Joe slumped onto his bed, backpack still on, and stared at the ceiling.
Another day. Another shove into the lockers. Another "nice shirt, faggot" from Brad Miller and his knuckle-dragging crew. The bruise on his shoulder throbbed where he'd hit the metal door.
His phone buzzed. An advert. Again. A pink shield icon, pulsing gently against a black background.
BratBlock – Bully Free Forever!
Tired of getting pushed around? BratBlock's patented protection algorithm creates a safe space around you. No more bullies. No more drama. Just peace.
He'd swiped past it maybe fifteen times this week. But tonight—tonight it hit different. His shoulder ached. His pride was in pieces. And the advert just sat there, pulsing pink, almost mocking him.
(It's probably malware.)
Probably.
(It's definitely malware.)
Definitely.
He downloaded it anyway.
___
The app installed in seconds—no terms and conditions, no sign-up, no email required. Just a single screen. Black background, that pink shield logo, and one button in the centre.
ACTIVATE PROTECTION
Below it, in tiny grey text: BratBlock works by creating a personalised safety field. User experience may vary.
Joe frowned. "What does that even mean?"
He locked his bedroom door. His parents were out—date night, wouldn't be back until late. He had the house to himself. Privacy. Safety.
(Just press it. What's the worst that could happen?)
He pressed it.
The screen flashed pink—so bright it lit up the whole bathroom when he caught his reflection in the mirror. Then his phone went dark.
"Wait—did it crash? Did I just brick my ph—"
Warmth.
It started in his chest. A soft, golden heat, like sinking into a bath. Pleasant. Almost nice. He exhaled, shoulders loosening.
Then the heat intensified.
"Mmmmmh… ohhh fuckkk" he moaned, and the sound of his own voice made him freeze. It was higher. Softer. Still his—but not. Like someone had reached into his throat and plucked a string, tuning him up a semitone.
His fingers were next. He watched—transfixed, terrified—as they slimmed, the knuckles popping inward with tiny crick crack sounds. His nails grew, pushing out pink and glossy, perfectly shaped. His hands became dainty. Petite. Girly.
(No. No no no.... ooohhh fuck yessss....)
He grabbed the sink. His phone screen lit up again—pink, glowing, the shield icon pulsing steadily. And on the screen, text scrolled:
Protection active. Reality field establishing…
User profile: JOE → recalibrating…
New profile: JOJO. Status: ALPHA.
"What the f—"
His shoulders cracked inward. Both of them—CRACK POP—and he screamed, but the scream came out as a giggle. A bratty, entitled giggle that horrified him even as it left his lips.
His waist cinched. He could feel it—ribs shifting, organs rearranging, fat redistributing. His stomach flattened, toned, like he'd done a thousand crunches in two seconds. Then his hips popped—both sides, simultaneous, a wet grinding sound that made him grip the sink so hard his new nails left marks in the porcelain.
"Fuck—fuck— yesssss, ooooh what's happening to me— it feels so fucking good."
But his voice was wrong now. Completely wrong. High, breathy, with a bratty drawl that made every word sound like an eye-roll.
His hair. Oh god, his hair. It spilled down from his scalp in waves—platinum blonde, thick, glossy, cascading past his shoulders and down his back. He could feel the weight of it, the way it brushed against his skin, alive and growing.
(Stop. Please stop.)
Mmmh, no don't stop. Give me MORE. Fill me with pink. Make me into a fucking bitch.
The thought came from somewhere else. Somewhere new. A voice in his head that sounded like him but wasn't—confident, cruel, amused.
His chest swelled. Two mounds pushing outward, round and full, straining against a black crop top that materialised on his body out of nowhere. He could feel the fabric—soft, tight, hugging curves that hadn't existed ten seconds ago. His breasts were big. Round. Perfect. The kind that made boys stupid. The kind that made you feel powerful.
"Oooooh…" The moan escaped before he could stop it. The sensation of her new nipples rubbing against the fabric sent electricity straight down between her legs, where the final change was already underway.
(I'm not a boy anymore... I'm a girl and it feels so good. Fuck yessss, I'm a SHE now and I like it. Mmmmh I can feel it, feel my pussy forming.)
Her boxers shifted—rewove—became a tiny thong. And between her legs, she felt herself inverting. Pulling inward. Remaking.
Pop.
She smirked, feeling complete. Feeling good. Her tight waxed pussy was already dripping and she loved it.
Joe was gone. It was like he never existed.
With a slutty purr the new woman he had become looked in the mirror and giggled.
The girl staring back was stunning.
High cheekbones. Small, pert nose. Full lips—naturally pink, glossy, slightly parted. Big blue eyes framed by long lashes. Skin flawless, glowing, lightly tanned. Her blonde hair fell in perfect waves around her face.
"Ooooh fuck yah, like look at how like pretty I am."
She was wearing a black crop top that hugged her massive round breasts, white ripped shorts that clung to an ass that was impossibly perky and round, and tiny gold jewellery—a necklace, a bracelet, small hoop earrings.
She looked like the kind of girl who had never been told "no" in her entire life.
(I'm… I'm a girl.)
You're a fucking goddess, babe.
