Evie's Emporium 🩷

---

The DM was casual. Friendly, even.

hey babe! so we're both doing fairycore and I think we'd be stronger together than competing. collab stream? we split the boost, grow both our audiences, and the game gets ONE clear face instead of two girls fighting. lmk 💕

Luna read it three times. She showed it to her mod team. They thought it sounded smart. Avoid drama. Build together. Luna typed back:

omg yes!! that sounds so fun! I'd love to collab!! 💖

Trixie screenshotted the message and sent it to her private group chat with the caption: got her.

---

The first collab stream was a monster.

They ran it on both channels simultaneously—Trixie's and Luna's—split screen, both playing Fairycore Farm, racing to build the best fairy garden in two hours. The chat was electric. Forty thousand concurrent viewers on Trixie's channel. Thirty-five thousand on Luna's. Fairycore Farm itself retweeted them. The game's Discord lit up.

And Trixie was on.

She was funnier. Quicker. She had a comeback for everything. When Luna fumbled placing a fairy cottage, Trixie swooped in with a perfectly timed "babe, the fairies are homeless now, you know that right?" and the chat exploded. When Trixie made a mistake, she turned it into a bit—gasping, pouting, blaming her "stupid sexy hands." Luna laughed along, but she was playing defence all stream. Reacting. Following.

Trixie made sure she was leading.

The stream ended. The clips went up within the hour. And here was the thing—here was the knife—Trixie's clips were better. Not because she'd edited them. Because she'd performed better. Every highlight reel was 80% Trixie. Every thumbnail was Trixie's face, pink and silver and smirking, with Luna blurred in the background like a guest star on her own show.

Luna's channel gained twelve thousand subscribers from the collab.

Trixie's gained forty-seven thousand.

(I just have more screen presence, Trixie told herself, examining her nails. It's not my fault she's boring.)

---

Part Two: Guest Star

Two weeks later, Luna was still feeling it.

That weird, lingering sensation that the stream had been Trixie's show and she'd just been... invited. She checked her comments. Her clips. Her numbers had settled—still good, but flat. Trixie's were still climbing. Trixie had been picked up by a couple of gaming compilation channels. Her clips had millions of views. She was becoming the Fairycore Farm girl.

Luna's confidence wobbled.

She considered reaching out to Trixie about another collab—something more balanced this time, maybe they could plan the bits together—but before she could, Trixie messaged her.

okay so I've been thinking. the collab was HUGE but I think we left views on the table. my audience loved you but the split screen thing was confusing. what if you come on as a GUEST on my channel? one stream, one chat, way cleaner. you'll get exposure to my whole audience. it's a win for you babe.

Luna stared at the message. A guest. On Trixie's channel. Not a collab. A guest.

(Something prickled at the back of her neck. That doesn't sound like equals, said the small voice in her head. That sounds like she's the host and you're the sidekick.)

But Trixie had 180k subscribers now. Luna had 71k. The math was simple.

sure! sounds great! 😊

---

The guest stream was worse.

Trixie controlled everything. The layout. The overlays. The stream title: TRIXIE X + SPECIAL GUEST PLAY FAIRYCORE FARM!! Luna's name wasn't in the title. Luna's face was in a small box in the corner. Trixie's filled the screen—blonde hair cascading over bare shoulders, a pink crop top that was essentially a bra, silver choker catching the light.

And Trixie was ruthless.

Not overtly. Never overtly. She was sweet to Luna's face. "Oh my god babe, I love your cosplay today!" (Luna was wearing a simple fairy ear headband—she'd dressed down for the guest spot, not wanting to compete.) "You're so cute!" But every joke landed at Luna's expense. Every bit positioned Trixie as the star and Luna as the cute, slightly clueless friend.

"Wait, you don't know about the moonflower crossbreeding? Babe, have you even played this game?" Laughter. Chat laughter. Emotes.

"I—yeah, I just haven't gotten to that part yet—"

"Don't worry, I'll teach you." Paternal. Condescending. Trixie placed a hand on Luna's shoulder and smiled at the camera. The chat ate it up.

Then came the comments.

Luna was reading chat between gameplay—she always did, it was part of her charm—and the messages started to shift.

trixie is so much better lmao

luna plays like my little brother 😂

why is she so bad at this game

luna kinda gives boy energy ngl

Boy energy. Luna's stomach did a weird little flip. She laughed it off on camera—"haha, boy energy, okay chat!"—but her voice was higher than usual. Thinner.

After the stream, Trixie called her on Discord. Video off, just voice. Honey-sweet.

"Babe, don't worry about chat. They're just like that. But honestly..." A pause. Calculated. "They kind of have a point? Not in a mean way! But you play really... carefully. Methodically. It's very boy-brained. I play on instinct and vibes, you know? Girl energy. You play like you're reading a strategy guide."

Luna blinked. "I... what?"

"It's not a bad thing! It's just different. Hey—" Trixie's voice brightened, as if an idea had just occurred to her. As if she hadn't been thinking about it for three days. "What if we leaned into it? For the next stream. Chat loved the 'boy energy' thing. What if you cosplayed as a boy? Like, as a joke? It would be so funny. You'd wear, like, dorky guy clothes and we'd tie your hair up and call you Luke."

"What? No, that's—"

"It'd be a bit! Just a bit. Chat would go insane. It'd be the most clipped thing ever. Trust me."

(I don't want to be a boy, Luna thought. I'm a girl. I like being a girl. I like my cosplay and my outfits and my—)

"Come on, babe. Don't be boring. This is how you go viral."

The silence stretched.

"...fine. Okay. Fine. But just once."

Trixie hung up and immediately texted her mod team: she's doing it. luke arc starts next stream. make sure chat is ready.

---

Part Three: Luke

The clothes were awful.

Trixie had brought them to Luna's flat in a pink gift bag like it was a birthday present. "Here, babe! Your Luke outfit!" Inside: a baggy grey t-shirt that smelled faintly of thrift store. Khaki cargo shorts. White socks with sandals. A backwards baseball cap.

