Quincy really couldn’t fault the Role Exchanger for what it did to him. Trading genders was a little invasive, sure, but being a guy was boring, and he could hear his brand-new, sopping wet pussy call his name the moment he got it. He missed having his sparkling brown eyes, but his pale grey-blue ones were all the more striking. Lugging around such a mammoth ass around was annoying, but even the hardest seat made comfortable by nature’s perfect cushioning. (It also never failed to turn heads, which was always a plus.) He could now play the flute like no one’s business, and was now fluent in fr*nch, both of those were pretty cool, you even any way a negative, but it was a doozy: he had certain mental processes exchanged with a paraplegic man, notably his muscle memory The man’s condition was congenital, so in short, while Quincy was physically fine, his brain now had no memory of walking, ever. If Quincy ever wanted to regain use of his faculties, he had to practically live at physical therapy, and even back home he’d have to train his long, shapely legs to work again.

The regiment was aggressive, exhausting, and grueling, not to mention that Quincy had the initial worry that the frequent workouts would regress his sexy, thick body. But if anything, his efforts actually accentuated his best features. That was great, looking ahead: Quincy had also been working on his stamina and strengthening his core, picking up a few moves for when he was ready to have sex as a woman. He had spent too long cooped up inside relearning how to walk; Quincy was pent up and eager to get out there and find someone who could straddle his callipygian form until he saw stars.