Riley had always been a little evil.
Not the loud kind. The quiet, velvet kind.
The kind that smiled sweetly while deciding exactly how someone was going to break.
He was given the powers during his freshman year of college, in a narrow alley shop called “The Velvet Veil” that appeared between two buildings on a rainy October night.
The sign was faded, the window display full of cracked mirrors and dried herbs.
The bell above the door sounded like a sigh when he pushed it open.
Inside smelled of old paper, incense, and something faintly metallic.
The witch behind the counter was tall, ageless, dressed in black lace and silver rings.
She looked at Riley—18, slim, already experimenting with makeup and tight clothes—
and smiled like she’d been waiting for him.
“You’re angry,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
Riley froze in the doorway, one hand still on the knob.
He didn’t answer. He just stared at her, eyes narrowed, calculating.
He’d walked here in the rain after the dorm prank—
the ice water dumped over his head in the hallway, glitter stuck in his hair for days,
his stolen panties posted in the group chat with laughing emojis,
the video of him slipping in the puddle going viral on the floor.
He wasn’t here for tarot cards or crystals.
He was here because he needed something sharp to cut them all back with.
The witch tilted her head.
“You want revenge.”
Riley’s jaw tightened.
“I want a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I trust you.”
She laughed—low, knowing.
“Smart boy. Most people who walk in here beg without thinking.
You’re already weighing whether to run or stay.”
Riley didn’t move. His hand stayed on the door.
“Show me something real. Or I’m gone.”
The witch studied him for a long moment.
Then she reached under the counter and pulled out a small silver knife
and a single white rose in a glass vial.
She pricked her own finger—one quick drop of blood fell onto the rose petals.
The petals immediately darkened, curled inward, and turned black as if burned.
The flower died in seconds.
“That’s nothing,” Riley said, voice flat.
“Sleight of hand. Acid under the nail or some shit.”
The witch smiled again—patient, amused.
She handed him the knife, handle first.
“Cut your own palm. Just a nick.
If it’s fake, you walk out with a scratch and a story.
If it’s real… you get what I’m about to give you.”
Riley stared at the blade.
He could feel the weight of the moment—the rain outside,
the empty dorm waiting for him, the group chat still buzzing with laughter at his expense.
He took the knife.
The cut was shallow—a quick line across his left palm.
It didn’t bleed. It glowed faintly red instead.
Riley’s breath caught.
He looked up at her, eyes sharp, no longer skeptical—only focused.
The witch leaned forward.
“I’m giving you this power because you asked for it.
One touch of your bare hand to someone’s skin—or long enough closeness with skin exposed—
will reshape their body and their reality.
You decide how they change: smaller, softer, curvier, prettier, weaker.
The world around them will see the new body as if it has always been that way—
no one notices the difference.
Only the victim sees the truth.
They will watch themselves become something else
while everyone treats them like nothing has changed.
That contradiction will drive them mad.
Many of your victims will end their own lives
because they cannot reconcile what they see with what everyone else sees.”
She took the small obsidian amulet and pressed it into his right palm—the uncut one.
The stone warmed instantly.
It shimmered, then began to melt like black wax into his skin,
sinking painlessly until nothing remained
but a faint, obsidian-colored scar in the shape of a tiny star.
“This was for reshaping yourself,” she said. “Once. The power is yours now.”
Riley closed his fist.
The glow in the cut palm faded.
The pain was gone.
He looked at her one last time—no thank you, no questions.
Just a slow, cold nod.
Then he walked out into the rain.
The door closed behind him.
When he looked back, the shop was gone.
That same night, in his dorm bathroom,
he stared at his reflection and focused on the star-shaped scar on his right palm.
His cock thickened and lengthened until it stood at a heavy nine inches.
His hips widened, ass ballooned into something impossibly round and bubbly—
bigger than any of the crew could ever dream of having.
His hair grew longer, wavier, chestnut waves cascading past his shoulders.
His lips plumped into a permanent pout, face softened into feminine roundness
while keeping his sharp, knowing eyes.
He looked like a living fantasy—delicate, slutty, untouchable.
Then he went looking for the crew.
Tyler—the soccer star—was first.
Riley waited until they were alone in the dorm lounge after practice.
One bare-handed touch on the shoulder, casual as a pat.
Tyler’s body reshaped in minutes: ass rounding into plump, unnatural curves
under his gym shorts, breasts swelling into soft handfuls beneath his hoodie,
cock shrinking to a tiny, useless nub that barely made a dent in fabric.
For three agonizing days Tyler tried to pretend it wasn’t happening.
His teammates still slapped his back like always, called him “Ty” or “bro,”
talked game stats and weekend plans exactly as they had before.
They tossed him a water bottle after practice and joked about the same dumb shit.
No one saw the way his chest bounced when he jogged,
or how his shorts rode up on thicker thighs,
or the soft, rhythmic jiggle of his ass with every step.
To them he was still the same Tyler—the same height, same build, same voice, same everything.
Only Tyler saw the truth.
Every mirror showed a stranger with tits and a fat bubble butt
and a pathetic little clit where his cock used to be.
He felt the jiggle with every step, the way his nipples rubbed against cotton
and hardened traitorously, the constant low-level leak that soaked his underwear by noon.
He locked himself in the bathroom for hours, staring,
whispering “this isn’t me” until his voice cracked.
He tried to jerk off with the tiny nub—nothing happened
except more humiliating drips and a frustrating, building ache he couldn’t release.
He avoided mirrors as much as he could, wore baggy hoodies and loose sweats,
but the body kept betraying him: nipples stiffening at random,
ass cheeks clapping softly when he hurried down the hall,
hole twitching at the slightest brush of fabric.
He begged his roommate once: “Dude, look at me—something’s wrong, I swear.”
The roommate laughed: “You’ve always been built like that. Stop messing around.”
The gaslighting was worse than the changes.
He started to doubt his own eyes.
By the third night Tyler was raw, exhausted, barely sleeping.
When he spotted Riley lingering near the locker room after hours, his stomach dropped.
He should have run. Instead he froze—then Riley stepped inside,
door clicking shut behind him, blocking the exit.
