Barney often wakes up with a handful of boob and a tumble of long hair tickling his nose. His sleepy response to this to reach down, over his chest and across this stomach, to grip the thick column of his dick and give it a couple of tugs, before maybe scratching his balls. Y'know, just to wake himself up in case his companion wants to go another round.
But today when he reaches down, his stomach feels soft and round and weird, and there's no reassuring shape of cock, there's just a neatly trimmed mound of pubic hair.
He screams like a girl, eyes flying wide open, his hands flailing around, batting at the dirty blonde curls in his eyes which he can't seem to get free of.
Then he lays perfectly still, his heart pound-pounding in his chest, eyes wide open. His thoughts scramble, jump and chase each other in dead-panic. Last night? Jesus, he's been Bobbitt-ed! What happened last night? Wasn't there a chick, at the bar, who shouted tearfully at him and cussed him out and told him that he'd regret whatever he'd done to her? Didn't she promise him that he'd know how it felt?
Jesus! He reaches down again, his lips forming the words "No! No! No!" over and over again, and gropes carefully for the Barnana. Nothing. He probes the empty mound between his legs, finds the slick slit and freezes. Then, tears in his eyes, he brings a shaking hand up his body, expecting to see the bloody remnants of his once-proud manhood.
But there's nothing. Except a slender hand with long red fingernails.
Dramatically, he flings back the covers and looks down at his body.
"What the fuck?" He says, in a throaty contralto. Instead of the expected specimen of male perfection he expects to see, he finds something else instead.
Overnight, it seems, he's been transformed into a hot chick.
"Okay, okay," he says, trying to calm himself down, tell himself it's a dream, or a drug-induced hallucination. But at the same time he's staring down in abject fascination at what he's uncovered. He carefully cups one of his breasts and shivers at the sensation, then he pinches it. This doesn't wake him up but he yelps in protest, and his throat seems weird, his voice is off, transposed up a key. It's still undoubtedly his voice, but it's softer, warmer, lighter in tone.
He scrambles out of bed and staggers over to the mirror. He feels top heavy, and when he catches sight of himself, long slender legs, shapely hips, and jutting breasts, he realizes why. Those bazoingaz scream "boob job" to him, but a quick experimental feel suggests that they are, in fact, real.
"Dude!" He says slowly, watching his own startled expression. His eyes are very wide, and very blue, with long lashes. His lips are full and dusky-rose pink. He has a mass of long, curly, strawberry blonde hair cascading down his back, which tosses and shimmers as he moves his head. He has... awesome boobs.
He reaches down again, on instinct, for his dick. "Jesus!" He explodes angrily. What kind of cruel cosmic joke is this? To give him those boobs to look at and to play with, and no dick to bring himself off? He slaps his own breasts a couple of times, out of sadistic perversion, and watches as they bounce. There's a full, tugging sensation but it actually doesn't hurt a lot.
Then, curiously, he sees his own nipples swell erect. He reaches down again towards the soft mound between his legs and flinches as his long nails scrape against something. It makes sparks fly up and down his spine, makes his cheeks redden with a hot glow, makes him kinda wet and sticky and unbelievably horny.
Holy CRAP, he thinks. So that's what having a clit feels like? He probes himself again and his knees buckle. He flicks the pad of his finger across the hard pearl he finds there and he cries out in pleasure. It's mind-blowing! He always thought, you know, with a dick, there's acres of space (with him, anyway, what up! You could go surfing on that thing!) And with a chick it's only a tiny nub, smaller than a fingernail. How much fun, really, could you get with it?
Turns out, a whole damn lot.
He collapses back onto the bed, legs wide, rubbing and teasing and playing with himself, squeezing his boobs, over and over until he's humping the empty air desperately and pulsing hard against his own hand. It feels like his entire insides are squeezing and thrumming and exploding.
He's left breathless, surprised, and in shock that only seconds later he feels ready to go again.
A slow, savage smile spreads across his face. He's been wrong all these years. God, he's been SO wrong.
Being a chick is awesome.
A plan begins to form in his head. Step 1) call in sick, take a couple of days of girl time. Step 2) sex toys. Come on! Step 3) when he's taken this new body to the heights of carnal ecstasy that he's previously only dreamed of, head out to the bar, find Ted, and fuck his brains out.
The idea of even trying to find out how to get turned back into a dude? Right now, it's not even on his radar.