The voice in her head was louder now. Stronger. It felt like her.
JoJo raised her phone. The screen glowed pink:
Protection active. Reality field ESTABLISHED.
Welcome, JoJo. You are: bully-proof.
She didn't understand the technology. She didn't need to. What she did understand was the mirror. And the mirror said she was hot. The mirror said she WAS the bully now. No one would dare touch a bitch like her. She felt fucking supreme. Full of slutty new thoughts and desires.
She snapped a selfie. Lips parted. Eyes half-lidded. That entitled little smirk. Click.
"Fuck yes, I'm like sooo hawt now."
She checked it. Flawless. She checked her followers—her Instagram was different now. Not @JoeBoring89 with forty-three followers and three posts. Now it was @xoJoJo_xo with 4,872 followers and a grid full of bikini pics, gym selfies, and club photos.
(This isn't real. This can't be real. I'm having the best dream ever. )
It's real, babe. Look around. Doesn't it feel good to be me and have everything you ever wanted?
She looked around. Her bathroom was different. The plain white towels were now fluffy and pink. Her mum's skincare products on the shelf were now hers—a whole row of them. Dior. Charlotte Tilbury. Drunk Elephant. Hundreds of pounds worth of product, just sitting there, like they'd always belonged to her.
Omg - I'm so spoiled and I love it.
She opened the bathroom cabinet. Tampons. Birth control pills. A pink razor. Hair ties. Lip gloss—three shades.
Yummy, three perfect colours for sucking dick.
Her room had changed too. She peeked out—no more band posters and dirty laundry. Now there was a vanity table with a ring light, a wardrobe full of clothes she'd never seen but somehow knew were hers, a bed with pink silk sheets, and a full-length mirror angled to catch the best light.
My boudoir - because I'm a Princess and I deserve it all.
Her phone buzzed. A text from someone called Tiffany:
bitchhhh where r u?? brad's party starts at 9 and u PROMISED we'd pregame at mine first 😤
JoJo stared at the message. Tiffany. She knew Tiffany. Best friend. Fellow mean girl. They'd been tight since year seven. The memories were there, layered over Joe's like a transparency—faint underneath, but JoJo's life on top, vivid and real.
Like, I even have hot friends. I'm literally perfect.
Brad's party. Brad Miller. The guy who shoved Joe into lockers. The bully she'd activated this app to protect herself from.
Her phone buzzed again. This time from Brad himself:
hey jojo u coming tonight?
Then, seconds later:
been thinking about u all week ngl
JoJo's lips curled into a smile. A cruel smile. The kind of smile that could end a boy's self-esteem with one glance.
(He bullied me. He made my life hell.)
And now he's begging for your attention. Isn't that funny? He is kind of like hot right? Mmmmmh all those muscles and that big dick...
She giggled and typed back:
maybe. if u behave 💕
She hit send. Then she laughed—bright, bitchy, musical.
This was going to be fun...
___
Tiffany's bedroom. 8:47 PM.
Tiffany was a brunette in a tight pink dress—gym-toned, pretty, and almost as bitchy as JoJo. Almost. She handed JoJo a shot of vodka.
"Girl, you look insane tonight. That top? Obsessed."
JoJo downed the shot. "Obviously."
They pregamed for an hour. Shots. Mirror selfies. Gossiping about girls they didn't like. JoJo fell into it like she'd been born for it—which, in a way, she had. Every bitchy comment felt natural. Every eye-roll felt earned. The old Joe was still in there somewhere—faint, muffled, like a TV playing in another room—but JoJo didn't care. JoJo was alive.
(This isn't you. This isn't—)
Shut up loser. This is exactly me. You fucking love how good this feels. Being a brat is like awesome. Give into it. Embrace it.
___
They arrived at Brad's at 9:30. The party was already loud—music pumping, red cups everywhere, people crammed into every room. Brad's house was big. Rich parents. The kind of house that made you feel small just walking in.
But JoJo didn't feel small. JoJo never felt small.
Brad spotted her from across the kitchen. His eyes went wide—then darkened. Hungry. He excused himself from the group of boys he was with and walked over. He was tall. Muscular. His shirt was tight enough to show every line of his chest.
"JoJo. You came."
She giggled. "I told you I would. If you behaved..." She looked him up and down. "You behaving, baby?"
He leaned in. "Trying to. Though maybe you'd prefer me to be a bad boy?"
She could feel the heat coming off him. Could smell his cologne. And underneath—something else. Something musky and male that made her new body tingle in ways Joe's never had.
She tingled all over and felt her pussy start to get wet.
(No... what are you doing? He used to shove you into lockers. He used to call you—)
So what? Bullies are hot and we aren't a victim anymore. Mmmh, he's looking at my tits right now. Get a good look stud. Oooh who's in charge now Brad?
She was. She always was.
"Get me a drink," she said. Not a request. A command.
Brad obeyed.
___
The party was in full swing.
Two hours had passed. Three drinks. Dancing. Grinding. Brad's hands on her waist, her hips, her ass. She let him touch her—on her terms. She controlled every second. When he got too handsy, she pushed him back. When he pulled away, she pulled him close. She was playing him like an instrument, and he was begging for it.
