan street festival, sweat-slick skin under strobe lights, hands (older, rougher, unknown) gripping her waist. ¡Azúcar! ¡Muévelo, nena! (Hey sugar. Come on, move it girly.) The sensation of being her, desired, belonging –  foreign, electrifying – short-circuited Sam’s actual memory of his first clumsy attempt to kiss fat Miranda on the cheek. He'd never got laid, never got the chance to please a woman. Oh well, I'd rather have hard tall hot men than ugly white bitches for life.  He saw his old self for a moment – a skinny, pale boy hunched over books. She was relieved that the pale skin was gone. Tan flaco... tan serio... NUNCA supo bailar... ni coger... (So skinny... so serious, NEVER knew how to dance or fuck like me! Like a Latina).  He began to cry as he realised he couldn't do a thing to fight this. He felt like his head was going to pop. Then on a dime, he sneered at himself.
Llora porque esas tetas que tanto te dan asco son mil veces mejor que todo lo que tú fuiste. Pecho de hombre? Tú tenías… ¡nada! (Cry because these tits that disgust you so much are a thousand times better than everything you had. A man's chest? You had… nothing!) Foreign confidence made him smile. Primal pride in the sheer, fertile animal fact of being female. We are a woman. No... no I wasn't much of one, but I am a man! Answering your own questions broki. 

The self-preservation part of Sam's brain spurred into action. Jumping onto the nearby bed. Javi and Tomás raised a brow. Sam fumbled around the sheets, his fingers brushed cool, unfamiliar geometry. Plastic. She pulled it out. A twenty-sided die. Deep, royal blue acrylic, edges worn smooth. Sam’s replayed a memory: Awesome! It's Wendol Bonebreaker! Roll critical for the Frost Giant encounter…

Instantly, irritation ran through her. Sam’s nerdy sundered soul protested – No! Don’t! It’s not weighted! You’ll— She flung the die across the room like a roach. Aburrido! Sentados como momias en la oscuridad. (Boring! Sitting like a bunch of mummies in the dark.) Hearing her own voice, high and slut-perfect, whining “¡Más duro, papi!” as she came. ¡ESO es un thrill! THAT is a thrill! Not… squiggles on paper.
The visceral image hit him: cramped basements playing Dungeons and Dragons replaced by a pulsing neon club. Skin sticky with humidity, bass vibrating up through the thin soles of cheap stilettos, the dizzying swirl of bodies moving to a beat. The sharp, cheap perfume and inevitable press of male attention. Her hips pulled into grinding against nothing. ¿Rodando piedritas y leyendo fantasias? ¡Payasadas de gente blanca y rara!  'tás loca? (Boring crap. Rolling little rocks and reading fantasies. Such white people shit.  You crazy?) No... lets ride a man while he licks our nips. No, that's gay. No es gay if you are a woman honey. He felt an involuntary roll in his own new hips. He moaned, all those fantasy stories fading like old nursery rhymes. 

¡Yo quiero gritos, risa! ¡Como en la barrera del estadio! ¡GOOOOOOL! ¡Dale, corazón!
(I want shouts, laughter! Like on the stands! GOOOOOAL! Come on, go for it!)
Sam's mind screeched. The very soccer roar he'd cursed for months? Traitorous bitch. I'm a traitorous bitch. Traitorous brain. She's part of me, an insane drug fueled hallucination of self-ugh that word is too hard. Not real, just like the tits and hair and everything else. I'm not a Latina, I can't be.. I'm from Kansas. Yeah! Kansas right next to the Statue of Liberty and Big Ben in San Juan he giggled. You're an island girl silly!

