The Tabitha Transformation

The Tabitha Transformation

By Amy Sadler © 2026

Author’s Notes:

This story contains Sissy Adult Baby Themes. If you are going to be offended by this, then I urge you to read no further

Chapter 1:

Rainwater ticked against the metal barricades, each drop bright beneath the orange road lamps. Tom Holland watched the closed maintenance corridor beyond them while keeping one hand wrapped around the strap of his torn backpack.

A year had passed since he lost his apartment because he could no longer pay the rent. Three months had passed since the last shelter turned him away. He had learned to sleep beneath loading docks, behind shuttered shops, anywhere the pavement stayed slightly warmer than the open street.

(Tom Holland)

Tonight, he wanted only two things: a ride somewhere safe and clothes that did not hang from his body like discarded flags.

His seven-foot frame made hiding difficult. Even folded beneath a concrete overhang, his knees and elbows seemed to announce him. He had dark pools for eyes. His muddy-brown hair was clipped close to his scalp, as always. Whenever it began to grow, he cut it back with the blunt scissors he had found months ago. He could tolerate hunger better than the thought of being mistaken for a girl, despite the fact that he had large hands and he wore size seven shoes.

A truck groaned somewhere behind the barricade. Tom tightened his fingers around the backpack strap.

The road closure had changed the traffic. Cars that usually vanished down the main avenue now crawled past the homeless encampment, drivers staring through locked doors. Most accelerated as soon as they saw the blankets, shopping carts, and bundled figures along the verge.

One silver car slowed.

Tom shifted his weight, ready to move if the driver tried anything. His shoes - an old size seven pair that pinched his feet - scraped over the grit.

The car stopped several yards away. The driver’s window lowered.

“Are you Tom Holland?”

His first thought was to run. His second was that running would be difficult with one heel split open and his stomach hollow.

“Who’s asking?”

The woman behind the wheel looked nothing like the people who usually approached the roadside. She wore a dark coat, her hair pulled neatly away from her face, and a silver watch that caught the streetlight when she lifted her hand from the steering wheel.

“Sarah Thompson,” she said. “I need to speak with you.”

Tom glanced toward the other sleepers. A few heads had risen. Their attention made the moment feel narrower, more dangerous.

“Then speak.”

Sarah looked at him carefully - not at his ripped sleeves or stained trousers, but at the whole improbable shape of him. His shoulders were narrow, his limbs long and lean, his hands large and masculine. His rough features had sharpened under weeks of poor food. His eyes, almost black in the rain, stayed fixed on hers.

“I’m looking for a model,” she said.

Tom gave a short, humourless laugh.

“You’re looking in the wrong place.”

“No. I’m not.”

Shara informed.

He took a step back. “I don’t have money for photographs. I don’t have a phone. I don’t even have clothes that fit.”

Sarah smiled at him.

“That last part is exactly why I stopped.”

The words struck harder than they should have. Tom looked down at himself. His trousers ended above his ankles, and the borrowed coat barely reached his wrists. He had become used to the fabric failing him. Used to people looking away.

Sarah opened the passenger door. Warm light spilled across the wet pavement.

“I can take you somewhere,” she said. “You’ll get food, a shower, and clothes made to fit you exactly.”

Tom stared at the open door.

“Why?”

Sarah looked at Tom calmly.

“Because I believe you’re right for a job.”

Tom looked back at Sarah with surprise.

“What job?”

Sarah was open and honest with him.

“Modelling.”

A laugh rose in his throat but died there. The offer sounded absurd, and absurd things on the street were often dangerous. He had seen men promise work and deliver locked rooms. He had seen women offer shelter in exchange for favours they never named until the doors were closed.

Sarah seemed to read the hesitation in his face.

“You don’t have to get in,” she said. “I won’t touch you. I won’t stop you leaving. But if you stay here, the temperature is dropping, and those clothes won’t protect you.”

Tom looked past her at the road. The maintenance corridor was a maze of floodlights, earthmovers, and orange barriers. No bus would come this way. No shelter had space. His stomach twisted at the memory of the last crust of bread in his backpack.

“What kind of clothes?”

He asked.

Sarah smiled at him, as she then gave him a cryptic answer.

“Clothes that fit.”

Tom gave Sarah a long cold hard stare.

“That isn’t an answer.”

Sarah stood, steadfast and firm.

“It’s the answer I’m giving you until you’re somewhere warm enough to hear the rest.”

A car horn sounded behind her. Sarah glanced at the mirror, then back at him.

“This isn’t my usual route,” she said. “The main road is closed for heavy maintenance. I was forced through here. I saw you and recognized the proportions from a casting brief.”

“You recognized me?”

Tom asked in confusion.

Sarah shook her head.

“Not you personally. Your shape.”

Tom’s jaw tightened.

“I’m not a thing.”

Sarah smiled.

“No,” Sarah said, with surprising firmness. “You’re a person I’m making an offer to.”

The distinction did not make the offer safer. It did make it harder to dismiss.