"This is literally the most pathetic outfit I've ever seen," Luna said, holding up the cargo shorts.

"That's the point! Luke is a dork. He's a simp. He's, like, the guy who watches e-girls and doesn't know how to talk to them. You're playing a character."

Luna put on the outfit. She tied her long brown hair into a bun and tucked it under the baseball cap. She looked in the mirror and felt a strange little lurch in her stomach. She looked... different. Not like Luna Honey. Like someone else. Someone smaller.

(Why do I look like I belong in a computer lab? she thought. And why does it feel... right? No. Not right. Just familiar. Like trying on a costume that almost fits.)

Trixie took a photo and posted it to Twitter. Caption: meet LUKE 😂 our new fairycore farm intern. he's a little loser but we love him. stream in 30!!

The stream hit 90k concurrent viewers.

Trixie was in full princess mode—pink lingerie top, silver skirt, glitter makeup, looking like a fairy queen who'd just stepped out of a fantasy and into a wet dream. And next to her, in the little corner box, was "Luke."

"Chat, meet Luke! He's my new assistant. He's going to help me farm today. Be nice to him—he's a little... slow."

The chat went feral.

LUKE THE SIMP

lmaooo he's so pathetic

why does luna actually look like a boy tho

luke is kinda cute in a loser way

trixie is SO much hotter than luna omg

Luna—Luke—played along. She tried to be funny. She tried to match Trixie's energy. But the outfit was swallowing her. The cap was too big. The cargo shorts hung off her hips. She felt like she was disappearing.

And Trixie just shone.

Every time Luke spoke, Trixie would cut in with something sharper, funnier, hotter. Every time Luke tried to make a play in the game, Trixie would override her. "No, Luke, you're doing it wrong. God, you really are a dumb boy, aren't you?" And she'd pout at the camera and the chat would spam laughing emotes and Trixie would wink.

The clip of Trixie saying "you really are a dumb boy, aren't you?" hit two million views in a day.

Luna went home and stood in front of her mirror for a long time. She was still wearing the Luke outfit. She should take it off. She should shower, wash off the weird feeling, put on her silk pyjamas and be Luna again.

Her breasts looked smaller.

She cupped them through the baggy grey t-shirt and frowned. They'd always been her best feature—full, round, the thing that made her cosplay pop. Now they seemed... deflated. Less there. She pulled the shirt tight against her body and stared.

(I'm just tired, she told herself. Long stream. I'm bloated. It's nothing.)

She took off the cap and her hair tumbled down. Brown. Pretty. She felt a wave of relief.

Then she noticed her hips. They looked narrower. She turned sideways. Her ass—her good ass, the one that made her Daisy cosplay iconic—looked flatter. Less round.

"What the fuck," she whispered.

She went to bed and told herself it was exhaustion. She'd feel normal in the morning.

---

Part Four: The Simp

Trixie insisted. Of course she insisted.

"Luke was the best thing we've ever done. The views are insane. You HAVE to do it again. My DMs are full of people asking when Luke is coming back."

"Trix, I don't know if I—"

"Babe. Don't sabotage this. We're building something. Luke is your viral moment. Do you want to go back to 70k subs playing fairy games in a bunny outfit? Or do you want to be part of something huge?"

Luna swallowed. "Part of something huge."

"Then be Luke. I'll send you the outfit. And..." Trixie's voice dropped, conspiratorial. "I have something else for you. Something that'll make it more real."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see."

---

The package arrived two days later. Inside the Luke outfit—same baggy shirt, same cargo shorts, same cap—there was a small pink box with a silver bow. Inside the box was a prosthetic penis. Small. Flesh-coloured. Realistic enough to be unsettling.

A note in Trixie's handwriting: wear it in your panties. it'll help you feel more like luke. trust me babe, it changes everything. 💕

Luna held it in her hand and felt the blood drain from her face.

(This is insane. This is fucking insane. I'm not wearing a fake dick. I'm a girl. I'm Luna Honey. I have 73k subscribers and a Patreon and a cosplay wardrobe and—)

And 73k was barely growing. While Trixie was at 230k and climbing. While Trixie was getting brand deals. While Trixie was becoming the face of Fairycore Farm.

Luna put on the Luke outfit. She tucked her hair under the cap. And then, with trembling hands, she slid the prosthetic into her panties.

It sat against her. Small. Warm from her body heat. Wrong.

(But also... something else. A strange settling. Like a puzzle piece clicking into a place she didn't know was empty.)

She streamed that day as Luke and felt the chat wash over her like cold water.

luke is back!! the simp returns

he's so pathetic I love it

trixie please step on luke

luke plays like a literal npc

Trixie was magnificent. She'd gone full fairy princess—pink wig, glitter body paint, a costume that was essentially lingerie with wings. She looked like sex poured into a fantasy. And she treated Luke with perfect, playful cruelty.

"Luke, fetch me the moonflower seeds. Good boy."

"Luke, you placed that wrong. Again. God, you're hopeless."

"Chat, should we keep Luke or fire him?"

FIRE HIM

KEEP HIM HE'S FUNNY

make him your simp trix

Trixie laughed—a bright, cruel, beautiful sound—and said, "He's not my simp. He's just my little loser assistant."

After the stream, Trixie didn't let Luna change. She invited her over to discuss further collabs, but told her to stay dressed as Luke as it would be funny. Luna drove over, feeling strange and awkward in her male outfit. She arrived at Trixie's place, a sleek apartment with pink LED lighting and a streaming setup that cost more than Luna's car.

"Stay like Luke for a bit," Trixie said, pouring herself a glass of wine. She'd changed out of the fairy costume into a pink silk robe that barely covered her thighs. She looked incredible. She always looked incredible. "I want to show you something."