Sam tried to think on winning the regional debate tournament. That required effort, intelligence, didn't require showing off your body like a piece of meat. For a moment, he and island woman were aligned. As if the fake self had also wanted some real achievement. But reality hit and the woman scoffed. This was my life. Botellas abiertas en un callejón caliente… risa ronca… ron barato corriendo por mi pecho cabeza ligera… tan ligera. (Pop! Pop! Bottles popping in a hot alley… throaty laugh… cheap rum running down my chest… head so LIGHT… so LIGHT—) 
"Más ron callejero… pa’ LA NUEVA… pa’ bautizarme bien mojada…" (More alley rum... for THE NEW GIRL... to baptize me, nice and wet.) That's the life. The polished debate trophy became a sweating sticky glass. Sam tried to remember his home. But it was just gone. An empty plot. Replaced by a simple San Juan apartment. Numbers. Names. The capitals of countries also disappeared. The woman didn't need those, never bothered with it. Olvídate del libro. Este es tu libro ahora. (Forget the textbook. This is your book now.) One hand lingered on the throbbing breast weight, the other grasping a burning ass cheek thick enough to feel like she was grabbing a stranger. Página uno: Las tetas. (Page one: The tits). She squeezed, making the dark nipple pucker tight against the fabric. Página dos: El culo. (Page two: The ass.) 

His darkened finger traced his now tingling jawline, feeling the unfamiliar – not outright different, but subtly rounded, changing Sam’s stubborn underbite. ¡Uf, es hora de botar esa cara de perro y sacar la belleza verdadera! (Time to ditch that dog face and bring out the real beauty!) A sickening crackle-crunch vibrated through his skull. He lifted two shaking feminine hands in front of his face. Javi was looking away. This is impossible, our bodies are permanent. They just can't change on a whim like this. Bone doesn't crush and reform itself. But it did... bone retreated inwards and downwards, softening the stark angles into a delicate, rounded heart shape. Simultaneously, his flat cheekbones pushed outwards and upwards in a brutal sculpting, creating dramatic crests beneath suddenly luminous eyes. His straight, somewhat long bridge seemed to melt, the tip upturning subtly, nostrils flaring wider in a softer profile. The warm afterpain faded as Sam moved every foreign muscle in his face, he formed it into an awkward expression. The old neurotic pinch of Sam's brow smoothed into a practiced, seductive openness. Her plump new lips curved into a smirk. Por fin… la cara callejera que Dios siempre quiso poner en este cuerpo blanco débil. Reconócelo, palido… (Finally… the  face God always wanted on this weak white body. Admit it, paleface…). He looked in the window. He was sexy, dark cock-sucking lips. I'm so sexy. Who wants me?  "Soy... bonita?" (Am I... pretty?)
"Bonita? Sí, princesa. Tan bonita que la van a compartir todo el equipo." (Pretty? Yeah, baby. So pretty the whole team is gonna share you.) He fluttered his eyeslids. Samanatina...

A roar erupted from outside – ¡GOOOOOOOL! – followed by wild, raucous cheers and the vibrating thunder of feet stomping the bleachers over the soccer field.
Oh my god! She knew soccer! It was in her sangre! Swiveling towards Tomás’s small TV, she grabbed the remote, fumbling clumsily – her fingers on her right hand still felt thick, uncoordinated for delicate buttons. She jammed at the power, then flipped channels with frantic presses. ¡Dame el partido! (Give me the match!) She remembered going to a game with a hot boyfriend back in Puerto Rico. No I hate soccer. I was always picked last for soccer. Oh! Who cares about playing it? I just needed an excuse to rub his dick. The Latina contradicted.

He sank back into Tomás’s lumpy chair, transfixed. Javi moved to do something but Tomás barred him. The complex game dissolved into colors and movement and sweat and sound. But then… the confusion. The swirling green blur. The tiny figures merged, movement became a chaotic smear. Why were they kicking it there? Was that pass good? Why weren't they attacking straight? The elegant tactics Tomás had tried, and failed, to explain to Sam were now a frustrating, meaningless abstraction to Samantina. The screams passionate, but the why elusive. Pero… ¿por qué corren pa'l lado? ¿Cómo sabe cual pie usar? (But… why run to the side? How do they know which foot to use?) A shard of Sam’s analytical sarcasm flickered. Oh, awesome. The tactical genius emerges. She leaned forward, rapt, not seeing formations, but the bodies. The sweat. Her palm slid down her own tight stomach, arousal spiking. Ay sí… mira esos músculos… esos muslos…tan macho. (Oh yes… look at those muscles… those thighs…so male.) It was her sexual pubescent awakening. Preferiría esto… mil veces… aunque no lo entienda todo. (I prefer this… a thousand times… even if I don't understand it all.) As her hand settled on her dick she frowned. What is this thing? Where is my girl? She pulled down her pants.