He looked at the passenger seat. Clean upholstery. A folded blanket. A paper bag with the corner of a sandwich visible inside.

“How far?”

Sarah gave Tom a pleasant smile, as she answered him.

“Twenty minutes to the studio.”

Tom blinked, he was not too sure if he could trust Sarah.

“And if I say no?”

Sarah smiled, perfectly understanding Tom’s caution.

“I drive away.”

Tom looked surprised and he just had to ask.

“And if I say yes?”

Sarah suddenly looked hopeful, as she looked back at Tom.

“I drive you there, feed you, and show you the contract. You decide after that.”

Tom studied her hands. No rings. No tremor. Her grip on the steering wheel was steady, but she kept glancing at the figures under the overhang. She was afraid of the place. Afraid of him, perhaps.

That made her offer more believable, not less.

He opened the passenger door and folded himself into the car. His knees nearly touched the dashboard. The seatbelt crossed his chest at an awkward angle, and the warmth made every ache in his body announce itself at once.

Sarah pulled away from the curb.

For several minutes, neither spoke. The tires hissed over wet asphalt. Tom kept one hand on the door handle.

“You said the clothes were made to fit exactly,”

He-said.

Sarah smiled.

“They will be.”

That’s not quite the answer that Tom was hoping for. He pressed the advantage.

“Normal clothes?”

Sarah’s silence lasted just long enough.

“Some of them.”

Tom turned his head.

“What does that mean?”

Sarah’s lips pursed into a suspicious smile.

“The studio has several lines. The one I’m hiring for is unusual.”

Tom heard the word unusual and then he assumed.

“I’m not wearing women’s clothes.”

Sarah’s lips tightened into an even more big grin.

“I didn’t say you would.”

Tom did not much like Sarah’s cryptic responses.

“You didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

Sarah exhaled through her nose.

“The client requires a fully male model. That part is strict. But they don’t want someone conventionally masculine. They want someone balanced between masculine and feminine. Softer in presentation, but unmistakably male.”

Tom looked at her reflection in the windshield.

“And you think that’s me?”

Sarah smiled warmly at him.

“I think you’re something that no casting agency could manufacture.”

The car turned beneath a row of construction lights. Tom watched the barricades disappear behind them.

Tom was curious now.

“What’s the line called?”

Sarah’s eyes flicked toward him.

“The Sissy Adult Baby line.”

The words seemed to occupy the whole car.

Tom’s fingers closed around the door handle.

“Stop.”

Sarah slowed immediately but she did not pull over.

Tom gave her a worried look, so he shouted at her.

“I said stop the car.”

Sarah perfectly understood Tom’s reason for his sudden alarm.

“I will. But listen first.”

Tom wasn’t having any of it.

“No.”

Sarah bluntly pointed out to him.

“You asked what the clothes were.”

Tom replied.

“I asked for clothes that fit.”

Sarah turned to face Tom for a brief moment.

“And you’ll get them. But the work has a specific theme.”

Tom gave Sarah a nervous look

“Adult Baby?”

Sarah responded.

“Sissy Adult Baby… Yes.”

Tom stared at the rain-blurred windows. His face burned, though the car was cool around him.

“You picked me up off the street to put me in diapers?”

Sarah laughed a little. But then she immediately looked completely serious.

“I picked you up because the client needs a male model with your proportions and presence.”

Tom did not like the sound of that.

“That’s not better.”

“Sarah smiled lightly.

“No,” Sarah admitted. “It isn’t.”

He should have demanded to be let out. He should have opened the door at the next light and vanished between the buildings. Instead, he looked at the paper bag resting in the centre console.

“How much?”

Sarah was happy to see that Tom was now suddenly starting to take a sudden interest.

“Two thousand dollars a day for studio fitting and rehearsal,” she said. “Five thousand dollars per shoot day. The campaign is scheduled for a four-day shoot next week. That is twenty-four thousand dollars for one week of work. In addition, the studio provides a fully furnished corporate apartment for thirty days, three meals a day, and an advance stipend of fifteen hundred dollars the moment the contract is signed, and your medical clearance is filed.”

Tom’s breath caught in his throat. *Twenty-four thousand dollars. *

He had spent the last three months begging for spare change, dodging police sweeps, washing his hair in freezing gas station sinks, and guarding his shoes with his life while he slept under wet concrete. Twenty-four thousand dollars wasn’t just money—it was a secure door with a deadbolt. It was a bed with clean sheets. It was food in a refrigerator. It was a way back into the human race.

And all it would cost was his masculine pride, wrapped up in pink plastic and lace.

“Twenty-four thousand dollars for wearing diapers?”

Tom asked.

“For completing the campaign.”

Sarah said more firmly

Tom swallowed. “And if I refuse after seeing it?”

Sarah frowned upon hearing Tom say that, but she replied anyway.

“You walk away.”

The studio occupied the upper floor of a renovated warehouse. Its polished lobby had white walls, glass doors, and a reception desk that made Tom feel even more conspicuous. His wet shoes left dark marks on the floor.