But she was so fucking horny too. She wanted it bad.
"Let's go upstairs," he murmured against her neck.
Fuck yes. I need to get fucked by him so bad.
She pretended to consider it. Took her time. Sipped her drink. Made him wait.
Oooh I can't take it anymore. I need that cock.
"Fine. But I'm in charge."
He grinned. "Obviously."
They stumbled upstairs, his hands already on her ass and squeezing.
___
Brad's bedroom. Door locked. Music muffled through the walls.
Mmmmh it smells of bully in here.
He pulled her in and kissed her—hard, desperate, hungry. She kissed back, biting his lip until he groaned. Her fingers found his belt. His found the hem of her crop top.
Fuck yes, take me. Take your prize.
The top came off. Her breasts—huge, round, perfect—bounced free. Brad stared like he'd found religion.
"Fuck… you're so—"
So big? My titties are amazing aren't they you horny boy.
"I know." She unzipped his jeans. Reached in.
Oh.
(Oh my god yes. A big cock for my big titties.)
He was huge. Thick, long, veined—the kind of cock that made her new pussy clench just looking at it. Her small hand could barely wrap around it.
Mmmh yummy. Big bully dick is my favourite dick.
She stroked him slowly, feeling him pulse in her hand. Power. Pure power. The biggest bully in school, reduced to putty because she was pretty and he was weak.
"Suck it," he breathed.
She raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
Beg for it you bastard. This cock is mine now.
"Please—please suck it."
She felt her pussy clench with pleasure.
"Mmmmh much better."
She dropped to her knees. Took him in her mouth. The taste—musky, salty, male—flooded her senses. She swirled her tongue, took him deeper, gagged slightly, then recovered and kept going. She could feel him shaking. Could feel his hand on the back of her head, trembling.
You used to shove me into lockers.
And now you're shaking because of my mouth. Because I can suck cock better than any girl you know.
She pulled off with a pop. Looked up at him. Lip gloss smeared. Eyes watering. Smirking.
Fuck I need this inside me.
"Bed. Now. On your back."
He obeyed.
She straddled him. Positioned herself. Teased him a little, then sank down.
Ohhhhh fuckkkkkk it's so big.
"Fuck– fuck yes–" she groaned.
He was so deep. Stretching her in ways she didn't know were possible. The fullness was overwhelming—intense, almost painful, but good. So good her eyes rolled back.
Oh god, right there– oh fuck I'm going to cum on my bullies big dick. I'm giving him validation, showing him it's okay to be a bully. Showing him he gets hot girls if he acts like a jerk. I shouldn't do this... I shouldnt encourage this toxic behaviour.
The thought dissolved. She didn't care. She was JoJo now—entitled, bratty, addicted to this. She rode him slow at first, then faster, grinding her hips in circles, using him for her pleasure. His hands gripped her waist, guiding her, but she set the pace. Always her pace.
"You like that, you little slut?" Brad groaned.
"Obviously," she moaned, pushing her ass down harder. "Harder, dumbass."
He flipped her over. She yelped—then laughed. Face-down on his pillow, ass in the air, completely exposed. He grabbed her hips and slammed back in.
Ohhhh fuckkkk he's hitting my cervix!
"YES—fuck—"
The headboard cracked against the wall. She could hear the party still going on downstairs. Could hear people laughing, music thumping. And here she was—getting railed by the biggest cock she'd ever seen, screaming into a pillow, and loving every second.
Every thrust erased another piece of Joe. His memories. His fears. His weakness. The boy who got shoved into lockers was gone. There was only JoJo now. Bratty. Beautiful. Powerful. Full.
Yessss fuck me into a bitch. Make me into a slut. Make me into a female bully. I love how this feels.
"I'm gonna—" Brad grunted.
"No! Not yet," she commanded as she gasped in pleasure. "Make me cum first. Make this tight pussy pop."
I'm so fucking close.
He slowed down, he obeyed. He always obeyed and it made her so wet.
Boys are so easy to control. But they definitely have their uses. Oooh fuck I need to cum so badly.
She reached down, rubbed her clit in tight circles, felt the pressure building—building—
Yessss. My pussy is gonna explode. I'm so hot, I'm so perfect. I love it. Ohhh fuck I'm gonna... gonna...
"OH FUCK—"
Her orgasm hit like a wave. Her whole body clenched. She screamed into the pillow, legs shaking, pussy gripping him so tight he groaned in pain. Seconds later, he pulled out and finished on her back—hot, thick ropes across her lower back.
She collapsed. Breathing hard. Smiling.
Mmmmh next time I want it on my face or even better, deep inside me. After all that's what birth control is for...
She felt his cum on her skin and smiled wider. Maybe he would be up for round two?
Her phone sat on the nightstand. Screen glowing faintly in the dark room. She didn't see it.
BratBlock: ACTIVE Reality field: STABLE WARNING: Battery: 1%
A notification popped up:
⚠️ LOW BATTERY – BratBlock will deactivate when battery reaches 0%. Reality field will collapse. User will revert to previous profile: JOE.
The screen dimmed. The battery icon blinked.
1%...
Then 1% again.