He looked down, watching the familiar shape—pale, veined. Skin wrinkled, turned slack lifeless grey. Sensation died first. The comfortable weight, the pulse of blood, the subtle presence he’d carried since puberty… gone. NOT MINE! The woman, the female, the pair of tits, raged. His pelvic bone groaned,  plates grinding. Something was forcing space. Tearing. Ripping. Tissue split vertically beneath the shriveling virgin cock – a bladeless surgery leaving a wet, red mouth. Nerve endings, raw and new, hypersensitive to the air, the rough denim seam brushing them. He shrieked, buckling forward, hands clawing uselessly at his crotch and screaming in fluent Spanish. "¡AY COÑO! ¡ME ABREN!" (FUCK! I'M OPENING UP) Slickness followed pain. Thick, warm fluid gushed from the fresh tear. The dying grey shaft hanging limply above a tightening slit. He whimpered with humiliation, his cock wasn’t just dead – it was a pathetic awning over raw, wet female architecture. The last paleness shriveled and peeled back like chalky old paint, uncovering amber sun-kissed skin. A sparse, coarse patch of tight black curls erupted above the wet slit, as the squishy dead cock merged with the surrounding flesh. Disgusting churning sounds emerged from deep inside her pussy as Javi stood up and turned away. "Hostia" Samanatina felt her cunt throb an eager SÍ, PAPÍ! against her will. Her body wasn't hers, because she was a she now. Sam giggled in a high slutty voice as it went through the final few breaks from a tenor. His Adam’s apple dropped like a stone in his throat. Vocal cords snapped taut—thin, fraying wires. A wet, high wheeze escaped: STOP THISSS-UH! R-r-The name bled at the edges—the crisp Midwest "R" eroding into a purring Caribbean "Rrr.." Vowels softening.

Samantina's thoughts were little more than primal hormonal female purée at this point as his brain reset. Blood flowing slowly, trying to grasp a complex idea felt like fingernails sliding off glass. Pretty thoughts? Sí. Bailar thoughts. Play thoughts. Fiesta thoughts. Men looking. Eyes dark. Cute hair flips…Wet down there, baja. YES. Freak stink gone… breathe smells gooood now… sweat smell… strong man smell… QUIERO.  Spanish love words bubbled up. Besos… toques… cogidas… (Kisses… touches… fucks…). 

Watching Javier roll his shoulders – fluid muscle beneath sweat-slick canela skin – sealed it. Her wetness flowed, followed by pleasure-pang after pleasure-pang. Her hands drifted below. She wanted to show off. Stop! You’re rubbing it! Like an animal! Sam’s dying inner voice wailed. She didn't care, all self-consciousness was gone. Harder. ¿Para? The woman purred, smoky, knowing. ¿Pa' qué? Si sabe rico, coño. (Stop why? It's so good... fuck) She pushed her chest out, making the heavy weight of new breasts sway. A low purr vibrated in his – her – throat. The motion felt inherently correct.  Sexually eloquent. She swung around to give the boys a good view. She rubbed her bumpy nipples, inviting one of the men to tear off this nerd's shirt and take her. Tomás had his dick out and came hard with a wet pop across the room, landing straight on her bronze tits.

Sam’s last coherent thread snapped. My mom… She’ll wonder where I–Valentina exhaled, letting her back arch, huge tits thrust forward for the guys. Dumb bliss blossomed. Her vacant horny smile answered Javi’s teeth-baring grin. She was not good at thinking. Needing dick? Easy. This girl was made for easy. All the little white boys like Sam, nervous in their own skins. He was like a skinny stick-figure, how could she have lived like that? Working all the time. She took the phone of the dead white boy and looked at herself in the glass.