Tyler backed up until his shoulders hit the lockers, voice shaking.
“Stay away from me. I know it was you. Fix this. Please.”
Riley tilted his head, smiling that slow, knowing smile.
“You look good like this, Ty. Softer. Sweeter. Don’t you feel it?”
Tyler’s face burned.
“No. I hate it. I hate what you did to me.”
Riley stepped closer. Tyler tried to shove past—Riley caught his wrist,
bare skin on skin, and the power hummed faintly again,
not reshaping further but reminding Tyler who owned him now.
Riley’s other hand slid down, cupped one of the soft handfuls under Tyler’s hoodie,
thumb brushing a stiff nipple through fabric.
Tyler gasped—electric heat shot straight to his tiny nub, making it leak a fresh bead.
“See?” Riley whispered. “Your body already knows.”
Tyler shook his head, tears pricking.
“Stop. I’m not… I don’t want this.”
Riley laughed softly. “You don’t have to want it. You just have to take it.”
He spun Tyler around, pressed him face-first against the cold metal lockers.
Tyler’s palms slapped flat against the surface, breath fogging the steel.
Riley yanked the gym shorts down in one rough pull—cool air hit Tyler’s exposed,
unnaturally round ass. The cheeks jiggled from the motion alone.
Riley gripped both plump globes hard, fingers sinking deep into the soft, bubbly flesh,
spreading them wide.
“Look at this,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction.
“Perfect bubble butt. Made for this.”
Tyler whimpered, trying to twist away.
“No—don’t—”
Riley lined up, thick head pressing against the tight, pink hole.
One slow, relentless push—Tyler cried out, high and broken,
as the fat cock stretched him open inch by inch.
The burn was intense, humiliating, but his body yielded too easily,
clenching around the intrusion like it was starving for it.
Riley bottomed out, balls pressed flush against the soft cheeks.
Then he gripped harder—fingers digging bruises into the bubbly flesh—
and started pounding.
Deep, punishing thrusts. Each slam made Tyler’s ass clap loudly against Riley’s hips,
the sound echoing off the lockers.
The jiggle rippled through the plump cheeks with every impact.
Riley slapped one cheek hard—sharp sting blooming into heat—then the other,
watching the flesh wobble and redden.
He gripped again, pulling Tyler back onto every thrust,
using the unnatural roundness like handles.
Tyler’s tits bounced under the hoodie, nipples dragging against fabric,
sending jolts straight to his leaking nub.
He bit his lip to stifle the moans, but they escaped anyway—
soft, reluctant whimpers that grew higher with each deep thrust.
“Stop… please… I don’t want—”
But his hips rocked back involuntarily, body chasing the fullness
even as his mind screamed no.
In the locker door reflection Tyler saw everything: flushed face, tears streaming,
tits swaying, ass rippling and reddening under Riley’s grip,
tiny cock dribbling steadily onto the tile.
Riley leaned in, breath hot against Tyler’s ear.
“They all still see the old Tyler… but you feel exactly what you are now. My pretty little slut.”
He fucked faster, deeper, until Tyler’s legs shook.
The unwanted pleasure built, coiling tight—then snapped.
Tyler came untouched, a broken sob tearing from his throat
as weak spurts leaked from his nub.
His hole clenched rhythmically around Riley’s cock, milking him.
Riley groaned, slammed in one last time, and filled him deep—
hot pulses flooding inside.
Tyler shuddered, tears dripping onto the lockers,
hating how good the warmth felt spreading through him.
Months later, Tyler overdosed on sleeping pills. No note.
Chelsea—the cheerleader—was next.
Riley brushed past her in the dorm hallway one morning, bare fingers grazing her arm.
She woke up overweight, face covered in acne, body soft and doughy.
She saw it. No one else did.
The first day she laughed it off—blamed a bad period or too many late-night snacks.
But the scale didn’t lie, and the mirror screamed the truth: rolls where there used to be toned abs,
cheeks puffy and red with cystic acne, thighs that rubbed together when she walked.
Her sorority sisters still hugged her the same way, called her “Chels,”
asked if she wanted to pregame before the game.
No one noticed the way her jeans strained at the seams,
or how her shirt rode up over a soft belly that hadn’t been there yesterday.
To them she was still Chelsea—the same height, same smile, same energy, same everything.
Only Chelsea saw the truth.
Every mirror showed a stranger with a doughy face and acne scars,
a body that jiggled when she moved, clothes that didn’t fit right anymore.
She felt the heaviness with every step, the way her thighs chafed,
the constant low-grade shame that made her avoid photos and mirrors.
She tried to diet—cut carbs, ran extra miles—but the weight stayed,
even increased. Her skin broke out worse. Her hair looked duller.
She begged her roommate once: “Look at me—something’s wrong, I swear.
I’ve gained like thirty pounds overnight.”
The roommate laughed: “You’ve always been curvy, girl. Stop stressing.”
The gaslighting was worse than the changes.
She started to doubt her own eyes.
She stopped going to class. Stopped answering texts.
Stopped leaving the dorm.
She spent nights in front of the mirror, pinching the soft flesh,
whispering “this isn’t me” until her voice cracked.
She tried everything—laxatives, starvation, excessive exercise—
but the body only got heavier, softer, more foreign.
By the seventh day Chelsea was raw, exhausted, barely eating.
She locked herself in the bathroom for hours, staring,
screaming at her reflection until her throat was raw.
She avoided mirrors as much as he could, wore baggy hoodies and loose sweats,
but the body kept betraying her: thighs rubbing, belly spilling over waistbands,
face breaking out in new angry red bumps every morning.
One afternoon she tied a belt around the shower rod,
stood on the toilet, and stepped off.
Her body swung, heavy and soft, until it stopped moving.
No note.
Brandon and Marcus—the two homophobic alphas—were last.
Riley waited for a frat party where they were drunk and loud.
He got close enough during the chaos to touch both of them skin-to-skin—
a shoulder clap for Brandon, a casual arm around Marcus.
Their bodies stayed mostly the same, but their reality shifted—
everyone treated them like they’d always been a couple.