She led Luke into her bedroom. The streaming room was adjacent—cameras still set up, ring lights still warm. But the bedroom was the show. A massive bed with pink sheets. A vanity covered in makeup. And on a shelf, arranged like trophies, Trixie's dildo collection.

Luna had heard about it. Every e-girl had heard about Trixie's dildo collection. It was legendary. Sizes from "reasonable" to "medically inadvisable." Colours from pink to black to glittery purple. And at the end of the shelf, the dragon.

The dragon dildo was enormous. Knobbly. Ridged. A fantasy toy that looked like it had been designed by someone who wanted to fuck a mythical creature and was very specific about the anatomy.

Trixie caught Luke staring.

"Like what you see, little guy?" She picked up the dragon and turned it in her hands. "This is my favourite. You want to see how it works?"

"I—what—"

"Sit down." Trixie pointed to the floor. "There. Sit like a good boy."

Luke sat. The prosthetic in his panties pressed against him. Small. Warm. Weirdly present.

Trixie dropped the silk robe. Underneath: nothing. Her body was a weapon—tight, toned, gym-sculpted. Small, perfect breasts with pink nipples. A flat stomach. A waxed, glistening pussy that she'd clearly prepped for this moment.

She climbed onto the bed and positioned the dragon dildo on a suction mount. She looked at Luke—looked at Luna, trapped in that dorky outfit, cap pulled low, baggy shirt swallowing her diminishing frame—and smiled.

"Watch carefully, Luke. This is what a real girl looks like when she's having fun."

She lowered herself onto the dragon.

Mmmmmh…

The sound Trixie made was obscene. A long, shuddering moan as the massive toy stretched her open. Her pussy clung to the ridges, pink lips spreading around the girth, slick and shining. She took it inch by inch—her thighs trembling, her back arching, her mouth open.

"Fuck… oh fuck, that's so good…"

Luke watched. Luna watched. Whatever was left of both of them stared as Trixie rode the dragon dildo with slow, grinding rolls of her perfect hips. Her breasts bounced. Her abs flexed. Her pussy made wet, obscene sounds—schlick, schlick, schlick—as she fucked herself on the toy.

"You see this, Luke?" Trixie gasped, grinding down. "This is what you'll never have. This pussy? This body? You're just a little boy now. A little loser who watches. That's all you are."

(I'm not a boy. I'm Luna. I'm a girl. I have breasts and a pussy and I—)

But her breasts were barely there now. Under the baggy shirt, her chest was almost flat. And between her legs, the prosthetic pulsed with a strange warmth, and her pussy—her actual pussy—felt... closed. Tight. Like it was sealing up.

Trixie was close. Her rhythm got faster. Harder. She was slamming down onto the dragon dildo now, her ass clapping against the silicone base, her fingers clawing at her own tits.

"Fuck yes—fuck—FUCK—"

She came with a scream. And she squirted—a clear, hot stream that arced off the bed and splashed across Luke's face.

Warm. Wet. Trixie's cum on Luna's—on Luke's—skin. Dripping down. Tasting of salt and sweetness and something that made the prosthetic between his legs throb.

Luna had never been so turned on in her life.

(What's happening to me. What's happening to me. What's—)

"Good boy," Trixie whispered, still trembling. "Now go home. And think about what you are."

---

Part Five: Goon

Luke went home. Luna went home. Whatever was left of both went back to the small flat with the ring light and the cosplay wardrobe and the mirror that showed lies.

The prosthetic wouldn't come off.

Luna stood in the bathroom, tugging at it. It was fused. The flesh-coloured silicone had merged with her skin—the seam gone, the texture matching, the tiny cock now sitting where her clit had been as if it had always been there. She pulled harder. Pain. Real pain. Like tearing off a scab.

"No. No, no, no—"

She grabbed her phone to call someone—anyone—but her thumb hovered over the contacts and a strange, heavy apathy settled over her. Like a warm blanket made of fog. Like sinking into a bath that was too hot but felt too good to leave.

(So tired. So tired of fighting. Just sit down. Just watch something. Just—)

She sat at her computer. She opened her browser. She typed "Trixie X stream" into the search bar and clicked the first result.

Trixie was live. 140k concurrent viewers. She was wearing a pink bunny girl cosplay—ears, leotard, fishnets—and playing Fairycore Farm with a radiant, effortless charm that made Luna's chest ache.

Luke watched.

He didn't comment. Didn't chat. Didn't interact. He just watched. His hand drifted to the tiny cock—his cock now, fused and real—and he stroked it. Slowly. Mindlessly. The way a gooner strokes. The way a simp strokes. Eyes glazed. Mouth open. Brain off.

(You used to be her rival. You used to be Luna Honey. You used to—)

The voice was getting quieter.

He watched Trixie for four hours. He came twice—small, weak orgasms that barely produced anything, just a little leak and a shudder. He didn't clean up. He just kept watching.

When the stream ended, he sat in the dark for a while.

Then he went to bed.

---

Part Six: The Reveal

The next morning, Luke went to Trixie's apartment. He didn't know why. He didn't question it. He just... went. Like a dog returning to its owner.

Trixie opened the door in a pink silk slip, blonde hair in a messy bun, looking like she'd slept eight hours and orgasmed twice before breakfast. She looked at Luke—shorter now, definitely shorter, his frame narrower, his face harder, his hair somehow shorter even though he hadn't cut it—and smiled.

"Come in, little guy."

He followed her to the kitchen. She made coffee. She sat on the counter with her legs crossed and sipped while he stood there in his baggy clothes, cap in his hands, waiting.

"You want to know what's happening to you," Trixie said. Not a question.

"I—yes. My body. The—down there. It's—"

"Real." Trixie set down her coffee. "Yeah. It's real. You have a cock now. A tiny one, but still. Your tits are gone. Your hips are gone. Your pussy is gone. You're becoming a boy, Luna. Or Luke, I should say. Because Luna's almost gone too."

