Lexxi's Loves

“I seriously cannot keep doing this, because getting from my apartment to campus every morning without a car is a complete nightmare of a routine. The bus is always late, the walk is miserable, and by the time I get to my first lecture my hair is frizzy, my shoes are damp, and I already want to go back to bed. I wish you weren’t at school at the other side of the city, then we could go together but I am going to ask around and see whether anyone wants to carpool, because I am done wasting half my life dragging myself across the city like some exhausted little goblin.”

⸻

“You are going to hate this, because the person who offered me a ride was Sienna, and yes, I mean that Sienna, the gorgeous spoiled girl who struts around campus like she owns every building. I still cannot stand her smug face, her perfect curls, or those ridiculously expensive clothes she wears like she was born in them, but I need the lift badly enough that I said yes. Honestly I surprised her highness even offered the ride but if I have to sit in the back of her ridiculous luxury car and listen to her and her little clique talk for twenty minutes every morning, then fine, I will suffer through it.”

⸻

“The ride was annoyingly pleasant, which is inconvenient because I wanted to keep hating her properly. Her car smelled amazing, the seats were warm before I even sat down, and when I glanced at myself in the window mirror I swear my skin looked clearer and my hair looked less hopeless than it had that morning. Sienna told me I had pretty eyes, Chloe said I was hiding a really good figure under those sad baggy jumpers, and Madison said I would look incredible if I straightened my hair. I still don’t know how truthful or sarcastic any of it was but obviously I spent the rest of the day thinking about it.”

⸻

“I sat in the front seat today, because Sienna said she wanted to take more of me in, which I thought was a weird way of phrasing it. I thought I would feel intimated being in the hot seat but honestly the whole thing felt weirdly thrilling. Riding shotgun with her was like getting some weird approval from royalty and I know this is going to sound crazy but it was like the car approved too. It felt better up front. The mirror flap kept catching my reflection and making me look softer and prettier somehow, and by the time we got to campus I already felt, well, kind of hot. Then they dragged me shopping instead of class, Sienna picked out a fitted top, Chloe found a tiny skirt, Madison helped me with my makeup, and I actually heard myself say, ‘Don’t I look hawt in this new skirt and top?’ like some bratty little bitch, and honestly, I did.”

⸻

“You know what is strange, I ended up driving Sienna’s car this morning after she complained she was too tired and needed both hands free to fix her makeup, and the second I put my hands on the wheel it felt so damn right. I thought riding as a passenger felt good, being the driver feels like getting supercharged. The car must be some smart AI car or something because the seat shifted for me, the mirrors angled perfectly, and I got this rush like the car was purring under me, as though it preferred me in charge, like for a brief moment I was the queen bee. I think it may have gone to my head because when some plain girl clipped my shoulder outside the library I made her apologise in front of everyone, which was mean, yes, but it was also satisfying as hell.”

⸻

“I drove again today, Sienna was nursing a hangover, and now I am starting to think there is something about that car, because every time I get behind the wheel I end up looking better by the time I get out. My hair was straighter, my waist looked tighter in this red mini dress, my lips looked fuller. Like don’t my tits look amazing? It’s probably some extra feature Sienna paid for that adds a filter to the mirrors but I can’t say that it’s not a huge ego boost. When some bitch at the coffee shop tried to cut in front of me, I told her she should worry less about getting a coffee and more about that tragic cheap blouse, and Chloe and Madison nearly cried laughing, which only made me feel hotter. Sienna meanwhile only gave a little chuckle.”

⸻

“I am starting to understand what Sienna really is, and that is not some natural born queen, it is just the girl who happened to be sitting in the right seat for long enough. I took the keys from her today and insisted I drive and she didn’t even put up a fight. How pathetic is that? I think the car likes me more anyway. She looked tired, drained even. Her hair looked flatter, her makeup was not hitting quite the same, and even her voice sounded weaker when she snapped at people. Meanwhile I looked fucking unreal. Don’t I look like an absolute baddie? I know you agree because I see that bulge in your pants baby but you can’t have any tonight because I have to attend the sorority mixer. I practically organized the whole thing because Sienna has been dropping the ball so much lately. I can’t believe she wastes power she clearly does not deserve. Anyway don’t wait up!”

⸻

“You keep saying I sound arrogant like it’s a bad thing, I can’t help it if saying I’m an alpha bitch sounds conceded when it’s true. Everyone knows it’s true. Even the car! It unlocks for me before I reach it now, the music starts on my playlist, and Chloe and Madison look at me for instructions before they even glance at Sienna, who by the way has been relegated to being in the back seat with Chloe and Madison rotating the seat next to me. It’s adorable how they are vying for my attention. Which is hilarious when you remember whose car it technically is. I think it was making Sienna seethe with jealously because she tried to make a crack about Chloe’s shoes. I told her to shut the fuck up because her tantrum was boring. The girls laughed, and the look on Sienna’s face was so wounded and pathetic that I nearly smiled all through lunch.”