Only they felt the disgust, the wrongness,
every kiss, every suck, every fuck like acid.
The first night after the party Brandon woke up with Marcus’s arm draped over him.
He shoved it off, heart pounding, but Marcus just rolled closer, mumbling something affectionate in his sleep.
Brandon stared at the ceiling, stomach churning.
This wasn’t him. He wasn’t gay. He didn’t want this.
But the next morning Marcus kissed him goodbye like it was normal.
The frat brothers slapped them both on the back, called them “the power couple,”
joked about double dates and matching tattoos.
No one saw the horror in Brandon’s eyes, the way he flinched at every touch.
To them they’d always been together—the same height, same build, same everything.
Only Brandon and Marcus saw the truth.
Every mirror showed two men who hated each other,
forced into intimacy they despised.
They felt the revulsion with every kiss, every forced blowjob,
every time one of them had to pretend to enjoy being fucked.
They tried to fight it. Brandon cornered Marcus in the bathroom once,
voice shaking: “This isn’t us. We hate each other. We need to stop.”
Marcus just kissed him, whispered, “Babe, we’ve always been like this.
Stop fighting it.”
The gaslighting was worse than the acts themselves.
They started to doubt their own memories.
They begged their friends once: “This isn’t us. Something’s wrong.”
The friends laughed: “You’ve always been the cutest couple. Stop messing around.”
The forced intimacy built.
They hated every second, but their bodies responded anyway—
erections they couldn’t hide, unwanted moans, leaks they couldn’t stop.
By the fourth day they were raw, exhausted, barely sleeping.
They avoided each other as much as possible,
but the frat brothers kept pushing them together—
“couple shots,” “dance together,” “kiss for the camera.”
On the fifth night Brandon climbed to the dorm roof alone.
No words. Just silence.
He jumped.
Marcus followed three days later.
By the end of the semester the dorm floor was quiet.
The four who’d pranked Riley were gone—suicides, ruled as unrelated tragedies.
The college quietly closed that wing of the residence hall “for renovations.”
Riley didn’t feel guilt.
He felt alive.
He never needed a personal connection again.
Any man being loud, rude, cruel to someone weaker was enough.
One bare-handed touch, and the game began.
Over the years since college, Riley had honed the power like a blade.
What once erupted in minutes could now unfold at his whim—swift and shattering for those who deserved quick ruin, or slow, insidious, a creeping rot that let the victim feel every millimeter of their undoing while the world smiled and called it normal.
With Tyler and the others, he'd chosen speed, a mercy of sorts in its brutality.
This one… this one deserved the long version.
The kind that whispered doubt into every mirror, every touch, every breath, until surrender felt like the only way to stop the screaming inside.
Tonight the spark was at the corner bar.
Jake Carter was loud, drunk, and mean.
Six-foot-two of fading jock muscle, scruffy beard.
He was yelling at his girlfriend Sarah over a spilled drink,
calling her “dramatic” and “needy” while she tried to calm him.
Sarah finally snapped, grabbed her purse, and walked out.
Jake laughed, ordered another beer, and muttered “fucking women” loud enough for half the bar to hear.
Riley sat two stools down, legs crossed, sipping a vodka soda.
He was dressed to kill: skin-tight black leggings that clung to his massive, round bubble butt like wet paint,
a cropped mesh top showing his slender waist and tiny navel piercing,
full exotic drag makeup—smoky purple-gold eyes, bold brows, glossy blood-red lips.
His long chestnut hair spilled over one shoulder.
He looked delicate. Fuckable. Dangerous.
Riley smiled into his drink, slow and wicked.
*Perfect.*
It had been months since his last plaything.
The itch was back—sharp, insistent, hungry.
He didn’t care if the guy was a monster or just having a bad night.
He didn’t care about context. A loud, dismissive man was enough.
He stood, hips swaying with that slow, deliberate grace, and glided over.
The leggings hugged his enormous juicy rear, the thick phat ass bouncing enticingly with each step.
He stopped right beside Jake, close enough that his hip brushed the bigger man’s thigh.
“Rough night, handsome?” Riley purred, voice soft and lilting,
glossy lips curving into a teasing smile.
Jake turned, irritation flashing… until his eyes dropped.
They lingered on Riley’s face—the dramatic makeup, the smoky eyes, the full red lips—
then slid lower, to the cropped top, the slender waist,
and finally to the massive bubble butt straining the leggings.
He blinked, already confused by the sudden heat in his chest.
Riley leaned in just a little, letting his perfect ass brush Jake’s leg again.
“Looks like your girl left you all alone,” he whispered. “Want some company?”
Jake’s mouth opened. Nothing came out at first.
His voice, when it finally did, was rough but unsteady.
“…Maybe.”
Riley’s smile widened.
He glanced down—Jake’s Carter’s Hardware polo was visible under his jacket,
name tag still clipped to the chest pocket: “Jake C. – Sales Associate.” Easy enough.
Riley reached out—casual, almost friendly—and slipped his bare hand
under the waistband of Jake’s jeans, giving his bare ass a light, playful smack.
The sound was crisp, skin on skin. Jake jolted, face flushing red.
Riley’s fingers lingered a second longer than necessary,
squeezing the warm flesh just enough to claim.
He leaned in close, breath hot against Jake’s ear.
“I’ll be seeing you again soon, handsome,” he whispered,
voice dripping with promise. “Real soon.”
Then Riley stepped back, hips rolling as he walked away,
thick phat ass clapping softly with every step.
Jake stood frozen, staring after her, hand still on his ass, heart pounding.
Just some drunk chick being flirty. Weird as fuck, but whatever.
He finished his beer in one long pull, paid his tab,
and stumbled out into the night.
The cold air hit him hard.
He kept rubbing the spot on his ass where she had touched him.
It still tingled—warm, almost good.
His cock throbbed again, another bead of pre-cum soaking through his boxers.
He adjusted himself, embarrassed, and told himself it was just the booze.
He walked the three blocks home, boots scuffing the sidewalk,
head spinning from the beer and the lingering heat.