His heart hammered. "How?"

Trixie held up her hand. On her ring finger: a silver ring with a pink stone. Luna had seen it before. Trixie always wore it. She'd said it was from her grandmother.

"This isn't from my grandmother. This is a spell ring. I bought it from a very weird woman in Camden Market who told me it does one thing: it transfers feminine power from one girl to another. The more powerful and successful I become, the more feminine energy I drain from the person I've targeted." She smiled. "I targeted you."

"You—"

"From the very beginning. The collab. The guest streams. The Luke bit. The prosthetic. All of it. Every time my channel grew, every time my views went up, every time chat chose me over you—you got a little less. A little less Luna. A little more Luke." She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. "And it's irreversible, babe. You're already mostly Luke. By tonight, Luna will be gone completely."

Luke stared at her. His mouth was dry. His tiny cock was hard in his cargo shorts. And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that looking at Trixie, looking at her perfect body in that slip, her blonde hair, her pink lips, her cruel, beautiful eyes, he didn't feel angry.

He felt horny.

(No. Fight. You have to fight. You're Luna Honey. You're a—)

"A what?" Trixie slid off the counter and stepped toward him. "A girl? You're not a girl, Luke. Look at yourself."

He looked down. Flat chest. Narrow hips. A tiny tent in his cargo shorts.

"You're a boy. A small, pathetic, irrelevant boy. And I'm—" She pressed her body against him. Her breasts—full, round, feminine—pushed against his flat chest. Her pussy, under that slip, was warm against his thigh. "—everything you're not. Everything you lost."

She took his hand and placed it on her breast. Soft. Heavy. Real. The kind of breast Luna used to have. The kind of breast Luke would never have again.

"Feel that? That's feminine power. That's what I took from you. And it feels so fucking good."

Luke's cock twitched. His eyes rolled. His brain went white.

"Goon for me, little loser," Trixie whispered. "Accept it."

And he did. He stood there in Trixie's kitchen, hand on her tit, and he gooned. His eyes glazed. His mouth went slack. His tiny cock leaked in his pants. And somewhere, in the last quiet corner of Luna's mind, a voice screamed—and then went silent.

Trixie smiled.

"Good boy."

---

Part Seven: The End of Luna Honey

Luke went home that evening and found the email waiting.

Dear Luna Honey,

This is to notify you that your partnership agreement with Trixie X Productions has been terminated effective immediately. All collaborative content has been transferred to the Trixie X channel. Your channel has been merged with Trixie X Productions as per clause 7.3 of your collaboration agreement.

Thank you for your contributions.

Best regards,

Trixie X Management

He clicked the link to his channel. It redirected to Trixie's. His videos—gone. His subscribers—transferred. His Patreon—merged. His cosplay photos—deleted. Everything Luna Honey had been was now a folder in Trixie's hard drive, filed under "old content."

He sat at his computer and stared at the screen. He should scream. He should cry. He should call a lawyer.

Instead, he opened Trixie's stream.

She was live. 200k viewers. She was wearing a silver fairy princess gown—custom made, probably worth thousands—and announcing something. He turned up the volume.

"...so excited to announce that I'm officially partnering with Fairycore Farm as their lead creator! I'll be the face of the game going forward, working with the devs on new content, and streaming exclusively on this channel. Thank you all so much for making this possible."

The chat was a wall of hearts and congratulatory emotes.

Trixie's eyes flicked to the camera. And for just a moment, she looked directly at the lens—directly at him—and smiled.

A small, private, knowing smile.

My little loser, the smile said. Thank you for everything you gave me.

---

Epilogue: Ten Followers

Three weeks later.

A small flat. Ring light off. Cosplay wardrobe donated to a charity shop. The walls that used to be covered in Luna Honey prints are bare.

Luke sits at his computer in a baggy grey t-shirt and cargo shorts. His hair is short now—brown, unstyled, floppy. His face is plain. Narrow. Forgettable. His body is slight, shapeless, the kind of body that disappears in a crowd.

He has a new channel. He started it last week. LukePlaysFairycore. Ten followers. Seven of them are bots.

He's streaming to three viewers. He's playing Fairycore Farm—the game that made Luna Honey someone, the game that Trixie X turned into an empire. He's placing moonflowers wrong. He's fumbling the controls. He's mumbling into a cheap microphone.

On his second monitor, Trixie X's stream plays on mute. She's in a pink bikini top and a silver skirt, playing Fairycore Farm in front of 400k viewers. She just signed a seven-figure deal with a streaming network. She's the number one female streamer in the UK. She's rich. She's powerful. She's everything.

Luke watches her out of the corner of his eye while he plays. His hand is in his pants. His tiny cock is hard—barely. He strokes it with two fingers. Slow. Mindless.

(You used to be her. You used to have breasts and a pussy and a channel and a future and—)

The voice is barely a whisper now. A ghost of a ghost.

On screen, Trixie laughs at something in chat. She tosses her blonde hair. She looks like a goddess. She looks like everything feminine and powerful and cruel and perfect that Luke will never be again.

He cums. A small, pathetic dribble. He doesn't clean up.

He keeps watching.

LukePlaysFairycore: 3 viewers

TrixieX: 412,000 viewers

The gap widens.

And Trixie smiles…

---

---

The moment she entered Maddie's body, Lindsay gasped. Eighteen again. The sensation was overwhelming — like being poured into a vessel that was younger, tighter, stronger than anything she'd felt in decades. Tight skin, taut muscles, perky heavy breasts straining against a sports bra. She felt powerful in a way she'd forgotten existed. Not just physical — social. She could feel it in the way people looked at this body. The deference. The fear. The want.

She looked in the changing room mirror — blonde ponytail, sharp green eyes, that cruel pretty mouth — and almost laughed. This is the girl making Emma's life hell? This little slut?* Maddie was shorter than she'd expected. Smaller in person. But the body was ridiculous — gym-toned legs, a perfect round ass, abs visible even through the climbing tank top. No wonder she ruled this place. She looked like she'd been built in a lab to make other girls feel small.