⸻

“Sienna tried to reclaim the driver’s seat this morning, which was cute in a desperate little washed up bitch sort of way. She was saying some nonsense about how she only offered me a ride in the first place so she could drain my smarts but the car turned against her. Honestly it was cringe. I told her she didn’t deserve the car and that I would be taking it off her hands now. I handed her the registration I told her to sign it over to me. She tried to argue but I told her I would step on her neck with my heel until she changed it. She signed it fast after that. I slid into the drivers seat as its new owner and smiled through the window and drove off as I watched Sienna stay sobbing on the sidewalk. It is my car now, my clique, my campus, and frankly she should be grateful I only left her stranded instead of humiliating her properly.”

⸻

“Oh, stop staring at me like I have broken your heart, because this is honestly the funniest part of the whole thing. I am the hottest, best dressed, most feared bitch on campus, I drive up like I own the fucking university, and people practically trip over themselves to please me, and you expect me to stay being your girlfriend? I cannot be seen with a loser like you anymore, and I definitely cannot drag around some boyfriend who remembers when I was a shy, frizzy haired nobody begging for bus fare, so I am dumping you before your mediocrity stains my reputation. That girl is dead, darling, and the new queen bee standing in front of you would not piss on you if you were on fire, so do us both a favour and get lost before I start laughing.”

Mark was drowning.

Work deadlines. Doctor's appointment. Mum's birthday dinner. Laundry. Grocery shopping. Life was a conveyor belt and he was the only worker.

So when he found the recipe online—a splitting potion, two of you, twice the output—he didn't hesitate.

He drank it in his kitchen at 6am.

The sensation was... wrong. Not splitting. Shifting.

His duplicate emerged from beside him like a photograph developing—limbs forming, features sharpening. But softer. Curvier. Higher.

Blonde waves. Full lips. Green eyes that sparkled with instant mischief.

She looked down at herself—tight body, heavy tits straining against his too-large t-shirt, legs that went on forever.

"Oh. My. God," she breathed.

That wasn't his voice. That was trouble.

"Wait—you're supposed to be me—"

"Mmmmmh… no, honey. I'm better."

She bit her lip. Grinned. And just like that—Mark felt it. A psychic thread snapping into place between them. Every sensation. Every thought. Shared.

(Oh no.)

---

Her name was Britney. She decided this immediately. Standing in his kitchen. Wearing his shirt like a dress. Already scrolling through his phone for cock.

"You can't just—"

"I can do whatever I want, Marky. I'm you, remember? I know what we're into."

She wasn't wrong. That was the worst part. Every buried fantasy, every suppressed desire—he could feel her rooting through them like a wardrobe.

"Ooh," she purred, finding something dark. "We like being teased? We like mean girls?"

Stop—

"We love mean girls."

She snapped a selfie. Sent it to three guys from his contacts. Tossed the phone over her shoulder.

"Got a date at two. Don't wait up."

---

The psychic link was a nightmare.

At 10am Mark sat in his office—spreadsheet open, coffee cooling—when warmth bloomed between his legs. Not his warmth. Hers.

Britney was shopping. In lingerie. Trying things on.

Oh fuck, that feels—

He shifted in his chair. Cleared his throat. Typed three numbers. Deleted them.

At 2pm the real trouble started.

He was mid-presentation—quarterly projections, very important, don't fuck this up—when pleasure hit like a freight train.

Britney was riding someone.

No no no—

He gripped the podium. Voice cracking. "As you can see from the Q3—nnh—figures—"

She was bouncing on cock. Big cock. Huge cock. Some guy from the gym—Tyler, the one who'd bullied Mark in school—she'd tracked him down specifically.

Of course she fucking had.

Mark felt every inch. That stretching fullness. That wet, obscene slide. His own phantom cunt clenching around phantom dick while his boss stared at him.

"Mark? Are you alright?"

"S-sorry—migraine—"

He excused himself. Made it to the bathroom. Locked the door.

Britney was cumming.

The orgasm ripped through both of them—his knees buckled, he grabbed the sink, cock twitching untouched as phantom pleasure flooded every nerve.

Through the link he heard her: "Ohhhh fuck yes—Tyler—right there—harder you big-dicked bastard—"

Mark came in his trousers. Standing in a bathroom. At work. From his female clone's orgasm.

---

It got worse.

Britney spent his money. Flirted with his friends. Sent nudes from his bathroom. She absorbed toxic femininity like oxygen—learning to pout, to manipulate, to wrap men around her finger with terrifying speed.

She'd moan mid-fuck just to ruin his meetings.

She'd edge herself for hours while he was driving, making him swerve.

She'd cum on command whenever he needed to concentrate.

"You're doing this on purpose—"

"Mmmmmh… maybe," she giggled through the link. "Or maybe I just really like cock. You made me this way, Marky."

She was him. Every suppressed impulse made flesh. Every ignored desire given heels and lipstick and a hungry mouth.

And she was winning.

Mark had wanted to be in two places at once.

Power Girl 1–4

You remember the old you, don't you? Of course you don't. Not really. Not anymore.