Sarah was already asleep when he got in.
The apartment was dark except for the hallway lamp.
He locked the door quietly, kicked off his boots,
and paused at the bedroom door.
She looked peaceful even after the fight.
Guilt twisted in his gut—he’d been an asshole tonight, louder than he ever meant to be.
He’d texted her an apology on the walk home
(“Babe, I'm sorry for yelling. I was out of line. Love you. Talk tomorrow?”),
but she hadn't replied yet—probably already asleep.
He hated when he let the drinks turn him into someone she didn’t deserve.
Most nights he was the one holding her, making her laugh, planning little dates.
One bad night shouldn’t erase that.
He slipped into bed beside her, careful not to wake her.
She stirred anyway, rolling toward him instinctively, her head finding his chest like always.
“Love you,” she mumbled in her sleep.
“Love you too,” he whispered back, kissing the top of her head.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding with regret more than anything else.
She didn’t deserve that shit from me.
I’ll make it up to her tomorrow—flowers, dinner, whatever it takes.
But the next morning, everything felt wrong.
He woke to Sarah already gone—she’d left a note on the fridge:
“Love you, big guy. See you tonight.”
He stared at the note for a long moment.
Big guy.
It felt… off now, like a label that didn’t quite stick.
He stuck it back on the fridge with the magnet and tried to laugh at himself,
but the laugh came out shaky.
In the mirror, his shoulders looked narrower somehow, less square.
His chest had a faint softness under the skin, nipples slightly raised and darker than yesterday.
He brushed a thumb over one experimentally; it peaked instantly, sending a strange warmth downward.
His hips looked wider. His ass rounder, fuller, sticking out more when he turned sideways.
He pressed a palm against one cheek—the flesh yielded easily, warm and pliant.
A slow trickle started in his boxers without any warning. He clenched his jaw and told himself it was nothing.
This can’t be real. Hangover. Dehydration. I need coffee and a shower.
But the clock was already glaring—he had to get to work anyway, or his boss would be on his ass again.
He dressed in a panic, jeans fitting strangely—
waist too loose at the top, seat too tight across the back. He ended up in old sweatpants instead.
At work, everything felt normal. Too normal.
He was at the register most of the morning, ringing up customers.
A gay guy in his mid-30s—nice button-up, flirty smile—bought a pack of batteries and some light bulbs.
As Jake handed him the bag, the guy’s eyes flicked down.
“Damn, man,” he said casually, grinning.
“That ass is working overtime in those sweats. That shelf back there is killer.”
Jake froze. His stomach dropped.
“What the fuck did you just say?” he snapped, voice cracking high for a second.
The customer blinked, still smiling like nothing was wrong.
“Uh… sorry, dude. Compliment.”
Jake’s hands shook as he took the payment.
The guy paid and left, still grinning.
Jake stood there, heart racing.
He thinks this is normal? What the hell is happening?
Later, in aisle 3, coworker Mike—stocky, football-obsessed—
clapped him on the shoulder while passing.
“Morning, big guy. You good? Look a little tired.”
Jake spun around, eyes wild.
“Stop calling me that! Look at me—can’t you see something’s fucking wrong?!”
Mike just laughed it off.
“Chill, man. You’re fine. Same as always.”
He kept walking.
Jake stood there, chest heaving, heart slamming.
They’re all blind. Or I’m losing my fucking mind.
During lunch break, he locked himself in the employee bathroom.
He pulled down his sweatpants and stared.
His ass was rounder, fuller than yesterday, the cheeks noticeably softer when he cupped one.
He didn’t slap it. He just squeezed, feeling how the flesh molded around his fingers.
A warm bead welled up at the tip of his cock and slid down the shaft. He wiped it away quickly, but the dampness lingered.
Why does pressure there make it worse? What the fuck is wrong with me?
He pulled his pants back up, the wet spot already spreading, and went back to work.
No one noticed.
Only Jake.
The next day he woke up feeling worse.
His whole body felt… wrong. Softer. Heavier in places it shouldn’t be.
Sarah was already gone—another note on the fridge: “Planning on bringing home food for dinner. Text me what you want. Love you my big guy.”
He stared at it longer this time.
The nickname grated now, like sand in a cut.
He ripped the note off the fridge and crumpled it,
then immediately regretted it and tried to smooth it out again.
She sees the old me. Why can’t I?
In the mirror, his chest had grown noticeably—soft mounds now, small but unmistakable,
jiggling faintly when he breathed too hard. The nipples stood out, thick and dark, hypersensitive to the air itself.
His hips were noticeably wider. His waist narrower.
His ass had plumped further, cheeks brushing together when he shifted weight from one foot to the other.
He called in sick to work. Told his boss he had a stomach bug.
No one questioned it.
He spent the entire day at home.
First he tried to sleep it off.
That didn’t work—he woke up hard, arousal constant,
a steady dampness already darkening the front of his boxers before he even stood.
Then he sat on the couch in his boxers, laptop open.
He searched frantically.
“sudden body changes in men”
“chest swelling men overnight”
“voice cracking adult male”
“ass growth causes”
“shrinking penis reasons”
“why is my body turning feminine”
The results were useless—hormone imbalance, gynecomastia, low testosterone, weight gain, stress.
None explained the speed, the precision, the pornographic way his ass was rounding
while his cock shrank like it was being erased.
He clicked on forums.
Reddit threads about “sudden feminization”—mostly jokes or fetish posts.
One guy claimed he was growing tits after a new supplement.
Another said it was “body dysmorphia.”
None of them mentioned anything like this.
He slammed the laptop shut.
This isn’t real. I’m imagining it. Stress. I need to relax.
He tried to watch TV. Every commercial with a fit guy made his stomach twist.
Every time he shifted on the couch, the cushions pressed up into plush flesh that spread beneath him.
He reached back once, fingers tracing the new curve. The touch sent a shiver up his spine; his tiny cock twitched and leaked again.
He yanked his hand away like it burned.
He showered—long, hot, trying to scrub the feeling away.
The water hitting his nipples made them draw tight and send heat pooling low in his belly.
He stood there, aching, dripping, but no release.