Sarah led him past racks covered in protective plastic. Behind one curtain, voices moved quickly. A garment bag hung open on a rolling rail.

Pink fabric showed through the gap.

Tom stopped.

Sarah did not tug him forward.

“You can leave now.”

He looked at the entrance. Beyond the glass doors, the city was cold, wet, and indifferent. Behind him waited the studio, the food, the shower, and money enough to make tomorrow less frightening.

“Show me,”

Tom said.

Sarah unzipped the garment bag.

The first outfit was a frilly pink baby-girl dress with puffed sleeves and a skirt layered in stiff ruffles. White ankle socks lay beneath it; each edged with a delicate frill. Beside them sat pink Mary Jane shoes, a pair of filly pink plastic panties, and a thick diaper printed with tiny stars.

Tom’s mouth went dry.

“That’s one look,” Sarah said.

She opened another bag. A pink Barbie-doll skirted swimsuit gleamed beneath the lights. Then came a pink tutu, white tights, and pink ballet flats. A bridesmaid-style dress followed, pale and ornate, with another pair of Mary Janes.

At the bottom of the final rack lay a pink princess-print diaper and a pink pacifier.

Tom’s face hardened. “You expect me to wear all this?”

Sarah heaved a heavy sigh.

“For the campaign.”

Tom gave Sarah a cold hard stare.

“You said that I could walk away.”

Sarah frowned.

“You can.”

Tom’s hand moved toward the door. Then his stomach cramped sharply, reminding him of the sandwich, the empty nights, the blistered soles of his feet. The studio lights reflected in the polished floor, clean and steady, unlike the pavement outside.

Sarah picked up the dress.

“The contract includes a signing advance.”

Tom looked at the contract, then the clothes that had been laid out before him and then back at Sarah.

And if I agree to all this. You’ll pay me Twenty-four thousand dollars?

It was more money than he had held in his hands since leaving the apartment. Enough for a room. Enough for food. Enough to stop counting the hours until dawn.

Sarah looked hopeful again.

“Yes. You have my word on that.”

“You knew that I would need that kind of money, didn’t you?”

Tom asked.

Sarah gave him a warm smile.

“I knew that you deserved to be paid.”

“You knew I couldn’t say no.”

Sarah’s expression changed, but she did not deny it.

“I knew that the offer would matter.”

The honesty unsettled him more than a lie would have.

Tom looked at the pink dress again. The fabric was soft between his fingers when he touched it, almost weightless. He imagined himself wearing it and felt a hot wave of humiliation crawl up his neck.

Then he imagined waking beneath the overhang tomorrow.

“Where do I sign?”

Sarah set the contract on a table.

He read every line. The studio could use the images for the campaign. He would be paid by session. He could not refuse any pose that was asked of him. The wardrobe was specified in detail.

His name looked strangely formal beneath the signature line.

Tom Holland.

He signed.

Sarah took the papers and offered him the dress.

“Your professional name will be Tabitha,”

She-said.

Tom stared at her.

“No.”

Sarah frowned.

“It’s part of the campaign.”

Tom looked indignant.

“My name is Tom.”

Sarah gave him a warm smile.

“Tom remains on the contract. Tabitha is the model.”

The pink fabric sagged from his hand. Somewhere beyond the curtain, a camera shutter clicked. The sound was small, precise, and final.

He carried the clothes into the changing room.

When he emerged, the ruffled dress stopped above his knees, the white socks pressed against his ankles, and the pink Mary Janes made his narrow feet look almost delicate. The thick diaper beneath the dress altered his stance, forcing him to move carefully. Sarah’s gaze travelled over the outfit with professional attention.

(Tom as Tabitha. Concept Art)

Tom kept his arms rigid at his sides, his masculine hands clenched into fists.

“Say it,”

He muttered.

Sarah hesitated.

Tom stood firm.

“Say the name.”

Sarah heaved a heavy sigh.

“Tabitha.”

The word landed harder than the clothing.

Tom looked at his reflection in the mirror. Seven feet tall, gaunt, rough-faced, and unmistakably male beneath a cloud of pink ruffles. The image was absurd. It was also exactly what the studio had wanted.

A makeup artist entered with a pacifier and a pink ribbon.

Tom’s head snapped toward Sarah.

“No, anything but this.”

Sarah shook her head.

“I’m sorry Tom, it’s required for you to have it. It’s part of the final look.”

The pacifier gleamed in the woman’s hand.

Tom reached for the door, but Sarah stepped between him and the exit - not touching him, only standing there.

“You got what you came for,” she said quietly. “Food, shelter, clothes that fit, and a contract.”

Tom looked down at the diapered reflection, at the pink shoes, at the name waiting on the studio’s call sheet.

Then he took the pacifier.

His fingers shook as he placed it between his lips.

Behind the camera, someone whispered,

“Tabitha is ready.”

Tom’s eyes met his own in the mirror, and for the first time since the street had claimed him, he could not tell whether he was surviving the humiliation - or becoming the thing it had named.