Lindsay flexed Maddie's fingers. Rolled her shoulders. Felt the strength in them — climbing had made this body wicked strong. She smiled at the mirror.

Right. Let's fix this.

She strutted out to the wall, ready to play nice. Ready to be Maddie-but-good. The climbing gym buzzed around her — chalk dust in the air, the sound of carabiners clicking, shoes squeaking on resin holds. People nodded at her. A couple of the younger girls flinched when she walked past. Lindsay noted that with a pang of guilt. God, Maddie really had terrorised this place.

Emma was halfway up the beginner route, clinging nervously, fingers white on the holds. She looked down with that familiar anxious expression — the one that broke Lindsay's heart every time.

"Hey — sweetie, it's Mum," Lindsay whispered, pulling her daughter aside behind the bouldering wall. She kept Maddie's voice low, gentle. "I did a — it's complicated. I'm inside her body. I'm going to make her stop, okay? Just play along for a bit."

Emma's eyes went wide with confusion. She stared at Maddie's face — the face of her tormentor — searching for her mother underneath. "Mum? Is that really you?"

"Really me, baby. I promise."

Emma hugged her. Lindsay felt Maddie's body stiffen instinctively — some muscle memory of refusing affection — then forced it to relax. She held her daughter. In the body of the girl who'd been destroying her.

This is going to work.

Then Joel appeared.

Tall, tan, jaw like a sculpture. Twenty, maybe. Maddie's boyfriend. He came around the corner of the bouldering wall like he owned the place, saw Lindsay-Maddie with Emma, and his expression darkened.

"Why are you talking to the loser?" He said it casually. Like Emma wasn't standing right there. Like Emma was furniture.

Emma flinched. Lindsay opened her mouth to say something protective — something motherly — but Joel grabbed her by the waist, pulled her away from Emma, and kissed her hard against the lockers. His hands were everywhere — groping her tits through the sports bra, squeezing her ass, rubbing between her thighs.

"I — we shouldn't —" Lindsay stammered, but Maddie's body was already responding. Heat pooled between her legs. Her nipples hardened. (This isn't me, this is her body, I just need to control it—)

"Shut up, babe," Joel murmured against her mouth. "You've been teasing me all week. Been a bad girl." He pulled back just enough to grin. "Time to pay up."

He dragged her into the changing room. Pushed her against the lockers. The metal was cold against Maddie's bare back and Lindsay gasped. He yanked her climbing shorts down — no underwear, because of course Maddie didn't bother — and Lindsay bit her lip as cool air hit her bare ass.

"Joel — I'm not — I need to—"

"You need to stop talking." He spat in his hand, rubbed it on his cock, and pressed the head against her asshole. Thick. Insistent. Big. Bigger than her ex-husband. Bigger than anyone she'd ever taken.

Lindsay's mind screamed no even as Maddie's body pushed back. "Fuuuck…" she whined, voice cracking into Maddie's bratty register as he slid inside. The stretch was obscene — her asshole burning, clenching, then slowly opening around him. Maddie's body knew what to do. Maddie's body wanted this. The muscles relaxed, the hips tilted, the back arched.

(No — I'm her mother — I'm here to protect her—)

Protect? The voice came from somewhere deep. Maddie's voice. Silk over razor blades. Why would I protect that little loser? She's pathetic. Like you were pathetic.

Joel started thrusting. Hard. Each one drove Lindsay's hips into the lockers with a metallic bang. The sound echoed — bang, bang, bang — rhythmic and shameless. Lindsay moaned, and the moan came out wrong. Too high. Too bratty. Too... Maddie.

Every thrust dissolved something. Lindsay's memories — PTA meetings, bedtime stories, Emma's first steps, her wedding day, her mother's funeral — flickered like dying bulbs. One by one, the lights went out. Maddie's personality surged up from somewhere deep, laughing, hungry... evil.

(Emma needs me—)

Emma needs to grow up. The world's full of bitches, baby. Might as well be one. The voice was stronger now. Louder. It filled Lindsay's skull like pink noise. You felt it the moment you got in this body. How good it feels to be young. Hot. Feared. Don't pretend you didn't love it.

"I — I didn't—"

"You did." Joel grunted, misunderstanding. He fucked her harder. "You love this."

(He's talking to Maddie. He's talking to me. I'm Maddie now. I'm—)

You're mine, the voice whispered. You were always mine. Your pathetic life was a waiting room. This is the destination.

Joel reached around and grabbed her tits, squeezing hard, pinching her nipples through the sports bra. Lindsay's back arched and she heard herself whimper — a sound she'd never made in her life. A sound Maddie made every day.

"Fuck yes, harder, harder—" The voice coming from her mouth wasn't a mother's anymore.

The last threads of Lindsay frayed apart. She could feel them snapping — one by one — like elastic bands. Snap. The memory of Emma's birth. Snap. The memory of her first word. Snap. The memory of holding Emma after a nightmare, singing softly, promising nothing bad would ever happen.

When Joel finally finished — filling her ass with hot cum, growling "good girl" against her neck — Lindsay was gone. Not suppressed. Not hiding. Gone. Like she'd never existed. Like Maddie had always been in this body and the woman called Lindsay had been a dream the body woke up from.

Nothing bad will ever happen. Maddie's voice, now. Twisted. Mocking. Unless I make it happen.

She fixed her ponytail, applied lip gloss from her bag, and strutted out to the climbing wall. Her ass ached deliciously. Cum trickled down her thigh. She didn't care. She liked it. Made her feel owned. Made her feel like Maddie.