Just endless, frustrating arousal.
This is not me. This is not my body. I’m going crazy.
He dried off, avoided the mirror as much as he could,
put on baggy sweats and a hoodie.
He spent the rest of the day on the couch, staring at nothing,
muttering to himself, “It’ll stop. It has to stop.”
It didn’t.
Around 4 p.m., his phone buzzed with an email notification.
Unknown sender: “You feel it, don’t you? The changes. The softness. The need.
It’s only the beginning, handsome. See you soon Jake. — Your new favorite stranger”
Jake stared at the screen, pulse racing so hard he felt dizzy.
How the fuck do they know my name?
Who is this? Is this a prank? A stalker? Did Sarah send this?
Is someone fucking with me while I’m losing my mind?
He deleted the email. Blocked the address.
Told himself it was spam. A coincidence.
But the words kept echoing.
Handsome. See you soon.
He rubbed the spot on his chest where the tingling was strongest now.
He had no idea how much worse it was going to get.
The next day was worse.
He woke up to Sarah kissing his cheek goodbye.
“Love you, big guy,” she said. “Have a good day.”
His voice cracked when he said “you too.” She didn’t react.
In the mirror, his breasts had swelled further—full and weighty now,
swaying gently with every breath, nipples thick and painfully erect even through the hoodie.
The slightest movement triggered a warm trickle down his inner thigh.
His hips were noticeably wider. His ass bounced more noticeably when he walked across the room.
At work, he avoided bending over. He avoided reflective surfaces.
But he couldn’t avoid the constant awareness.
Every time he sat, the chair cradled soft flesh that hadn’t been there before.
Every time he walked, the cheeks shifted against each other in a way that made his breath hitch.
Every breath dragged fabric across his sensitive nipples,
coaxing fresh dampness into his underwear.
He was going insane.
And no one noticed.
The fourth day, Riley came back.
Jake was in aisle 5, restocking screws, when he felt it—
that same prickling awareness, that same heat crawling up his spine.
He turned.
A stranger was leaning against the endcap: dramatic makeup,
long chestnut hair spilling over one shoulder, cropped top hugging a slender waist,
skin-tight white shorts stretched over an obscene, plush shelf of an ass that jiggled with hypnotic weight.
The figure looked like some kind of exotic fantasy—feminine, over-the-top, impossible to ignore.
Jake’s stomach lurched.
He recognized the face vaguely—the glossy red lips, the smoky eyes—but couldn’t place it.
The email from yesterday flashed in his mind: See you soon. — Your new favorite stranger
His hands clenched around the screw box.
“Who the hell are you?” Jake hissed, stepping forward,
voice cracking high for a second before dropping.
“Why are you following me? Did you send that fucking email? What do you want?”
Riley tilted his head, smile slow and wicked, never wavering.
“Following you?” Riley purred softly, voice low enough that only Jake could hear.
“I just happened to need some… hardware. And here you are, handsome.
Looking a little… different today.”
Jake’s face flushed hot with rage and confusion.
“Different? You don’t even know me. Get the fuck out before I call security.”
Riley didn’t move.
He uncrossed his arms, letting his gaze rake slowly down Jake’s body—
lingering on the way the sweatpants strained over the rounded ass,
the noticeable swell under the shirt.
“You really don’t remember?” Riley whispered.
“Not even a little tingle from last time?”
Jake blinked, thrown.
“Last time? What the fuck are you talking about?”
Riley stepped closer—close enough that Jake could smell faint vanilla
and something sharper underneath.
Jake backed up instinctively, bumping into the shelf.
“Stay away from me,” Jake growled, but his voice wavered.
His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat.
This person—whoever they were—was looking at him like they knew something.
Like they were enjoying this.
Riley’s hand moved casually, slipping under the hem of Jake’s shirt.
Bare palm pressed flat against the soft, heavy mound of Jake’s chest.
Jake gasped—electric fire shot through him, nipples hardening instantly under the touch.
Riley squeezed gently.
The sensation exploded.
Jake’s breasts swelled another half-cup in seconds,
pushing into full, heavy C-cups that strained his shirt,
swaying noticeably with his ragged breathing.
His ass plumped visibly, cheeks rounding further into an obscene shelf,
straining the sweatpants with an audible creak of fabric
and a soft clap as he shifted in shock.
His cock—already shrunken—throbbed once, then erupted.
Hard.
Explosive.
Uncontrollable.
Hot spurts soaked through his boxers, bled into the sweatpants,
dripped down his inner thigh in thick trails.
Jake’s knees buckled.
He grabbed the shelf to stay upright, breathing in ragged gasps.
Riley pulled back slowly, licking glossy red lips.
“Next time you see me, you’ll finally understand.”
He turned and walked away, hips swaying, heavy juicy cheeks rippling visibly with each step.
Jake stood frozen in the aisle, legs shaking, wet warmth spreading down his leg.
Customers walked past without a glance.
A coworker pushed a cart by, nodding casually like nothing had happened.
Only Jake felt the mess.
Only Jake saw his reflection in the metal shelf—
tits fuller and heavier, ass obscene, face flushed and wrecked.
And in the haze of humiliation and aftershock,
one tiny, impossible thought flickered through his mind:
Wait… you…
He shoved it down immediately.
No. That’s crazy. That’s the madness talking.
This person is just some freak who… who touched me and… fuck, no.
It’s not connected. It can’t be.
He finished his shift in a daze, walking stiffly to hide the wet spot,
avoiding every mirror and every eye contact.
When he got home, Sarah was already there, sitting on the couch with her phone in her lap, eyes red like she’d been crying or staring at it too long.
She looked up as he closed the door.
“Jake.”
He froze in the entryway, the wet spot on his sweatpants suddenly burning, his chest throbbing with the new weight.
“Hey… babe. You’re home early.”
Sarah set her phone down, voice low and tight.
“I took the afternoon off. I couldn’t concentrate.
You’ve been… gone. For days. You barely look at me, you flinch when I touch you,
and tonight you walk in looking like you’ve seen something you can’t unsee.
What happened at work? Tell me the truth.”