 

The name Valentina Reyes wasn’t chosen. It was branded onto her dissolving consciousness. Her slight recognition of her past.. what happened to me-Sam? – where did he go? Oh well. I'm Valentina now.
Tomás cupped her new cheek, the gesture overly familiar, possessive. “Sam es historia. Mira lo que eres ahora.” (Sam is history. Look at you now.) He traced her trembling lower lip with his thumb. “Tan bonita. Tan puertorriqueña. Tan necesitada.”  (So pretty, so needy)

Chicos… esto… es demasiado. Her voice, soft and breathy, lacked conviction. No entiendo… por favor… But her new body's instincts took over. The weight of her breasts ached against the tight cotton of Sam's shirt, the dampness between her thighs intensified, a traitorous welcome echoing Javier’s appraisal. Necesitada. Needy.

Javier grunted a low sound from his chest, and his large hand spanned her transformed waist effortlessly. He pulled her towards Tomás’s bed, the motion fluid, assured. Resistance flickered: a microsecond struggle in muscles unaccustomed to obeying womanly instincts. It vanished as he bent her forward over the unmade sheets, her ass presented. Tomás whistled again. “Mírala, Javi. Hecha para esto.” (Look Javi, she's made for it.)
"Necesita... orientación" (She needs orientation) Javi said.

Horror curdled in her gut, but it was distant, muffled by rising heat. She felt air on her back as Javier yanked her t-shirt up. He didn’t bother removing it fully, just shoved the fabric bunched under her arms, leaving her heavy breasts hanging, swaying with her ragged breaths. Javier spat sharply onto the smooth swell of her right ass cheek, the wet shock making her flinch. His index finger plowed through the cleft, rough and direct, slicking up the passage between virgin folds that were already embarrassingly wet.

"¡Duele un poco!" (It hurts a bit) she gasped, pushing weakly against the mattress.
“Solamente al principio, nena,” (Just at the start babe.) Javier muttered, his breath hot on the back of her neck. “Después vas a gritar.” (Soon you'll be screaming) He kicked her legs wider apart with his foot. The preemptive stretch of him against her slick entrance was immense, terrifying. Pressure became pain – sharp, burning. No! Wait! she cried....then her mind blanked as she wondered why she said that? She was acting like a virgin.

Javier sheathed himself in a single brutal thrust. She let out a raw female sound of violation and startled, overwhelming stimulation. She bucked, trying to escape the splitting pressure, but Javier’s hands locked onto her new hips, fingers digging in, holding her pinned. Her inner walls, shaped for one purpose, clutched. She felt gooey, and fluttered her eyelashes. "Mi novio" (My boyfriend.)

Tomás appeared at her eye level, kneeling on the edge of the bed, stroking himself. He slapped his thick cock – hard – against her flushed cheek. “Abierta.” (Open wide) Instinctively, already slavish to the new directives flooding her whorish mind, she opened her mouth. Her tongue, thick and uncertain, trembled at the head. Demasiao… grande… (Too big)
 “Chúpala, putita,” Tomás commanded, his voice rough. “Es lo que eres ahora.” (Suck it little bitch, this is what you are now.)

She obeyed. She'd seen bigger right? it was no big deal. Her plush lips, shaped for this embrace, closed around him. The salty musk hit her senses, overwhelming. Sí, papi… sí… The words bubbled from her throat like steam, mingled with messy, wet sounds as Tomás pressed deeper.

Javier’s thrusts got deeper, driving her onto Tomás, the force making her gag slightly around Tomás’s cock. Each punishing plunge pushed the limits of her body. She was skilled bitch. Her breasts swayed heavily against the rough sheets. The ache in them compounded the pulse between her legs. Bueno hmm, hmm.  Her new hips rolled back, without thought, meeting Javier’s deep thrusts, seeking more friction, more special spots. The moan that escaped around Tomás’s cock wasn't uncertain anymore. It was thick, throaty, desperate. Más… por favor!

Her world shrank to two points of sensation. The rocking collision of Javi's hips against her ass. The stretch and salt on her tongue. The helpless surrender of her mind to the body’s screaming demands. The lingering echo of Sam, barely a  man – silenced by alien, feminized ecstasy, all violently imposed. All by a couple of college boys.