JoJo didn't see it. She was on her back now, legs wrapped around Brad's waist, pulling him back inside her. He was hard again—she'd made sure of that.
"This time cum inside my pussy. I want to feel your load dripping out of me."
"Fuck yes baby, anything you want."
"Mmmmh more, harder, deeper" she demanded as he began to pound her with wet slaps. "And don't you dare stop."
I never want this to end.
Brad kissed her neck. Thrusted deeper.
On the night stand the phone switched off.
JoJo and Brad were about to get one hell of a surprise...
"I just want a girl who's a total baddie, bro. Like – blonde, stacked, wears those little cropped hoodies. A girl who tells me what to do but then…" You'd make that obscene gesture with your hand, miming something your dorky roommate Mitchell did not need to see.
Mitchell – glasses, brown hair, built like a lamppost – would just stare at you from his desk, jaw tight, patience eroding like a cliff face.
"And she'd be, like, a bit stuck up? Bossy? The kind of girl who makes you fetch her stuff but then sucks your cock so good you see God—"
"Bro. Bro. I get it."
But he didn't just get it. He got fed up.
---
The hoody arrived in a package with no return address. Light blue, cropped, with GODDESS stencilled across the chest in hot pink. Mitchell pulled it from the wrapping with trembling fingers.
"A girl in my Lit class – she does… stuff. Wiccan stuff." He held it up. "She said this'll turn whoever wears it into exactly the kind of girl you won't shut up about."
You laughed. "Mate, you're not seriously—"
"I'm dead serious." His jaw set. "You want a bossy blonde baddie who gets everything she wants? Sounds pretty fucking hot from the other side, honestly. So I'm going to become her."
He pulled the hoody over his head.
---
Oooooh…
The fabric slid down his torso and clung – not like cotton but like something alive, something hungry. Mitchell gasped, and the gasp pitched upward, softening into a breathy moan.
"Mmmmmh— fuck—"
His shoulders cracked inward – pop, pop – narrow and delicate. His spine curved with a wet shhhhlick, hips flaring outward with a sound like knuckles cracking, pelvis widening into something made for low-rise shorts and thirsty DMs.
"Oh God— oh fuck my— ahhh—"
Brown hair lightened at the roots, bleaching platinum in streaks, then pouring down past his – her – shoulders like liquid gold. The glasses dissolved. The face beneath softened, sharpened, restructured – cheekbones rising, lips plumping, jawline refining into something that belonged on an Instagram explore page.
(This is… oh fuck this is actually… I'm getting so hot…)
His chest swelled – two mounds pushing outward against the GODDESS lettering, round and firm and perfect, stretching the fabric taut. His stomach flattened. His ass inflated with a obscene pop that made you flinch. Legs slimmed. Feet shrank.
And then the light blue shorts materialised – pink, tiny, riding high on thick hips.
Mitchell was gone.
In his place stood a girl – maybe 20 – with a slim build, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, and a face that radiated the specific cruelty of someone who'd never been told no. She looked at you with playful, confident eyes and smirked.
Reality shuddered. You felt it – a ripple through the room, through your memories – and suddenly she wasn't your roommate anymore. She was Tiff. Your girlfriend. Six months. The girl who texted you demands at 2am and rewarded compliance with her mouth.
---
"Baby." Her voice was honey and vinegar. She flopped onto your bed, legs crossed, scrolling her phone. "I'm starving. Make me a sandwich. Turkey, extra mayo, cut diagonal – you know how I like it."
You blinked. "Tiff, I—"
"Now." She didn't look up. "And my psych essay's due tomorrow. You're doing the first three paragraphs."
"Tiff—"
She finally looked up. Those eyes – blue, sharp, dangerous – pinned you like a butterfly to a board. "You want me happy, right?" She bit her lower lip. Tilted her head. "Keep me happy and…" Her tongue traced her upper lip, slow and deliberate. "I'll keep you happy."
(God, he's already folding. This is going to be so easy.)
Your mouth went dry. Your cock twitched.
You made the sandwich.
---
Three hours later. Homework done. Sandwich made. Her laundry sorted. Her water bottle refilled twice because the first one was room temperature and she doesn't drink room temperature, obviously.
Tiff pushed you onto the bed.
"Good boy," she whispered.
She kissed down your stomach – slow, deliberate, each press of her lips a reward – and when she finally wrapped those plump lips around your cock, the sound she made was pornographic.
"Mmmmmh…"
You understood everything. Every bitchy demand, every eye-roll, every "fetch me this" – it was all foreplay. She was training you. And the payoff?
Oooooh… fuck…
Her mouth was hot, wet, relentless – tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, blonde hair spilling over your thighs. She looked up at you with those cruel blue eyes and you saw it: she owned you. Completely.
You came so hard you forgot your own name.
She swallowed, wiped her lip, and smirked.
"Same deal tomorrow, babe. My laundry won't fold itself."
Simping after some neighbourhood princess. Sending gifts. Doing her coursework. Running errands. Grovelling at her feet like a desperate little puppy dog.
You told him he was delusional. A sucker. That Willow was stringing him along for attention and free labour. That no hot girl – especially one like Willow – would ever actually follow through on some insane bodyswap fantasy.