Jake’s throat closed. He tried to shrug it off.
“Nothing. Just a long day. I’m tired.”
Sarah stood up, stepping closer.
“Stop. Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me.
You came home shaking, Jake. Your face is pale, you’re sweating,
and you’re holding yourself like you’re afraid of your own body.
I know you. This isn’t ‘tired.’ This is something else.
Talk to me. Please. I’m scared.”
Jake’s hands shook. The memory of Riley’s hand on his chest flashed — the squeeze, the fire, the swelling starting.
He wanted to tell her. The words clawed up his throat: some freak touched me and now I’m turning into… into this.
But how could he say it? She’d think he was losing his mind. She’d leave.
“I… I can’t,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t believe me. You’d think I’m crazy.”
Sarah’s eyes filled with tears.
“Try me. I love you. I’ve loved you through everything — the yelling, the apologies, the distance.
But I can’t love a ghost. If you shut me out now, I don’t know how much longer I can stay.”
Jake looked down at his chest, hidden under the hoodie, the new weight pulling at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice breaking. “I just… I need time. I’ll figure it out.”
Sarah stared at him, hurt flashing across her face.
“Time. That’s what you always say.”
She turned away, wiping her eyes. “I’m going to bed. Alone tonight.”
She walked to the bedroom and closed the door softly — not a slam, just a quiet click that hurt more.
Jake stood in the living room, alone, the silence louder than ever thinking about earlier that day after he left work
On the drive home, his phone buzzed once—unknown number.
A photo loaded: Riley from earlier that day, same cropped top and white shorts, posing in what looked like the hardware store bathroom mirror, glossy lips curved in that same wicked smile. Caption:
“Hope you don’t mind—I asked one of your coworkers for your number. You looked so cute blushing in aisle 5. I’m the only one who really sees you right now. Hang in there, handsome. ”
Jake’s thumb hovered over block, stomach twisting. He hit it anyway, but the image was already burned into his head.
The days blurred after that.
He called in sick again the next morning. And the next.
His boss's tone shifted from concern to irritation.
“This is getting serious, Jake. We need to talk when you come back.”
He didn’t come back.
The changes kept coming in quiet, relentless waves.
His breasts pushed past C-cups, heavy and tender,
nipples so sensitive that even the brush of cotton against them made him gasp and clench.
He started wearing two hoodies layered, claiming he was cold,
but Sarah just watched him with quiet worry.
His ass had become impossible to ignore—shelf-like, bouncing with every step,
cheeks shifting and brushing in a rhythm that made his breath catch when he hurried to the bathroom.
He stopped wearing anything fitted.
Sweatpants hung low on his narrowing waist, the seat stretched tight over curves that didn’t belong.
His cock shrank further, barely three inches hard now, leaking almost constantly from the slightest provocation.
He had to change underwear three times a day.
His voice settled higher, softer, cracking less but never quite returning to normal.
When he answered a call from his mom, the “Hey Mom” came out lighter than he remembered. She didn’t comment. To her it had always sounded that way.
Sarah tried to reach him in small ways.
One evening she cooked his favorite meal—steak and mashed potatoes—
and set the table for two.
Jake sat across from her, hoodie zipped high, hands in his lap.
“You barely ate,” she said softly after he pushed the plate away half-finished.
“Not hungry.”
She reached across the table. “Jake. Look at me.”
He did, eyes glassy.
“I miss the way you used to grab me from behind while I cooked,” she said. “The way you’d rest your chin on my shoulder and hum off-key.
I miss hearing your real laugh, not this quiet thing you do now.
I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m losing you and I don’t know how to stop it.”
He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all you say anymore. Sorry. I don’t want sorry.
I want my boyfriend back.”
He couldn’t answer. The weight of his breasts pressed against the table edge.
A fresh trickle soaked into the waistband of his boxers.
Sarah stood up, tears in her eyes.
“I love you. But I can’t keep pretending everything’s okay when it’s not.”
She walked to the bedroom and closed the door quietly.
Jake stayed at the table until the food went cold.
That night he lay on the couch again, listening to her quiet sobs through the wall.
Another text came the next afternoon.
Unknown number: “You’re almost ready to let go. I can feel it.
Your body’s begging for it. Soon you’ll beg too.”
No photo this time. Just words.
Jake threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and cracked.
He didn’t pick it up.
The changes accelerated.
His hips flared wider, waist cinching in until he had an exaggerated hourglass.
His breasts swelled to D-cups, heavy and swaying, nipples perpetually hard and dark.
Walking became humiliating—every step sent them bouncing,
rubbing against layered fabric, triggering heat that pooled low and refused to fade.
His cock was barely two inches now, soft most of the time, leaking steadily whenever he moved too quickly or sat wrong.
He caught himself adjusting the front of his sweatpants constantly, trying to hide the damp patches.
His voice settled higher, softer. When he tried to yell at the TV in frustration, it came out as a strained whine instead of a shout.
Sarah still didn’t notice. To her, his voice had always carried that gentle edge.
She stopped trying to touch him.
She stopped cooking for two.
She stopped saying “Love you, big guy” when she left in the morning.
Instead she just kissed his forehead and whispered, “I’m here if you need me.”
He needed her more than ever.
But he couldn’t let her see.
Riley’s texts came more frequently.
“You’re so close. Just open the door next time I knock.”
“I know you’re home. I can feel you trembling.”
“I’ll make it feel good. You know I will.”
Jake deleted them all.
But the messages kept coming.
One evening Sarah came home early.
She found him curled on the couch, hoodie hood up, rocking slightly.
She sat beside him.
“Jake.”
He didn’t look up.
“I called your work today. They said you haven’t been in for two weeks.
They’re letting you go. Effective immediately.”
He closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought… maybe if I knew what was happening,
I could help. But you won’t tell me.”
“I can’t,” he whispered.
She reached out, touched his arm.
He flinched hard, the contact sending a jolt straight to his nipples.
Sarah’s hand dropped.
“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” she said quietly.
“I love you. But I’m scared. And I’m tired.”
She packed a small bag and left.
