Can You Lend a Hand?: A Gradual Feminization Novel

Chapter One

"54 Lumber Lane..." I muttered to myself as I peered at each passing house, scanning for a visible number. The estates were expansive and impressive, but in a completely different way from the Chicago suburbs. Lumber Lane — like many of these streets — was woodsy and shaded, and the houses around here seemed to embrace the natural, forest-like atmosphere. Many properties appeared to be hugged by nature itself — vines twisting and crawling on the walls, and bulky trees positioned out front like armored guards. It all seemed like such earthy overkill... but then again, you don't choose to live near a lake if you're not already a fan of nature.

I probably took longer than I should have doing my stalker-ish, slow drive-by of Aunt Trinity's neighbors, but I eventually came across a wooden stake at the intersection of the street and a gravel driveway that read '54 Lumber Lane.'

Aunt Trinity's house looked no more impressive than her neighbors — in fact, it was quite a bit smaller. But the house gave a Thomas Kincaid-like 'Cottagecore' energy that was certainly appealing. My hatchback banged and bumped down the long driveway while I gazed at the beautiful two-story colonial home immersed in a messy but tasteful array of colorful foliage. An old, wooden garage covered in chipped white paint stood to the left of the house. Whether intentional or not, Aunt Trinity's dark green Prius matched her estate perfectly.

The moment I parked I practically spilled out of the car, desperate to stretch my legs and explore my new home. But I abruptly remembered the warning text about Aunt Trinity's filming. I glanced around. Where were these cameras? I had no idea what to expect. Was this for work? For fun? Was she filming me as a prank? If it was some big production, nothing outside suggested it. The only way to find out was to gingerly approach the front door and hope I didn't mess up any takes. Aunt Trinity's wooden porch wasn't doing my stealthiness any favors, creaking with each step. But sure enough when I reached the front door, I peered inside and saw something beyond strange. No big cameras, no film crew, no costumes or big set pieces. Trinity was in the center of her living room — furniture shoved aside to the walls — and she was... dancing?

Well, 'dancing' is maybe giving her too much credit. It was more like a mix between a kickboxing routine and jumping jacks. But she was holding something tiny in her hand and spastically waving it in front of her body, all while making wacky faces. The whole scene was beyond bizarre.

Out of respect for her weird ritual, I simply waited at her front door, silently peering through the glass until she looked done. But it didn't take long. Only a minute went by and she was back on her phone. This seemed like my best chance. The front door was unlocked, so I gave it a little knock as I cracked it open.

"Hey... Aunt Trinity?" I called out, inching my way into the foyer. The interior was just as 'fairytale cottage-y' as the exterior. An old, woodsy feel with that hint of mystical, storybook charm. Even the grandfather clock to my immediate left was accented with metallic butterflies and surrounded by a smattering of house plants.

Aunt Trinity placed her phone on the table behind her and craned her neck to get a view of me. "Anderson? Hey!" The fit, petite woman trotted over to me and extended her arms for a big hug. Already I could tell she looked incredible for being in her early 40s. Full, long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, practically no wrinkles or signs of aging, and she was in-shape bordering on buff. Particularly for a woman. Hell, I'm only 20 and she looked just a few years older than me.

She pointed to her head. "Twins!" she shouted.

I stood there for a moment, confused until I realized she was referring to our matching ponytails. Though maybe 'matching' is a step too far. Her blonde hair was luscious and full while my mousy brunette hair, though long, was pretty limp and lifeless.