¿Me gusta? She had the fleeting realization, even as her throat worked rhythmically on Tomás. Sí… me encanta…Tomás came first. His hand fisted in her long black hair, forcing her down as he pulsed hot salt down her throat. She swallowed reflexively, tears leaking from squeezed-shut eyes, a cocktail of humiliation and a deep, unwanted erotic abandonment flooding her system.

The sudden removal of Tomás’s softening cock left her gasping, open-mouthed. Her gaze, clouded and dazed, met Javier’s intensity over her shoulder. His thrusts became frantic, pistoning against her cervix. He growled, a deep macho sound, fingers bruising her hips.
“Agárrame, mami. Siente mi leche…”

She gripped the sheets weakly, her heart fluttering brutal pounding. His final thrust buried him fully, holding deep. A scalding flood claimed the deepest channel Sam’s ruined body now offered. She screamed, a high, keening wail that dissolved into shattered gasps. Her body contracted violently around his seven inch cock, milking it, killing the last flicker of Sam’s consciousness with overwhelming, obliterating waves of euphoria and hormones.

Javier collapsed onto her back, his sweat dripping onto her spine. His weight pinned her trembling form to the soaked sheets of Tomás’ bed. Tomás leaned down, brushing her tangled black hair aside. “¿Viste, Javi? Bien hecha. To'o bien.”

She whimpered, not in protest, but in exhausted overstimulation. A gooey warmth gushed out as Javier slowly withdrew. The shared scent of sex was thick. Javi chuckled, trailing a finger through the mess between her legs before bringing it to her lips. Eyes glazed, Valentinas’s pink tongue darted out, tasting salt mixed with them. Gracias, papi… he stroked her hair.
"Mi puta puertorriqueña nació esta noche, bien pesadita… Bien mojadita pa’ la fiesta grande pronto."
"My Puerto Rican whore was born tonight, real heavy-set… Nice ‘n’ wet for the big party soon."
She smirked and grabbed the collar of his jersey. "PUÑETA SI. SOY PUERTORRIQUEÑA…"  (FUCK YES I AM PUERTO RICAN). Javi flinched at the confidence Sam had in his new identity, and then laughed.

Sam’s dorm room door rattled from a fist outside. A teammate’s voice shouting: “¡Tomásl! ¿Javi! ¡Abran! ¡Estamos Jumetas. Estama...sta..mos celebrando el partido!” Laughter followed.
Tomás squeezed her hardened right nipple. “Valentina quiere más amigos, ¿verdad, mi amor?” (Valentina, wants more friends right?) She nodded with a smirk. 

Javi's gaze swept over Valentina's tanned body. She licked her plump lips and nodded. "Jajaja! ¡Esa es mi chica! ¡Puertorriqueña de verdad! ¿Ya lista pa’ algun juego de verdad?"( That’s my girl! Real Puerto Rican! Ready for some real game?) He handed her his De León Real Madrid Shirt to cover her up. She knew the name, he was a star player for her home country Puerto Rico. She grinned as Javi handed it to her.
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The sound was a solid wall. Eighteen thousand roared as one, vibrating the cheap metal bleachers under Valentina’s scantily clad ass. Above, floodlights bleached the frantic green pitch into surreal clarity. Gold and purple streamers – ¿Sus colores? - Ugh, maybe – rained down, tangling in Javier’s close-cropped hair like cheap tinsel. He ignored them, body coiled forward, knuckles bone-white where they gripped the seat back rim. Every sinew screamed tension.

¡DESPEJA! ¡FUERA! ¡DIOS MÍO, ES COMO UN NIÑO! (Clear it out!, come on, my god he's like a boy) Javier bellowed at the panicking defender magnified on the giant screens. His spit flecked the hot night air. Valentina flinched, the vitriol buzzing against her eardrums. She saw bodies colliding, the ball a frantic white dot. ¿Porq… el de los pelos raros… tropezó? (Why… the guy with the weird hair… tripped?) The intricate back-pass Javier raged about was invisible to her overloaded senses. 