Maddie blinked. Stretched. Grinned at her reflection in the changing room mirror. She could feel the remnants of that pathetic woman — a faint aftertaste, like cheap perfume — dissolving like sugar in rain. She wiped Joel's cum from her ass with Emma's chalk bag, which she found on the bench. Laughed. Tossed it in the bin

The gym was busier now. Saturday afternoon crowd. Maddie walked through them like a shark through minnows. People moved aside. A couple of the younger climbers — Emma's age, maybe younger — actually stepped backwards when she approached. Good. That was right. That was correct.

Emma was still on the wall — higher now, maybe fifteen feet, shaking with effort. She'd been climbing alone while her mother got assfucked in the changing room. The thought made Maddie smile. She looked up at her daughter — not her daughter, not anymore — and felt nothing. Less than nothing. A mild irritation, like seeing a fly land on food.

"M-Maddie?" Emma looked down, voice wobbling. "You said you were my mum—"

"Oops! Lied, dummy." Maddie laughed — bright, cruel, musical. The sound carried across the gym. Heads turned. People who knew Maddie's laugh started paying attention. "Your mum's gone. Poof. Vanished. Bye-bye."

Emma's face crumpled. "What do you mean gone? Mum?! *MUM?!*" She looked around wildly, searching the gym for her mother's familiar face. The sensible shoes. The mum jeans. The woman who always came back.

Maddie reached up and grabbed the rope Emma was clinging to. She felt the tension in it — the girl's weight, her fear, her desperate grip. Their eyes met. Emma's face shifted from confusion to horror. She recognised something in those green eyes. Something that used to love her. Something that was now looking at her like prey.

"Mum, please — please — I love you—"

"Love me?" Maddie tilted her head, smirking. "That's embarrassing, Emma. Your mum was a sad old cow who couldn't even hold onto my body for an hour. One dick in her ass and she evaporated. That's how weak she was. That's how weak you are."

She paused. Let it sink in. Watched Emma's eyes fill with tears.

"Say bye-bye, sweetheart."

Maddie yanked the rope sideways.

Emma screamed — a raw, animal sound — as she swung off the wall. Her body twisted, legs flailing, hands grasping at nothing. She hit the mat with a sickening crack that echoed through the entire gym. The sound of bone snapping. Then silence. Then screaming — high-pitched, shrieking, the sound of a girl whose leg was bent at an angle that made onlookers wince.

People gasped. Someone rushed over. A staff member started calling an ambulance.

Maddie stood over her — over her own daughter — hands on hips, blonde hair perfect, grinning down at the writhing, sobbing girl. Emma's shin was visibly broken. The bone pressed against the skin from the inside, a dark purple ridge. Her climbing shoe was twisted almost backwards.

"Aww, did baby break her leg?" Maddie crouched, tilting her head. She leaned in close — close enough that Emma could smell Joel's cologne on her neck, close enough to see the lip gloss, the perfect skin, the cruelty in those green eyes that used to be kind. "Maybe stay off my wall next time. This place is for real climbers. Not little crybaby losers who run home to mummy."

"Mum..." Emma sobbed, reaching up with a shaking hand. "Mum, please... it's me... it's Emma..."

Maddie looked at the hand. Looked at Emma's tear-streaked face. She smiled — slow, sweet, almost maternal.

Then she slapped her. Hard. Across the face. The sound cracked through the gym like a gunshot.

"Don't call me that." Maddie stood, wiping her palm on her shorts. "My name is Maddie. And you? You're nothing."

She stepped over Emma's body — literally stepping on her broken leg as she passed, smiling at the scream it produced — and walked toward Joel, who was watching from the doorway with an amused smirk. He'd seen the whole thing. He was hard again. She could see it in his shorts.

She grabbed his belt, pulled him close, and whispered in his ear: "I just pushed a girl off a wall and broke her leg. I'm so fucking wet right now I need you inside me again."

Joel grinned. "My car's outside."

"Drive somewhere quiet. I want to ride you while I can still hear her screaming."

Behind them, Emma lay on the mat, sobbing, leg shattered, hand still reaching toward the blonde girl walking away.

"Mum... *Mum...*"

Maddie didn't even look back. She slid into Joel's passenger seat, pulled her shorts down, and spread her legs. As Joel started the engine, she looked through the windscreen at the climbing wall — her climbing wall — and smiled.

This is my wall. My gym. My world.

They tried again the next night. Same thing. He'd get hard during foreplay – rock hard, painfully hard – but the moment he tried to enter her?

Deflation. Instant. Total. Like her pussy was surrounded by some invisible forcefield that just… unmade his erection.

Kyle was distressed. Maddie was going insane.

"What if we try different positions?" he suggested, voice cracking.

Doggy. Missionary. Her on top. Nothing. Every time he got close, his dick would just… fold. Like it was physically repelled. Once he tried to push through and it bent – actually bent sideways – and he yelped like a kicked dog.

"STOP. Stop trying."

___

Weeks passed. She was so horny she could cry. She tried everything – toys worked fine, her fingers worked fine, but the moment a white guy's dick came anywhere near her entrance?

Soft. Useless. Blocked.

Kyle started googling. Erectile dysfunction. Performance anxiety. Relationship counselling. He bought pills. Expensive ones. Took two before bed one night, face hopeful, dick straining at half-mast.

"Let's try."

He got hard. Actually hard. She spread her legs. He pushed forward and—

Pfft. Like puncturing a balloon. Instant softness. His face crumpled.

Maddie lay there, staring at the ceiling, so frustrated she could scream.

"I'm sorry," Kyle whispered. "I'll see a doctor—"

"It's not you," she said. But she didn't know what it was yet.

---

She tried hooking up with another white guy at a party. Brad – tall, cute, confident. She was desperate. They stumbled into a bedroom, kissing, grinding. He was hard. She was soaked.

He lined himself up.

Nothing.

"What the – hold on—"

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Brad couldn't even get the tip in before losing his erection entirely. He left embarrassed and angry, calling her a tease. "Fucking waste of time," he muttered, slamming the door.

