Chapter 2: Servant of my husband

From the foyer, I heard the main bedroom door close. Seconds later, the soft click of the doorknob turning as Marcos fulfilled his promise to leave it ajar. Their voices reached me as I remained still. I couldn't make out the words, but I recognized that euphoric tone: two guys on the verge of seeing each other naked for the first time.

It would take them a few minutes to get distracted, so I headed to the kitchen. Everything that had happened since we arrived had left me dazed and thirsty. I just wanted a glass of water. As I walked down the hallway, the movement of my new body felt strange. Each step was heavier, less agile, and caused a slight wobble in my face, chest, and stomach. At least I was walking normally, I thought, I'm not swaying.

In the kitchen, I picked up the glasses Marcos and Adrián had left and put them in the sink before grabbing a clean one. I stopped as I went to open the fridge and looked at my trembling hand. It hadn't even occurred to me to look at my hands.

They hadn't been spared either. They were more rugged, more clumsy: the hands of someone who had spent decades working. The fingers were thick and fleshy, the knuckles sunken beneath cushions of flesh. They seemed smaller despite being fatter. The glass I had been using for years looked enormous in my grasp.

A quick glance at my feet made me suspect that they had shrunk too. It made sense, if anything about this made sense, considering how narrow my body seemed now. Larger in some areas, smaller in others.

As I looked at the fridge, among the magnets and scribbled notes, I saw the photo of our trip last autumn to Camí de Cavalls in Menorca. We had gone with colleagues to celebrate Marcos's birthday. The photo was in Cala Macarella, posing in front of the turquoise water. It was one of my favorites: I had pulled Marcos towards me and we both shouted "Guapos!" at the top of our lungs.

Except that the photo didn't match my memory. Marcos and I were still smiling at the camera, but my arm wasn't around his. There was a foot of space between us. And next to Marcos wasn't the me I remembered, but the aged and pot-bellied person I had become. I was wearing a loose sweatshirt that I didn't recognize and that only accentuated the belly it was supposed to hide.

As I drank water, I thought about it. Did the changes affect the past too? I felt completely disoriented. What else was different? Was I still me?

Marcos had said something earlier that now made sense. He said he was excited because it had been "a long time" since he played with a "normally sized cock". I had taken it as dirty talk, but it was more than that. He was genuinely excited because his husband had an abnormally small cock.

I mentally prepared myself for the next revelation. I already knew from Marcos's squeeze in the bathroom that things had changed between my legs, but now I had to see to what extent. I grabbed the waist of my ...