Only Ashley

 

Ashley Lane

Almost from the moment the nanites had finished reshaping John's sturdy male body, I felt the change in him. Not just the outward transformation.  Watching my husband of fifteen years turn into a slim beautiful brunette was certainly shocking, but I held onto the hope it could be reversed, choosing to ignore or explain away the other changes that followed.

Wearing our daughters' clothes? 

He was just being practical; he had to wear something, and clearly nothing  he owned was going to fit now.

Fingering himself when he thought I wasn't looking until the smell of his pussy permeated the whole house? 

Obviously, I didn't approve, but a certain amount of curiosity was understandable.

Insisting I call him Ashley even when we were alone? 

I had to agree it would be embarrassing to slip and call him John in public, best to maintain his fictional identity as our niece visiting from out of town, even in private.

And so on. The make-up, the jewellery, her body language, and flirtatious attitude. I blindly accepted them all, too frightened to question his increasingly flimsy excuses.

It wasn't until I came home to find him scrolling Tinder for casual hookups that I finally found the will to confront him. 

"Jeeze Aunt Viv," she huffed, sounding exactly like the  vapid young woman she appeared to be, "Just because Uncle John bailed on you doesn't mean I can't have a little fun. Tell you what, why don't I help you make a profile too, and we can double-date?" 

I searched her beautiful, mocking face for some trace of the man I loved and found only Ashley.