The apartment felt empty.
He sat in the dark for hours.
The silence was deafening.
Riley’s texts continued.
“You’re alone now. No job. No girl. Just you and the body you hate.”
“I can make it stop hurting. Open the door.”
Jake stared at the cracked screen.
His hand hovered over the reply button.
He typed one word.
Please.
He sent it.
Then he waited.
Three days passed.
No answer from Sarah.
No call from work.
Just the slow, relentless softening of his body.
His breasts reached E-cups, heavy and aching,
nipples so sensitive he could barely tolerate the brush of any fabric. He started sleeping shirtless under the hoodie just to breathe.
His ass was obscene, shelf-like, clapping softly whenever he hurried across the hardwood to the bathroom.
His cock was a tiny nub, useless, constantly leaking at the slightest shift of weight or brush of thigh against thigh.
His hair had grown longer, his face softer, lips fuller.
He looked in the mirror and saw a stranger.
A beautiful, broken stranger.
On the fourth night alone, the knock came.
Soft. Deliberate.
Jake’s heart slammed against his ribs.
He stood up slowly.
Walked to the door.
His hand hovered over the knob.
He turned it.
Riley stood there, glossy lips curved, eyes gleaming.
“Hello, beautiful.”
Jake stepped back.
Riley stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Riley looked around the empty apartment, then back at Jake.
“You finally let me in.”
Jake’s voice was small, high. “Make it stop. Please.”
Riley smiled—slow, wicked, knowing.
“Oh, handsome. I’m not here to stop it.”
He stepped closer.
Jake backed up until he hit the wall.
Riley reached out, fingers tracing the swell of Jake’s breasts through the hoodie.
“You’ve grown so much for me.”
Jake whimpered.
Riley’s hand slid lower, cupping the obscene curve of Jake’s ass.
“Feel that? That’s what you were meant to be.”
Jake shook his head, tears falling.
Riley leaned in, breath hot against Jake’s ear.
“I’m going to show you what you’ve been fighting.”
He pulled back just enough to unzip his own pants.
Jake’s eyes locked onto it in pure horrified fascination—the thickest, longest cock he had ever seen, veined and throbbing menacingly, a solid nine inches of raw power that made his stomach drop and his mouth go dry. Shock froze him completely even as his tiny nub twitched desperately, leaking a fresh hot gush down his thigh, his hole clenching with an unwanted, aching hunger that betrayed everything he was screaming inside.
“You thought I was a girl?” Riley purred, stroking himself slowly.
“This is what real power looks like.
This is what touched you that night at the bar.
One squeeze and your whole world started breaking.”
Jake recoiled, back pressed harder against the wall.
“You’re… you’re a man? All this time? You… you flirted with me, you touched me…
you made me think—”
His voice cracked, high and panicked.
“No… no way… you’re a woman… you have to be…
this can’t be real… I’m not… I’m straight… I have a girlfriend… you tricked me!”
Riley laughed softly, low and cruel.
“You thought I was a woman because I let you.
Makeup, curves, the sway—it’s easy to make men see what they want to see.
But now you see me. Really see me.
And you’re still going to take every inch.”
Jake’s stomach churned. Humiliation burned hotter than ever.
“No! Fuck you! Get away from me!”
He shoved at Riley’s chest, trying to push past,
but his arms felt weak, his legs unsteady.
“This can’t be happening… I’m not gay… I don’t want this!”
Even as he screamed it, his nipples hardened traitorously under the hoodie,
a fresh hot leak soaking his boxers.
Why is my body reacting? This is disgusting… he’s a man…
why does it feel… good?
Riley caught his wrists easily, pinning them above his head against the wall.
“Shhh. Look at you fighting. So cute.
But your body already knows who it belongs to.”
He ground his thick cock against Jake’s thigh.
“Feel that? That’s what you’re going to beg for in a minute.”
Jake thrashed, twisting, trying to knee him, but Riley’s grip was iron.
“Let go! I’m not gay! I don’t want this!”
His voice cracked higher, tears pricking.
“Please… don’t… I can’t… I’m not supposed to like this…”
Riley dragged him to the couch and threw him down.
“On your knees first, beautiful. Show me how much you’ve learned.”
Jake tried to scramble away. “No! Fuck you!”
But Riley grabbed his hair and forced his head down.
Jake’s lips parted against his will as the thick head pushed past them.
Riley slid inside—thick, hot, stretching his mouth wide.
Jake gagged immediately, tears springing to his eyes.
Riley held his head in place, thrusting slow and deep.
“That’s it. Feel how thick I am. How much you’re taking for me.
Your little clit is already dripping just from sucking cock.”
Jake moaned around the shaft, shame flooding him.
Why does it feel good? This is wrong… he’s a man…
but my throat… my body… I hate this… I hate how much I’m leaking…
Riley fucked his mouth with deliberate rhythm—
pulling back until just the head rested on Jake’s tongue,
letting him taste the salt and pre-cum,
then sliding deep again until Jake’s nose pressed against Riley’s smooth groin.
“Look at me while you suck. See the man who owns you now.”
Jake’s eyes lifted, meeting Riley’s gaze—dark, triumphant, merciless.
Riley groaned. “Good girl.”
He pulled out abruptly, strings of saliva connecting Jake’s swollen lips
to the glistening cock.
“On the couch. On your back. Legs spread. Show me everything.”
Jake crawled onto the cushions, back against the armrest,
legs falling open despite himself.
Riley pushed the hoodie up, exposing the full, heavy E-cups.
He leaned down, sucked one thick nipple into his mouth,
teeth grazing, tongue flicking hard.
Jake arched, crying out—pleasure and humiliation crashing together.
Riley switched to the other nipple, biting harder,
tugging with his teeth until Jake sobbed.
Riley moved lower, spreading Jake’s thighs wide.
“Look at this pretty little pussy I made for you.”
He lined up the thick head and pushed in.
Jake screamed—a high, broken sound—as the massive cock stretched him open,
inch by thick inch, until Riley bottomed out, balls pressed against Jake’s ass.
“Fuck… so tight. So perfect.”
