Oh, you idiot. You beautiful, desperate, horny little idiot.
You had a crush on Amy. Sweet, average, just-pink-enough Amy next door. You thought– I'll just borrow her life for eight hours. See what it's like. Be her. Simple. Clean. A little pervy but harmless.
So you swallowed the pill. Dupli-8. Eight hours as Amy. Her memories, her personality, her body.
Except you didn't read the label properly, did you?
The plus version, sweetie. Everything doubled. Everything strengthened. Every trait amplified and cranked until the dial snapped off.
Mmmmmh… you felt it the moment it hit. That warm, pink rush flooding your veins like liquid candy. Your body popping and stretching – tits swelling round and heavy, straining against nothing because your old clothes were already dissolving into nothing. Your ass inflating, fat and perky. Your lips plumping up, cock-sucking thick, glossed pink without you even reaching for a tube.
Oooooh… that's the best part.
Amy's mild girlishness? Doubled. Now it's Barbie-core obsession. Pink everything. Sparkles. Glitter. Fuck-me heels and bubblegum lip gloss and tiny dresses that barely cover anything.
Amy's healthy sex drive? Doubled. Now it's a relentless, throbbing, dripping need that sits between your legs like a furnace you can't shut off.
Amy's mild interest in boys? Doubled into a full-blown obsession with hot guys and big, thick..
Fuck. You can't even finish a thought without your hand drifting down.
You stumble to the mirror and see Aimee staring back. Bigger tits than Amy. Rounder ass. Plumper lips. Dumber eyes – glassy and hungry and permanently half-lidded. A walking, moaning Barbie doll.
You found the swimsuit somehow. Pink. One piece. "BARBIE" across the chest in that ridiculous font. It fits like it was made for you – because it was, wasn't it? The new you needed it. Needed the pink. Needed to feel that fabric stretched across your huge new tits.
You sat on the white fur and the neon sign buzzed Barbie behind you and you stuck your tongue out for the camera without even thinking about it–
Because Aimee doesn't think. Aimee poses. Aimee flirts. Aimee goes dumb and pretty and waits for someone to come play with her.
And here you are. Gooning. Touching yourself through the swimsuit, hips twitching, mouth open, brain melting into pink cotton candy.
You wanted to know how it felt to be Amy?
You got something better, sweetie.
Now stop touching yourself for five seconds and go find someone to play with. You've got seven hours and twelve minutes of being a cock-dumb bimbo left.
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