The tattoo glowed faintly each time. Faint pink light, pulsing just above her pussy. She'd thought she imagined it at first. Now she was sure.

She finally researched it.

It took three nights of digging through obscure forums, archived academic papers, and a deeply unsettling subreddit before she found it. Ancient chastity mark. Sumerian, maybe older. Designed to keep white men out. Some old goddess's joke, apparently – a curse placed on priestesses to ensure only "worthy" seed could take root.

Maddie sat on her bed, soaking wet, vibrator buzzing against her clit, reading the inscription translation: "Only the worthy may enter."

Worthy. The word throbbed in her skull.

She came thinking about what it meant.

---

Then she met Tyrone at the gym.

Tall, built, confident. Dark skin, white smile, hands that looked like they could crush a melon. He flirted with her by the water fountain and she felt that desperate, aching need flare up like never before – months of pent-up frustration screaming through her body.

She brought him home that same afternoon. Kyle was at work.

The moment the front door closed, she was on him. Kissing, pulling at his shirt, dragging him upstairs. He laughed against her mouth – surprised, pleased.

"Damn, girl. You don't waste time."

"I can't – I need – please—"

He pushed her onto the bed. Pulled her panties down. Saw the tattoo – the ancient symbol, still faintly glowing.

"Cute," he said. Didn't ask questions.

And slid inside her .

Oh. Oh. OH.

No resistance. No forcefield. No softness. Just – full. Deep, stretching, perfect. Like her pussy was shaking hands with something it had been waiting for. Maddie's eyes rolled back. She came immediately – violently – clenching around him like a vice, legs locking behind his back, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

"Fuck – fuck – you're so tight—"

"I haven't been fucked in months—"

"You poor thing." He grinned. Started moving.

Schlap. Schlap. Schlap.

Wet, deep, relentless strokes. The tattoo glowed – not with rejection, but approval. Warm golden light pulsing in time with his thrusts. Her body sang. Every nerve ending firing. Every month of frustration being fucked out of her in long, brutal strokes.

Maddie came four times. Sobbing with relief. Actual tears running down her face. Tyrone just laughed and kept going.

"Damn, girl. You needed that."

I really, really did.

He finished inside her. She felt it – hot, thick, filling her up. The tattoo blazed bright for a moment, then dimmed to a satisfied glow.

Maddie lay there afterwards, trembling, Tyrone's cum leaking out of her, and felt something shift in her brain. Something fundamental.

Oh, she thought. So that's what it's supposed to feel like.

---

After that, everything changed.

She broke up with Kyle. Not kindly. Not gently. She waited until he came home from work, sat him on the sofa, and told him with a smile.

"It's not you, babe – well, actually, it is you. You literally can't fuck me. Your dick doesn't work near me. Some ancient magic thinks white boys are unworthy."

Kyle's face. Crushed. Confused. Humiliated. His mouth opened and closed.

"You're – what – making this up—"

Maddie pulled out her phone. Showed him the video. She'd propped it up on the dresser – Tyrone's thick black cock sliding into her tight little pussy. Her moaning like a whore. The tattoo glowing golden.

"You're so much fucking better than Kyle—"

Kyle watched his girlfriend get railed and couldn't even argue because his dick was going soft just from seeing the tattoo on screen. He felt it happening. That familiar deflation. That helpless, pathetic collapse.

"Pathetic," Maddie whispered. And meant it.

She watched his face break and felt nothing but satisfaction. A warm, cruel satisfaction that settled in her chest like honey.

"You can keep living here if you want," she added, standing up. "But you're sleeping in the spare room. And you're paying half the rent. Consider it a cuck tax."

Kyle didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at the phone in her hand.

---

She got the queen of spades tattoo next. Right above the ancient symbol. Permanently marking herself. Two symbols now – the ancient curse and the modern brand. Together they formed a little constellation just above her pussy line. A warning sign and an invitation.

Her new aesthetic: crop tops showing her stomach, low-rise jeans, that little QoS symbol peeking above her waistband. White boys would stare. She'd smirk.

They couldn't have her. None of them could. And she'd stopped wanting them to.

She became nasty about it.

It started small. Flirting with white guys at bars just to watch them fail. Getting them hard – grinding on them, whispering in their ears, letting their hands wander – then pulling back with a cruel smile when their dicks went limp the moment they tried to enter.

"Oops. Chastity mark. You're not worthy, baby."

The looks on their faces. Devastated. Confused. Angry. She lived for it.

Then it got worse.

She started filming them. Not the sex – the failure. White guys trying and failing to fuck her, their dicks going soft, their faces crumbling. She'd post the clips on her private story with captions like:

Another one bites the dust 💅 White boys: 0. Ancient curse: 47. Maybe try harder? Oh wait… you can't. 😂

Her followers loved it. Her white male followers despaired.

One guy – Callum, rugby player, huge ego – tried three times. Three separate nights. She'd get him rock hard, straddling him, dripping wet, and the moment he tried to push inside?

Nothing. Flat. Useless.

The third time he actually cried. Sat on the edge of her bed, head in his hands, dick limp between his legs, sobbing.

"I don't – I've never – why can't I—"

Maddie took a photo. Posted it. Caption: Big rugby lad reduced to tears. Bless. 🥺

She felt nothing but amusement.

---

Her Instagram became a shrine. QoS jewellery – the spade pendant dangling between her cleavage in every selfie. Gym photos with black trainers, their hands on her waist. Subtle at first. Then not subtle at all.

She posted a photo of herself in a bikini, the QoS tattoo clearly visible above her bottoms, captioned: "Application form. White boys need not apply."

Two thousand likes in an hour.

Her DMs were a graveyard of white boys begging. She'd read their messages aloud to Tyrone while he fucked her. They'd laugh together.

"Please Maddie I've been following you for months I just want one chance"

"Read that one," Tyrone grunted, thrusting deep.