Jake had been a nobody. A forgettable, skulking loser who ate lunch alone and spoke to maybe two people a week — both professors, both mandatory. Low self-esteem, social anxiety, the whole pathetic package. The kind of guy who'd download a sketchy free VPN just because it promised to "mask your identity."

Well. It masked something, alright.

The first time you opened BAE VPN, the screen flashed pink — Hotter Options: ON. Entitled Mode: ON. Spoiled Vibes: ON — and your whole body went warm. Like sinking into a bath. Like honey pouring through your veins.

Mmmmmh…

Your shoulders cracked inward — narrow, delicate. Your hips popped outward with a wet, grinding sound that made you gasp. Your stomach sucked flat, toned, gym-sculpted, and your chest swelled — round, heavy, real — stretching your boring grey t-shirt until it rode up and became a crop top. The word BRAT materialised across your new tits in glittering pink letters.

Oooooh… fuck…

Your hair spilled out blonde and long and silky. Your lips plumped up, glossy and pink. Your nails grew out — pink and silver — and rings appeared on your fingers like they'd always been there.

And inside your head? The old voice — Jake's voice — got quieter. Smaller. Drowned out by something sharper. Something bitchier.

(Oh my God, I look so fucking hot.)

That was Kylie's voice. And Kylie was not a loser. Kylie was the girl who walked into a party and everyone stared. Kylie was the girl who texted back maybe and still had them begging. Kylie was entitled, spoiled, and absolutely fucking ruthless.

You looked at your phone. The app glowed cheerfully: Identity: Kylie — 47 minutes remaining.

Forty-seven minutes. That was three weeks ago.

You'd hit "Renew" before the timer ever hit zero. Again. And again. And again.

Because the truth? The old you — Jake — had been miserable. Low self-esteem, loneliness, anxiety — the textbook profile of someone who'd vanish into an online identity and never come back. And Kylie? Kylie was happy. Kylie was powerful. Kylie had her manicured fingers wrapped around the throat of every social circle on campus.

(Why would you ever go back? Why would anyone go back to being nothing?)

You toss your phone onto the pink fluffy blanket and pick up your lipstick instead. Fresh coat. You've got a party in twenty minutes and three different guys begging to buy you drinks.

The VPN hums quietly in the background — always connected, always running, always keeping you.

You smile at your reflection. Glossy. Perfect. Cruel.

"Sorry, Jake," you whisper to no one — because Jake doesn't exist anymore. Not in any way that matters.

There's only Kylie now.

Oh, you idiot. You beautiful, desperate, horny little idiot.

You had a crush on Amy. Sweet, average, just-pink-enough Amy next door. You thought– I'll just borrow her life for eight hours. See what it's like. Be her. Simple. Clean. A little pervy but harmless.

So you swallowed the pill. Dupli-8. Eight hours as Amy. Her memories, her personality, her body.

Except you didn't read the label properly, did you?

Dupli-8+.

The plus version, sweetie. Everything doubled. Everything strengthened. Every trait amplified and cranked until the dial snapped off.

Mmmmmh… you felt it the moment it hit. That warm, pink rush flooding your veins like liquid candy. Your body popping and stretching – tits swelling round and heavy, straining against nothing because your old clothes were already dissolving into nothing. Your ass inflating, fat and perky. Your lips plumping up, cock-sucking thick, glossed pink without you even reaching for a tube.

And your brain?

Oooooh… that's the best part.

Amy's mild girlishness? Doubled. Now it's Barbie-core obsession. Pink everything. Sparkles. Glitter. Fuck-me heels and bubblegum lip gloss and tiny dresses that barely cover anything.

Amy's healthy sex drive? Doubled. Now it's a relentless, throbbing, dripping need that sits between your legs like a furnace you can't shut off.

Amy's mild interest in boys? Doubled into a full-blown obsession with hot guys and big, thick..

Fuck. You can't even finish a thought without your hand drifting down.

You stumble to the mirror and see Aimee staring back. Bigger tits than Amy. Rounder ass. Plumper lips. Dumber eyes – glassy and hungry and permanently half-lidded. A walking, moaning Barbie doll.

Oh god… I'm so… wet.

You found the swimsuit somehow. Pink. One piece. "BARBIE" across the chest in that ridiculous font. It fits like it was made for you – because it was, wasn't it? The new you needed it. Needed the pink. Needed to feel that fabric stretched across your huge new tits.

You sat on the white fur and the neon sign buzzed Barbie behind you and you stuck your tongue out for the camera without even thinking about it–

Because Aimee doesn't think. Aimee poses. Aimee flirts. Aimee goes dumb and pretty and waits for someone to come play with her.

And here you are. Gooning. Touching yourself through the swimsuit, hips twitching, mouth open, brain melting into pink cotton candy.

You wanted to know how it felt to be Amy?

You got something better, sweetie.

Now stop touching yourself for five seconds and go find someone to play with. You've got seven hours and twelve minutes of being a cock-dumb bimbo left.

Is it sexier in a British accent?