You were so fucking sure of yourself.
---
The text came at 11am. A photo. Your mate – in Willow's body – sitting on her bed in a black and white maid outfit. Corset cinched tight, heart-shaped cutout showing off cleavage that shouldn't exist on someone you used to play Xbox with. Long blonde hair straight and perfect. Full lips curved in a smirk you'd never seen on his face before.
Below it: "She actually did it. 24 hours. Anything she'd usually do. Her boyfriend's coming round at 2. Guess what I'm wearing? 😘"
You stared at your phone so long the screen dimmed.
(That's… that's not… he's actually–)
You scrolled up. Willow's Instagram. The same bed. The same neon sign reading "WILLOW" in glowing pink. The same mirrored furniture. The same everything – except now your best mate was sitting there looking like a fucking lingerie model instead of the scrawny nerd you'd known since secondary school.
Another text. A video this time. Thirty seconds of him – her – adjusting the maid outfit, running his hands over Willow's flat stomach, squeezing her tits through the corset. Breathing heavy. Eyes half-closed.
"These are SO sensitive. Been playing with them all morning. Willow said I can do anything she'd normally do and she ALWAYS dresses up for Brad. He's gonna be here in two hours. Gonna let him do whatever he wants."
"Should've simped harder, bro."
---
You threw your phone across the room.
Your cock was rock hard.
Fuck.
You tried to think about it rationally. Your best friend had swapped bodies with the hottest girl in the neighbourhood – a girl you'd secretly jerked off thinking about more times than you'd ever admit – and he was about to spend the afternoon getting railed by her boyfriend in a maid outfit.
And you'd spent the last month mocking him for it.
(If you'd just… played along. Sent the gifts. Done the tasks. Been a good boy instead of a cynical prick–)
Maybe that would be you in that corset. Maybe those would be your hands squeezing those perfect tits. Maybe you'd be the one waiting for Brad to arrive, already dripping wet, heart pounding with anticipation.
Another photo. This time he'd hiked the skirt up. Bare thighs. Lace stockings. A glimpse of smooth, waxed pussy – Willow's pussy – glistening slightly.
"Getting ready. Willow says Brad likes it when she's already wet before he walks in. Three fingers deep and counting. Wish you were here to watch, loser 😘"
"Actually no I don't. You were mean to me. Stay home and jerk off thinking about what you could've had."
---
2pm.
You imagined the doorbell ringing. Brad walking in. Your mate – in Willow's body – doing that little curtsy thing in the maid outfit. The way Brad's eyes would go dark. The way he'd grab her waist and throw her on that pink and white bed.
The sounds she'd make.
The sounds Willow makes.
You were stroking your cock before you even realised you'd unzipped. Eyes closed. Phone in one hand, dick in the other. That last photo burned into your brain – your best friend's new pussy, wet and ready, about to be filled by a man you'd never be.
I should have simped.
I should have simped so fucking hard.
A final text arrived. Just a voice note. You pressed play.
Willow's voice – breathless, giddy, unmistakably aroused: "He's here. Gonna go be a good little maid now. If you're sorry, Willow says she might do another swap next month. Better start being nice to her, babe. Mmmmmh… gotta go… Brad's waiting…"
The morning light through the cabin window hit your face like a slap. You groaned, rolling over – and immediately noticed two things wrong.
First: you were still a girl. The pill was supposed to last a week, so that tracked. The soft weight of your chest, the curve of your hips, the long blonde hair splayed across the pillow – all still there. Fine. Expected.
Second: between your legs, morning wood. Real morning wood. Your cock, hard and insistent, pressing against the silk sheets.
You threw the covers back and stared.
No pussy. Just… cock. On a girl's body. Your girl's body.
No. No, no, no–
"Oh my God," a voice giggled from the doorway.
You looked up. Your two mates – Ryan and Kyle – were leaning against the frame, already dressed in those plaid skirts they'd found in the cabin's closet. Both still blonde, still stacked, still looking like they'd stepped out of a fantasy. Ryan's pink skirt was tied up high, showing off her perfect ass. Kyle's green one matched, the dark streak in his – her – hair catching the light.
They were smirking.
"Looks like somebody didn't read the instructions," Ryan – now going by Riley – purred.
"What… what the fuck happened to me?" you stammered, clutching the sheet over your hard-on.
Kyle – now Kayla – stepped forward, biting her lip to contain her laughter. "Didn't you read the leaflet? Like, at all?"
"What leaflet?"
The two girls exchanged a look of pure, bratty delight.
"No sex for twenty-four hours whilst the changes stabilise," Riley read aloud from memory, mimicking a public service announcement. "That's, like, rule number one. Printed right on the back of the packet."
"We didn't make out last night," Kayla added, flipping her skirt up. Bare underneath. Smooth, perfect, genuine pussy on display. "Not once. Not even a kiss. Sat on our hands like good girls whilst you were in there getting railed by every frat boy in the building."
"Three of them," Riley confirmed. "I counted. You were so loud."
Your stomach dropped. The memories flooded back – the first night, the heat, the need. You'd been so desperate, so wet, so eager to feel them inside you. You'd begged for it. Screamed for it.
