Cybele Springs — A Planned Community

It was my dad who wanted to move to Cybele Springs — Not me.

I was halfway through my senior year in high school, had just turned 18, was dating the head cheerleader and was homecoming king of my class AND starting quarterback. Why would I want to move?

It was all so sudden. Dad said he needed to move for work, but I'm beginning to wonder if that was the case — especially since he works remotely.

He was pretty sullen since my mom died. But from the looks of it he's settling in nicely here.

A lot has changed.

Cybele Springs is one of those planned communities, past the suburbs, in a field at the edge of a huge forest. The homes are immaculate, probably because there are a million bylaws regarding how to cut grass, upkeep of the house. . . and the bylaws don't stop there.

I was a little on edge when the town elders met us at the gates. "Welcome to your new life. Leave your things here. We have everything you need waiting for you at your new home. Welcome to Cybele Springs." We walked through the palatial country club and down a set of stairs. The complex was massive. Elaborately painted walls gave way to cold tile and a massive underground laboritory.

They led us into a room. "Please strip from your clothes and sit." I turned to look at two puffy black leather chairs.

"Dad. What's happening?"

"Don't worry, son. Just sit." I looked back at the concierge. He was holding a syringe full of pink fluid. He flicked the needle. A second lay ready on a stainless steal cart in front of him. Beyond him lay a glass cabinet full of jars with blue and pink concoctions. A worker in a white lab coat passed by the door of the room in the exterior hallway. He was steadying a naked man under his arm. They were walking together. "Right this way Mrs. Anderson. Your husband is waiting and I think you're going to like what she's become."

I cocked my head in confusion. Mrs. Anderson?"

When I turned back the technician was standing over me with a syringe. "You may want to lay back, son. The readouts show you're up for a rather significant change." He chuckled and winked at my dad.

Oh god, I hate exiting the country club changing rooms into the pool area. Everyone stares.

Even Mr. Anderson. Luckily he's not here today. Everything about my image advertises fertility.

The pink stuff made my dad look like his side of the family. Lithe and slight and short. He's 5 foot 2 now. He was over 6 feet tall before.

I guess I take after my mom.

Growing these hurt so much. They kept coming even as I begged them to stay small. My eyes widened as they quickly surpassed my girlfriend's proportions, veins snaked into them to support my mammary glands with circulation. My areola expanded into disks around my thickening nipples, both the thickness of markercaps and super sensistive. I moaned, my voice was slowly changing. It was such a conflicting rush, it made me hard, but when I frantically unzipped my pants all I could see was the small nub my penis had become tucking itself into it's hood above my glistening wet pussy. My ass cheeks poked from over the waist of my tight jeans, expanding until they tore and fell from my body revealing the curvy form you see now.

If my ex-girlfriend could only see me now. She had B cups. My tits are so heavy now. I barely know how to move. And this bathing suit. . . The bylaws require us to wear the clothing provided and everything in my cabinets is so skimpy and revealing. I'm only just now learning how to balance in this body. Every part of me from my tits to my ass stick out. My back hurts and my nipples feel so weird at the tips of these huge melons I have to lug around.

Perhaps this is why my mother was so soft spoken and shy. Now I understand. I was such a show off before this. I speak softly now, feeling my high melody of a voice in my throat. Pushing my puffy lips together in consideration of the new world around me.

Just be calm. Ignore them. Go to your lounge chair and sit and try to read your magazine.

The lifeguard has been staring at me all day from his perch at the deep end. I swam a bit earlier and rolled to my back to float, my tits balancing precariously on my chest, dangerously close to slipping from the contents of this skimpy bathing suit. I could feel his eyes moving over me. I mean, I don't WANT him to look at me, but I can't blame him. I keep glancing up behind my magazine to see if he's watching and he always meets my eyes. From the looks of it, I'm making him pitch a tent in his swim trunks.

I recognize him. I played Cybele High School during the football season. I remember he broke through defense and tackled me in the end zone. He was so fast — and really strong. It was the only game we lost.

I should probably swim. I'm getting a little wet down there today. I wouldn't want him to notice. I'll wrap a towel around my legs. That's a better idea.

As hard as this is, my dad says we need to give Cybele Springs a try. "Give it a year!" he says, before patting me gingerly on the arm and going off to her room. Minutes later I hear her moans reverberating from the master bath as he explores his new body.

I came back from the pool early to find him hanging out with "Mr." Anderson. As I said before: it looks like he's settling in here.

The bylaws are clear. If you come to Cybele Springs you must change. And you must participate freely in the community. I guess this counts as his participation.

My dad smiles back at me for a moment before returning to his work. At least he's happy. I stand for a moment, my nipples rising to attention, suddenly wondering how it would feel to sit at the edge of my bed and put the lifeguard's cock in my mouth.

I try to push the thought from my mind. I swallow but still the phantom idea of his cock fills the contours of my mouth. I can feel my clit stirring in my folds beneath my bathing suit.

It will need to come off soon.

.

.

Thanks for reading and have a nice, relaxing weekend! We're back next week with more The Christmas Gift and some other surprises.

P.S.
Sometimes we hide little bits in our stories for fun. Things that tie to gender changes throughout history or fit the character's purpose, etc. For instance, Byron in my book Sleighless — Byron means "barn for cows" which is fitting since he is instrumental in turning Mrs. Claus into a buxom, milk-dripping, anthro-cow woman. ANYWAY, if you want to read more about Cybele, this is pretty interesting.