A Tough Cowboy? (Patreon)

The humid heat lingered in the kitchen, carrying the smell of fried garlic and spices. The narrow, cramped room with faded tiles on the walls and a mountain of dishes in the sink felt like a tight aquarium where every detail screamed of the morning rush. On the table, squeezed between the stove and a plastic drying rack, jars of sauces and containers of food preparations were piled high.

A woman in a tight gray dress that clung more than she would have liked leaned toward a drawer, trying to grab a spoon. When she straightened, the thin fabric stretched over her hips, and the strings of her thong, digging mercilessly into her skin, made their presence painfully clear again.

— Damn thong, — she hissed under her breath, shoving her hand behind her back to adjust it. — How does anyone even wear this…

The door slammed, and her husband entered the kitchen. His massive frame filled the narrow doorway, casting a shadow over the light tiles.

— Leina, — his voice was sharp, laced with irritation. — What are you doing there? How many times have I told you this isn’t proper?!

She straightened up, dropped her hand, and turned to face him. Leina. The name grated on her ears. Not long ago, she had been John Turner, her deep, masculine voice booming like cannon fire as she drove a herd of cattle across the heart of Texas. John, a Texan cowboy, ranch owner, a proud racist and sexist in his past, who enjoyed mocking "weaklings" and those he deemed "out of place."

But now, standing in a kitchen somewhere deep in Asia, she was no longer a man but a woman. And not just any woman—an obedient wife named Leina, constantly chastised by her husband, Chen.

— I… I was just… the thong… — she began, but Chen cut her off.

— A thong? And so what?! A stupid excuse. Do you even realize how you look? Watch yourself, Leina. — His voice grew louder, sending a shiver down her spine. — You must behave properly, especially when I’m around.

She clenched her teeth, simmering with anger inside. Just a month ago, she would’ve thrown anyone out of her house for speaking to her like that. "Hey, you, get outta here while I’m still being nice!" John Turner would have shouted, waving his trusty cowboy hat. But now… Now she was Leina. And this damned dress clung to her like plastic wrap, while the thong—oh, the thong—was pure torture she couldn’t fathom.

Chen stepped closer, his broad shoulders filling her field of vision. He leaned in, his dark eyes boring into hers.

— I’ve told you, a woman should be tidy, modest, and avoid drawing attention. If guests were to walk in and see you like this, what would they think? — His voice lowered but remained just as stern.

She looked at him, barely concealing her indignation. Damn it, this was the moment she wanted to punch him right in the jaw. But instead, she forced a strained smile, raising the corners of her lips.

— Yes, Chen, of course, — she said softly, almost in a whisper.

— That’s a good girl, — he smirked, though his smile looked more like a warning. He reached out, and before she could pull away, he slapped her on the hip so hard her buttocks jiggled, the impact rippling for a few moments. The sharp smack echoed loudly, making Leina flinch involuntarily.

— What the hell?! — she blurted out, but immediately stopped short, seeing the change in his expression. His brows knitted together, and his jaw tightened.

— What did you just say? — He stepped forward.

— I… I… nothing… — she muttered, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

He stared at her for a moment longer, then smirked, turned, and left the kitchen. But his laugh—a short, disdainful chuckle—hung in the air like a trail of humiliation.

Leina slumped onto a stool, staring at her hands, which had once been strong and calloused from work. And now? Delicate, elegant fingers like those of a porcelain doll.

"Goddamn it, how did I end up here?" she thought, rubbing her temples. It all started with that cursed trip to China. She remembered getting ridiculously drunk at a bar, mocking the waitresses who, in her opinion, looked like dolls. She had laughed loudly, pointing fingers, until an old woman in the corner of the bar approached her.

— You laugh at women? — the woman’s voice was aged but carried a strength that instantly silenced her.

— And what’s it to you? — she retorted with a smirk.

— You’ll know what it’s like to be in their place, — the old woman muttered, and then… Nothing. Just emptiness.

When she woke up, she was here, in a woman’s body, married to this man.

"Damn that old hag," Leina thought, clenching her fists. But unfortunately, the only thing she could do now was accept reality. Several months had passed since that moment, and there was no sign that she had ever been anyone else. Even her speech was now in the local language, and John Turner—along with any trace of the old woman—seemed to have never existed at all.

Leina's husband, Chen, was strict, and in this culture, a wife could not defy her husband. So... Sighing, she looked around the kitchen again, cursing everything—the place, her body, those heavy breasts, and her ass. She longed to forget everything for a moment, but...

— Leina! — Chen’s voice came from the other room. — Bring me some tea!

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

"Alright, alright. It’s fine. I’ll figure this out…" she thought, calming herself. She stood, adjusted her dress, and walked toward the kettle.