And now…
"Changes didn't stabilise," Kayla said, snapping her skirt back down with a smirk. "So your body got confused. Half-girl, half-boy. Tits and ass up top–" She gestured at your chest. "–cock down below. No pussy. Just that sad little boner."
"It's not little," you protested weakly.
"It's not the point either, babe." Riley leaned in close. "The point is: we stabilised. We're proper girls now. All week. Every hole, every position, as much cock as we want."
She flipped her own skirt up. Pink plaid, bare pussy, glistening slightly in the cold morning air.
"See? Perfect. Functional. Ready."
Kayla mirrored her, green skirt up, showing off her own smooth slit.
"Meanwhile you're stuck with that thing," Kayla said, nodding at your crotch. "All week. A pretty girl with a dick and nowhere to put it."
"The frat boys are gonna be so confused," Riley giggled.
"They already know," Kayla said. "Told them this morning. Brad said he'd still fuck you but only if you top. The others just laughed."
Your cock twitched under the sheet. They both saw it.
"Awwww," Riley cooed. "Does the little shemale want to play?"
"Too bad," Kayla said. "We've got a week of getting railed to catch up on. And you've got a week of watching."
They turned, skirts swishing, heading for the door. Riley paused, looking back over her shoulder.
"Should have read the label, babe."
The door closed. Their laughter echoed through the cabin.
You sat on the bed, hungover, hard, and ruined – listening to the sounds of your friends getting exactly what you'd thrown away.
The pounding in your skull was the first thing you noticed. The second was the memory – hazy, fractured – of last night's party. That weird "Role With It" game some girl had brought round. You'd refused to play. Seemed stupid. Seemed childish.
Your three mates – Jake, Danny, and Tom – hadn't been so smart.
You remembered them laughing, pulling on bikinis that belonged to your little sister's best friends. Tiff, Britney, and Amber – three bratty blonde nightmares who'd been terrorising the neighbourhood since they turned eighteen. The lads had thought it was hilarious. Strutting round in pink and purple and blue, doing impressions, acting like total bitches.
Role With It. The game where you become what you pretend to be.
You should have stopped them.
---
The door swung open and your hangover turned to ice.
Three girls. Three blonde, bikini-clad, smirking girls. Tiff's bright pink top. Britney's lilac set. Amber's baby blue. All perfect tits, flat stomachs, long golden hair – filling doorways they had no right to be in because they weren't them anymore.
"Were you looking for someone?" the one in pink purred.
You stared. That voice. That attitude.
"...Jake?"
She burst out laughing – that sharp, mean giggle you'd heard a thousand times from your sister's worst friend. "Mmmmmh… Jake. Haven't heard that name in a while." She leaned against the doorframe, tits pushed forward. "It's Tiff now, babe. Have been since about 2am."
The one in lilac – Britney – stepped forward. You recognised Danny's freckles on a face that was no longer his. No longer male. "Oh my God, he actually came round. Look at his face!" She put her hand to her mouth, giggling. "Did you think you could, like… save us?"
"Too late," the blue one said. Tom's green eyes in Amber's tanned face. She popped her gum. "Game's still going. We're still playing." She turned to the others. "Aren't we, girls?"
"Oh fuck yes," Tiff breathed.
They moved closer. Three warm bodies in bikinis, surrounding you on the doorstep. You could smell coconut oil and perfume and something else – something that made your cock twitch against your will.
(Don't get hard. Don't you dare get hard–)
"Remember when we used to play FIFA?" Tiff whispered, pressing her pink top against your arm. "Now we play this." She ran her fingers down your chest. "Way more fun."
Britney slid up on your other side. "We've been practising all morning. Walking in heels. Doing makeup. Flirting with boys on Insta." She bit her lip. "We're, like, really good at it now."
"We're perfect," Amber corrected. She was right – they were. Three flawless mean girls who'd stolen your friends' lives and were wearing them like designer clothes.
"You should've played," Tiff said, tracing your jawline. "Could've been my sister or something. Been our little pet." She giggled. "Now you're just… nobody."
"Nobody with a boner," Britney added, glancing down.
Your face burned. They all glanced down. Three identical cruel laughs.
"Run home, loser," Amber said, pushing you backwards off the step. "We've got a pool party to get ready for. Real men coming round."
"Much hotter than you," Tiff added.
"Much bigger," Britney whispered.
The door slammed. You stood on the pavement, hard and empty, listening to their laughter fade inside.
Three of your best friends were gone.
Three mean girls had taken their place.
And somewhere in your hungover, aching head, a small voice whispered: …should have played.
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?
Dupli-8+.
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.
And your brain?
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.
Oh god… I'm so… wet.
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.
Your hot young bossy teacher is definitely a softdom. She has all the boys in your algebra class eating out of her manicured hands and all the dads wrapped round her little finger.
Wouldn't it feel good to become her. To have that power and feel that confidence?
You want to be her so badly don't you loser?
Maybe you should sit in her chair and see what happens?
Mommy is about to get a new perspective on life and Daddy is about to get his reward for giving her those glasses. It's been years since he's had a blowjob from an eighteen year old bitch...
Joe found the spell on a forum that shouldn't have existed.