Riley started slow, rolling his hips in missionary,
letting Jake feel every vein, every ridge dragging inside him.
Then harder. Deeper.
Jake’s breasts bounced wildly with each thrust, nipples dragging against the air,
sending jolts straight to his core.
His ass clapped wetly against the cushions.
His tiny cock dribbled steadily onto his stomach.
Riley taunted him with every thrust.
“Feel that, beautiful? That’s a real man filling you up.
Your little clit is leaking all over yourself.
You love it, don’t you? Say it.”
Jake sobbed, hips rocking despite himself.
“No… this is wrong… I’m not supposed to like this…
why is my body… why does it feel so good?
I hate this… I hate you… but fuck… it’s so deep… so full…”
Riley flipped him onto all fours for doggy style,
gripping the new shelf of an ass and slamming in deep.
“Look at this fat bubble butt I gave you. Perfect for taking cock. Say thank you.”
Jake whispered "thank you"
Jake’s face pressed into the cushion, tears soaking the fabric.
Why is my ass clenching around him?
Why does every thrust make me leak more?
This is disgusting… he’s a man… I’m straight…
but my body is loving it… why?
Riley laughed. “Thank you for what?”
Jake’s voice broke. “Thank you… for fucking me…”
Riley sped up, pounding mercilessly. “Louder.”
“Thank you for fucking me!”
Riley pulled out and flipped him again,
forcing Jake to straddle him in reverse-cowgirl.
“Ride it, slut. Show me how grateful you are.”
Jake’s hands braced on Riley’s thighs as he bounced,
breasts jiggling, ass slapping against Riley’s hips.
Riley reached around, pinching both nipples hard.
“Your little clit is leaking all over my stomach.
You love being fucked by a real man, don’t you?”
Jake’s internal conflict raged.
Why is my body moving like this? Why am I riding him?
I hate this… I hate him… but it feels… so good… so full…
I can’t stop… why can’t I stop?
Riley sped up, pounding up into him mercilessly.
“Say you belong to me.”
Jake sobbed, hips rocking faster. “I… I belong to you!”
Riley groaned, slamming in deep.
Jake’s body tensed.
He came—untouched, ruined, hips bucking wildly—
a long, broken wail escaping as his tiny cock spurted weakly across his stomach.
Riley thrust one final time and filled him deep.
Hot, thick pulses inside. Jake felt every spurt,
body clenching around the invading cock.
Then the door opened.
Sarah stood there, keys in hand.
She froze.
Saw Jake—face flushed, body writhing, moaning like a whore,
straddling Riley, riding what looked like a strap-on buried deep.
Saw Riley—the beautiful woman she thought she was—beneath Jake, thrusting up.
Her eyes went wide with shock and betrayal.
Then narrow with pure rage.
“GET OFF HIM!” she screamed, voice cracking with fury and tears.
“Get the fuck off my boyfriend, you bitch!”
Jake’s head snapped toward the door in raw panic. The scream ripped through the haze and he jerked upright, scrambling off Riley in one frantic, clumsy motion. He tumbled sideways onto the couch cushions, the thick cock sliding out of him with a wet pop as he curled instinctively, chest heaving, face burning with horror.
She dropped the keys, grabbed the heavy lamp from the side table, and charged.
Riley turned too late.
The lamp base cracked against his skull with a sickening thud. Blood sprayed.
Riley slumped sideways.
Sarah hit him again. And again. And again.
Tears streamed down her face as she swung.
“You hurt him! You took him from me! Get off him!”
Blood sprayed across the cushions, across her hands, across Jake’s chest.
Until Riley stopped moving.
Jake stared, stunned, chest heaving.
Sarah dropped the lamp, hands shaking, blood on her fingers.
She rushed to him, pulling him into her arms.
“Jake… what the fuck was that? Who was she? Why were you…?”
Riley’s body went still.
Immediately following Riley’s death "The obsidian star on Riley’s palm flickered once and went dark — and with it, every change he’d ever made unraveled."
The tingling in Jake’s chest stopped instantly.
His body began to change.
Breasts shrinking.
Ass deflating.
Cock thickening, lengthening back to its original size.
Hair shortening.
Face sharpening.
Voice dropping.
In seconds, he was himself again—the old Jake, the real Jake.
Sarah pulled back, eyes wide.
“Oh my god… Jake?”
He looked down at his restored body.
Then at her.
Tears streaming.
“It was him. All of it. He… he did this to me.
He wasn’t a woman. He was a man.
He used some kind of power on me.
The changes… the way everyone saw me… it was him.”
Sarah stared at the dead body on the floor—now clearly male, cock still half-hard.
She understood.
She hugged him tighter, sobbing.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t see. I’m so sorry I left you alone with this monster.”
They held each other for a long time, shaking.
Then Sarah looked at the body, voice hoarse.
“We need to get rid of him. Together.
I thought I lost you forever… I can’t lose you again.”
Jake nodded, tears falling.
“I’m so sorry I put you through all of this.
I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you.
I was scared… I thought you’d leave me for real.”
They wrapped him in a blanket from the couch.
Carried him to the car in silence, both still crying.
Drove to a remote spot in the woods outside town.
Dug a shallow grave with shovels from the garage, hands raw and dirty.
Buried him.
Covered the spot with leaves and branches.
Drove home at dawn, windows down, cold air rushing in.
Neither spoke much at first.
When they got inside, Sarah locked the door.
Turned to him.
“I thought I lost you forever,” she whispered, voice breaking.
Jake pulled her close. “You saved me. I’m so sorry for everything.”
She buried her face in his chest.
“We’re okay now. You’re you again. That’s all that matters.”
They stood there, holding each other, until the sun rose.
Later they showered together—warm water washing away the blood and dirt and fear.
Jake held her under the spray, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her lips.
“I love you. I never stopped.
Even when I was… that thing… I was still fighting for us.”
Sarah nodded, tears mixing with water.
“I love you too big guy. We’re going to be okay. Together.”
They stood under the water until it ran cold,
wrapped in towels, and fell into bed—
the first real sleep either of them had had in weeks.
The apartment felt safe again.
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