Javier whirled, eyes blazing with fanatic fury. ¡FUE UNA ESTUPIDEZ! ¡LINEA DE CUATRO TIRANDO COMO PRIMERA DIVISIÓN SUB-12! ¡QUÉ VERGÜENZA! (IT WAS STUPID! FOUR-MAN DEFENSE PASSING LIKE A FIRST DIVISION UNDER-12! SHAMEFUL!) He slammed his fist down on the bleacher, the sharp clang lost in the roar. Sweat darkened the back of his tight replica jersey, plastering it to ridges of muscle that shifted like tectonic plates beneath the fabric. He hadn’t showered since the pre-game revolú; the smell was brutal – fried pork fat, cheap rum, and raw macho. She liked it, maybe if she showed him her ass from the railing?

She pushed herself upright amidst the bouncing, shrieking throng. Her hands clamped onto Javier’s massive biceps as he roared himself hoarse, shaking her like a triumphant doll. Javi… ya… por fa… (Javi, now come on please) she begged, voice cracking over the subsiding boos. She had been touching herself earlier. She was always so horny, like a rabbit. Her palm returned, slick with her own heat now, sliding up the denim of his inner thigh, fingertips seeking the strained zipper-seam. "Te juro… despuéh… " (Later, I swear.)
"Ahoraaaa." (Nowwww) she pouted.

Javier finally snapped his head towards her. She flinched. Why did she do wrong? Why didn't he want sex?  ¡Cierra… La… Boca…! (Shut… Your… Mouth…!) he snarled, each word a hammer blow. His free hand snatched the plastic cup of lukewarm beer from her slack grip and shoved it at her. ¡Bébete eso! ¡Y mira LA PUTA ÚLTIMA JUGADA DEL PARTIDO! (Drink this, and watch the fucking final play). She quivered her lip, rolled her eyes and did as asked.

Javier turned to Carla a few minutes later. ¿VES LA FECHA? ¡DOS MINUTOS MÁS Y PODEMOS TENERLOS POR LOS COJONES! ¡ESTA MIERDA NO SE ACABA HASTA EL PITO! (SEE THE CLOCK? TWO MORE MINUTES AND WE CAN HAVE THEM BY THE BALLS! THIS SHIT’S NOT OVER TILL THE WHISTLE!) She looked up from her phone and smiled vacantly. Then she saw the scoreboard go one point up. 

¡Oh... Oh... GOOOOOL! ¡SI! ¡GOLAZOOOOO!!! she shrieked, her voice cutting through the stunned silence around them. Hips snapped violently beneath the tiny shorts in a flash of instinctive, rhythmic celebration. A beer cups tipped over nearby, pouring gold foam down the steps. She looked around. Why was everyone quiet?

Javier stared up at her, the fury at the goal momentarily choked by utter disbelief at her. His hand clamped onto her waist, pulling her violently back down. ¡Es el OTRO EQUIPO, idiota! (It’s the other team, idiot!) He barked it into her flushed face, his breath hot. She tumbled hard back against the plastic. She wasn't stupid, it was just... hard sometimes. She felt like she should be better at this. Wasn't she smarter before? This boy didn't appreciate her. He doesn't know how to look after a woman, he's not a man. Lowlife...

"Te hicimos demasiado estupida." (We made you too stupid) He muttered under his breath. His eyes raked her – the desperate gloss in her eyes, the damp V of her shorts, the stretched promise of her cleavage. "Lo siento gata." (Sorry babe.)

"Despuéh"… he hissed, the word thick with promise. "Cuando estos hijos de puta se laman sus heridas en el camerino. Cuando se acabe este ruido de mierda." (Later… When these sons of bitches lick their wounds in the locker room. When all this damn noise is over.) His free hand squeezed the heavy swell of her waist. "Voy a celebrar con algo mejor que champaña. Voy a celebrarlo metiéndote esto bicho muy, muy profundo. ¿Tres veces te lo meto… uno por cada gol y una de regalo por tu silencio." (I’m going to celebrate THAT goal with something better than champagne. I’ll celebrate it by shoving my dick really really deep. One for each goal… and one extra for you finally shutting up.) His thumb stroked a brutal arc across her lower lip, wiping away a tear track that smeared crimson lipstick. "Pero ni un ruido MÁS hasta que pite el árbitro. ¿Entendío, jeva?" (But not another PEEP until the ref’s whistle. Got it, sweetheart?) She smiled in response.