Body Possession Ritual — Full Immersion. Target must be known to you. Light a pink candle. Speak the words. Close your eyes. You will inhabit their form for two hours. ONE RULE: Do not orgasm. Each climax erases a layer of your original memories. You have been warned.
The target was obvious.
Pixie. Twenty years old. Pink hair cascading in waves past her jawline, baby blues lined with thick lashes, lips permanently pouted and glossy. Her OnlyFans had twelve thousand subscribers. Her body was impossible — heavy round tits that defied gravity, a tiny cinched waist, and an ass like two ripe peaches stuffed into thigh-high socks. She was the e-girl of his dreams. The girl he'd spent — God — probably a thousand hours watching, tipping, jerking off to in the dark of his bedroom.
Two hours before her boyfriend got home to film content.
Two hours inside her.
Joe lit the candle. Spoke the words. Closed his eyes.
And fell.
---
Mmmmmh…
The first thing he felt was the weight on his chest.
Heavy. Warm. Two perfect orbs pressing against the fabric of — what was this? A tiny pink crop top. No bra. He could feel his nipples — her nipples — stiffening against the cotton, fat and sensitive, sending little sparks down through his stomach.
He opened her eyes.
Pink walls. LED strips. A ring light on a stand. A bed covered in plushies and pink satin sheets. A mirror on the wardrobe door.
And in the mirror — Pixie.
"Oh fuck…" The voice came out of her throat — high, breathy, a little bratty. Her voice. His lips moved and she moved. Pink hair swayed. Those big blue eyes blinked.
Joe raised her small, manicured hand. Acrylic nails painted pink with little rhinestones. He watched her hand rise in the mirror and his cock — wait. No cock. Nothing there. Just a smooth, warm, wet little slit nestled between soft thighs.
He cupped her tits through the crop top. The sensation was electric — a deep, heavy ache that pulsed straight down between his — her — legs. He squeezed. Soft. Impossibly soft. And heavy. He could feel the weight of them pulling at her chest, the way they sat high and round and perfect.
"Don't…" he whispered to himself. "Don't get carried away. Two hours. Don't cum. That's the rule. Just… explore. Be careful."
He pulled the crop top over her head.
Her tits bounced free — big, round, pink-nippled, with a subtle undercurve that made them look engineered. He hefted one in her small hand. The nipple was fat and puffy and so sensitive. Just brushing it with his thumb made her pussy clench.
Oooooh… that's… that's really sensitive…
He pinched. A little moan slipped out of her mouth. Her thighs pressed together.
Stop it. Don't play with them too much. You know the rules.
But they felt so good. Heavy and warm and his — hers — and he'd spent so long imagining what they'd feel like and now they were right there in her hands.
He padded across the room in her bare feet — tiny feet, painted toenails — and looked at himself — herself — in the full-length mirror.
She was wearing a tiny pink pleated skirt that barely covered her ass. Beneath it: a pink thong, the string disappearing between the most perfect, round, juicy ass cheeks he'd ever seen. He turned. Looked over her shoulder at the mirror. The skirt rode up and there it was — her ass — plump and taut and begging to be grabbed.
God, she's even more perfect from this angle…
He bent over slightly. The skirt rode up further. He could see the thong stretched tight over her pussy — smooth, waxed, a tiny camel toe.
His — her — mouth watered.
Don't.
---
Twenty minutes in. He'd managed to limit himself to looking.
He sat on her bed, surrounded by plushies, scrolling through her phone. Messages from subs. A DM from her boyfriend — Tyler 💕: be home in 2 hrs babe. gonna film that anal scene u promised. got the new plug.
Anal scene.
Joe stared at the message. His stomach did something strange. A hot little flutter.
She does anal. On camera. For thousands of people.
He looked at the bedside table. Opened the drawer.
Lube. A pink jewelled butt plug. A string of anal beads — pink, graduated, the last one thick. A vibrator. Several dildos.
He picked up the butt plug. It was heavier than he expected. The jewel on the end was pink. The shaft was slim but present.
I could… try it. Just to see what it feels like. It's not my pussy. It's my ass. The rule is don't cum. Anal isn't going to make me cum. That's not how that works.
He was already rationalising.
He lubed the plug. Pulled the thong aside. Found her asshole — tight, wrinkled, warm — and pressed the tip against it.
"Ohhhhh…" Her voice. High and breathy. Her toes curled.
It slipped in. Slowly. The stretch was intense — a deep, filling pressure that made her pussy throb. The plug slid home with a soft click and the jewel nestled against her cheeks.
Fuck. That felt… that felt really, really good. A constant low hum of pressure right against something inside — something that made her pussy drip.
Okay. That's fine. That's just… anal. That's just what anal feels like. It's not going to make me cum. It's fine.
He pulled the beads out. Lubed them. Pressed the first one against her already-stretched rim.
It popped in. Then the second. Bigger. Her breath hitched. Then the third — oh God — and her pussy was clenching around nothing, dripping onto the pink sheets, and the pressure was building somewhere deep inside, something he'd never felt before, a tight hot coil right behind the plug—
The fourth bead. Thick. Her back arched. Her tits pressed into the mattress. Her ass was stuffed and the pressure was right there, right on that spot, and her pussy was spasming—
"Oh fuck — oh fuck — what is—"
The fifth bead. The biggest. It popped in and her whole body seized.