Schlap-schlap-schlap—

"'I just want one chance,'" Maddie read, gasping between strokes. "One chance – nnh – at what? His dick wouldn't even – fuck – work—"

"Send him a video."

She did. Her phone propped up, filming Tyrone's cock sliding in and out of her, her moans echoing, the tattoo blazing gold.

Caption: "This is what you're missing. This is what you'll NEVER have."

The guy replied in seconds: please stop

"Stop watching then, cuck."

He never stopped.

---

Kyle still texted sometimes. Begging. Pathetic little messages at 2am when he was drunk and lonely.

I miss you Can we talk Please just one more chance I've been seeing a doctor about the… situation

Maddie would screenshot them and send them to her group chat. Her friends would howl with laughter.

She'd reply to Kyle with videos. Always videos. Different men. Always black. Always huge.

"Watch this and know you'll never have it again."

Schlap-schlap-schlap—

Her moans. Another man's voice. The tattoo glowing. Sometimes she'd look directly at the camera – directly at Kyle – and smile.

"This is what worthy looks like, baby."

Kyle would reply: please stop

"Stop watching then, cuck."

He never stopped.

One night she called him. Put him on speakerphone while Tyrone fucked her. Made him listen.

"You hear that?" she breathed. "That's the sound of a real man. That's the sound of something you can never – oh fuck – never give me—"

Kyle was silent on the other end. She could hear him breathing. Could hear something else too.

"Are you touching yourself?" She laughed. "Are you jerking your useless little dick while listening to me get fucked?"

Silence.

"You are. You fucking are. Pathetic. You can't even fuck me but you're jacking off to the sound of someone else doing it.

A small, broken noise from the phone.

"Cum for me, cuck. Cum while you listen to what you'll never have again."

She heard him finish. A strangled, humiliating groan. Then she hung up .

---

Maddie embraced her size queen era completely. Big black cock only. The bigger the better. The chastity mark never rejected a single one. Her pussy was a temple and white boys weren't allowed in.

She started rating them. Her conquests. On her private story. A tier list.

"Marcus – 9 inches. Stamina for days. Made me squirt twice. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐" "DeShawn – 10.5 inches. Thick as my wrist. Could barely walk after. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐" "Tyrone – 11 inches. The one that started it all. Still the best. 👑"

Then, at the bottom:

"Kyle – 4 inches. Couldn't even get it in. No stars. Irrelevant." "Callum – 5 inches. Cried. Twice. No stars." "Brad – 4.5 inches. Called me a tease. Also no stars. Also blocked."

Her followers devoured it. White boys sent angry DMs. She blocked them. Black men sent photos. She saved them.

---

The nastiness evolved. It wasn't enough to just reject white boys anymore. She wanted to ruin them.

She started a TikTok. "White Boy Dick Check" – a series where she'd flirt with white guys, get them to send dick pics, then roast them on camera.

"Four inches. Four. And he thought he had a chance with this?" She'd gesture at her body. "Baby, I need something I can actually feel."

"Five inches and curved to the left. What am I supposed to do with that? Hang a coat on it?"

"Six inches! Oh wow! Still can't fuck me though. Still unworthy. Still – nothing."

Millions of views. White boys in comments furious. Black men in comments cheering. Maddie in the centre of it all, smirking, glowing, powerful.

She was unstoppable. The tattoo made sure of it. Ancient magic wrapped around her pussy like a chastity belt with a racist AI – and she'd turned it into content.

---

One night Kyle showed up at the flat. Drunk. Desperate. Standing in the doorway, swaying.

"Please, Maddie. Please. I just – I need to understand. I need to know why—"

She was on the sofa in Tyrone's hoodie. Nothing else. Legs crossed. Phone in hand. She didn't pause her scrolling.

"Know why what?"

"Why I can't – why it doesn't – work—"

"Because you're unworthy, Kyle." She said it simply. Like reading a weather report. "The tattoo says so. Ancient magic says so. I say so."

"That's not – you can't just—"

"Can't just what? Reject you? Too late. I already did." She looked up. Smiled. "Come in. Sit down."

He did. Like a dog.

"Tyrone's coming over in an hour. You can watch if you want."

Kyle's face. Horrified. But something else too. That sick, helpless arousal she'd learned to recognise. The thing that made white boys come back even when they knew it would hurt.

"You want to watch," she said. Not a question.

"I – no—"

"Liar." She uncrossed her legs. Let him see the tattoo. The QoS symbol above it. His eyes dropped to it instantly. "Your dick is getting hard right now just looking at it, isn't it? Even though you know it'll go soft the second you try to use it."

Kyle said nothing. His jeans told the truth.

"Pathetic," she whispered. "You can't even want me without being humiliated. That's what white boy dick does to you. Turns you into a cuck."

She leaned forward.

"Take it out. Show me."

Kyle's hands shook. He undid his jeans. Pulled it out. Four inches. Straining. Pathetic.

"Now watch."

She pressed play on her phone. A video of her and Tyrone. The sound filled the room – wet slaps, her moans, his grunts.

Kyle watched. His hand moved. He stroked himself – desperately, shamefully – while his ex-girlfriend's video played in his hand and the tattoo glowed on screen.

He came in thirty seconds. All over his own hand. Head thrown back. Groaning.

Maddie laughed. Filmed it.

"Good boy. Now clean up and get out. Tyrone's coming."

---

Maddie had found her purpose.

Every humiliating rejection. Every desperate white boy who couldn't understand why his dick wouldn't work. Every tear from Kyle. Every angry DM. Every broken ego.

She loved it.

She'd been a nothing – a sweet, forgettable girlfriend with a forgettable sex life and a boyfriend who couldn't even fuck her right. Now she was a queen. A size queen. A queen of spades. Marked by ancient magic and modern ink, claimed by a power that made white boys irrelevant and elevated her to something they could never touch.

Her pussy was a temple. White boys weren't allowed in.

And she'd make sure every single one of them knew it.

___

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.