"FUCK—!"
And Pixie came.
Not from her pussy. From her ass. A deep, rolling, devastating anal orgasm that made her thighs shake and her toes curl and her pussy gush clear fluid onto the sheets. Her asshole clamped down on the beads and the plug and the pleasure radiated out in waves — up her spine, down her thighs, through her clit — and she screamed into a plushie.
When it passed, Joe lay there. Panting. Drooling. Her ass still stuffed. Her pussy still twitching.
And something was… missing.
What was I… what was the rule? There was a rule. Something about…
It was there. Faint. Like a word on the tip of his tongue.
Don't cum.
But he'd already cum. And the memory of why was already fading.
---
He pulled the beads out. One by one. Each one made her pussy flutter. Each pop made her whimper.
That felt… that felt so good. I should… I should try the pussy. Just to see. Just to feel what it's like.
He reached for the vibrator.
No. Something in the back of her mind. Faint. Don't.
But the voice was so quiet now. And her pussy was so wet. And the plug was still in her ass, humming with pressure, and she just needed—
She pressed the vibrator to her clit.
"Ooooooh FUUUCK—"
Within thirty seconds she was cumming again. Harder this time. Her pussy gushed. Her tits heaved. Her back arched off the bed. And another layer of Joe dissolved like sugar in hot water.
What was… my name is… I'm…
Pixie.
She was Pixie.
She rolled onto her back. Spread her thighs. Looked at herself in the mirror across the room — pink hair fanned across the pillows, big tits swaying, thighs shaking, pussy dripping.
God, I'm so hot.
She grabbed the biggest dildo from the drawer. Eight inches. Thick. Pink.
And she fucked herself with it.
Long, slow, deliberate strokes. Watching herself in the mirror. Watching her pussy stretch around it. Watching her tits bounce. Moaning in her voice — high and bratty and slutty — and cumming again and again and each time something else dissolved and it felt less important and more right and she was Pixie, she was always Pixie, she was a hot horny slut who loved cumming and—
"FUCK YES—!"
Another orgasm. Her pussy squeezed the dildo. Her eyes rolled back. The last thread of Joe — some vague sense that he'd come from somewhere, that he'd been someone else — frayed.
Who… who was I before? Was I… someone?
The thought drifted away like smoke.
---
An hour and fifty minutes.
Pixie lay on the bed. Drenched in sweat and cum. The plug still in her ass. The dildo still in her pussy. Her thighs streaked with her own juices. Her eyes were half-lidded. Her mouth was open. Drool on the pillow.
…so good… more… need more…
She heard the front door open.
"Babe? I'm home."
Tyler.
Her boyfriend. Big. Muscled. Tattooed. And — she remembered, somehow, with a hot thrill — huge.
She heard his footsteps. The bedroom door opened.
And there he was. Six-two. Broad shoulders. Black t-shirt stretched across his chest. And when he saw her — spread out on the bed, plug in her ass, dildo in her pussy, drooling and desperate — he grinned.
"Started without me, slut?"
Pixie moaned.
Oh God… he's so… he's so big…
He pulled off his shirt. Unbuckled his jeans. And his cock sprung free — thick, long, veiny — and Pixie's pussy clenched around the dildo at the sight of it.
That's… that's the biggest cock I've ever… I need it… I need it now!
"Tyler…" she whimpered. "Please…"
He pulled the dildo out. Pulled the plug out. And replaced them with his cock — first in her pussy, deep, stretching her wider than the dildo, and Pixie screamed.
"That's it, baby. Take it."
He fucked her. Hard. The bed shook. The plushies fell off. Her tits bounced with every thrust and she was cumming — over and over — and each thrust drove something out of her mind, some last stubborn fragment of a person who'd been someone else, a loser, a nobody, a boy in a dark room—
And each orgasm erased it.
Until there was nothing left but Pixie.
A drooling, cumming, empty slut with a big cock in her pussy and her eyes rolled back and her tongue out and nothing behind it but pleasure.
Tyler flipped her over. Spread her ass. Pushed into her asshole.
"Time to film, babe."
Pixie just moaned.
---
The Next Day
Pixie sat in her pink room. Hair in pigtails. Makeup perfect. Sipping an iced coffee.
Tyler was editing last night's video. The anal scene was going to do numbers.
She scrolled her phone. Twitter. News.
LOCAL: Man, 24, Found Unresponsive in Bedroom.
She tapped it.
Police discovered a 24-year-old man in his apartment yesterday evening, unresponsive and uncommunicative. Paramedics reported that the individual appeared to be in a catatonic state, staring at the ceiling and unresponsive to stimuli. A pink candle was found burning on his desk. Authorities are investigating but suspect no foul play. The man's identity has not been released. A neighbour described him as "quiet, kept to himself, always on his computer."
Pixie sipped her coffee.
"That's sad," she said.
She scrolled past.
"Tyler, baby — when's that video going up? My subs are begging."
The world was full of sad lonely boys, but Pixie… Pixie was a princess and her life was amazing.
