You never shut up about it, did you?
"I just want a girl who's a total baddie, bro. Like – blonde, stacked, wears those little cropped hoodies. A girl who tells me what to do but then…" You'd make that obscene gesture with your hand, miming something your dorky roommate Mitchell did not need to see.
Mitchell – glasses, brown hair, built like a lamppost – would just stare at you from his desk, jaw tight, patience eroding like a cliff face.
"And she'd be, like, a bit stuck up? Bossy? The kind of girl who makes you fetch her stuff but then sucks your cock so good you see God—"
But he didn't just get it. He got fed up.
The hoody arrived in a package with no return address. Light blue, cropped, with GODDESS stencilled across the chest in hot pink. Mitchell pulled it from the wrapping with trembling fingers.
"A girl in my Lit class – she does… stuff. Wiccan stuff." He held it up. "She said this'll turn whoever wears it into exactly the kind of girl you won't shut up about."
You laughed. "Mate, you're not seriously—"
"I'm dead serious." His jaw set. "You want a bossy blonde baddie who gets everything she wants? Sounds pretty fucking hot from the other side, honestly. So I'm going to become her."
He pulled the hoody over his head.
The fabric slid down his torso and clung – not like cotton but like something alive, something hungry. Mitchell gasped, and the gasp pitched upward, softening into a breathy moan.
His shoulders cracked inward – pop, pop – narrow and delicate. His spine curved with a wet shhhhlick, hips flaring outward with a sound like knuckles cracking, pelvis widening into something made for low-rise shorts and thirsty DMs.
"Oh God— oh fuck my— ahhh—"
Brown hair lightened at the roots, bleaching platinum in streaks, then pouring down past his – her – shoulders like liquid gold. The glasses dissolved. The face beneath softened, sharpened, restructured – cheekbones rising, lips plumping, jawline refining into something that belonged on an Instagram explore page.
(This is… oh fuck this is actually… I'm getting so hot…)
His chest swelled – two mounds pushing outward against the GODDESS lettering, round and firm and perfect, stretching the fabric taut. His stomach flattened. His ass inflated with a obscene pop that made you flinch. Legs slimmed. Feet shrank.
And then the light blue shorts materialised – pink, tiny, riding high on thick hips.
In his place stood a girl – maybe 20 – with a slim build, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, and a face that radiated the specific cruelty of someone who'd never been told no. She looked at you with playful, confident eyes and smirked.
Reality shuddered. You felt it – a ripple through the room, through your memories – and suddenly she wasn't your roommate anymore. She was Tiff. Your girlfriend. Six months. The girl who texted you demands at 2am and rewarded compliance with her mouth.
"Baby." Her voice was honey and vinegar. She flopped onto your bed, legs crossed, scrolling her phone. "I'm starving. Make me a sandwich. Turkey, extra mayo, cut diagonal – you know how I like it."
"Now." She didn't look up. "And my psych essay's due tomorrow. You're doing the first three paragraphs."
She finally looked up. Those eyes – blue, sharp, dangerous – pinned you like a butterfly to a board. "You want me happy, right?" She bit her lower lip. Tilted her head. "Keep me happy and…" Her tongue traced her upper lip, slow and deliberate. "I'll keep you happy."
(God, he's already folding. This is going to be so easy.)
Your mouth went dry. Your cock twitched.
Three hours later. Homework done. Sandwich made. Her laundry sorted. Her water bottle refilled twice because the first one was room temperature and she doesn't drink room temperature, obviously.
Tiff pushed you onto the bed.
"Good boy," she whispered.
She kissed down your stomach – slow, deliberate, each press of her lips a reward – and when she finally wrapped those plump lips around your cock, the sound she made was pornographic.
You understood everything. Every bitchy demand, every eye-roll, every "fetch me this" – it was all foreplay. She was training you. And the payoff?
Her mouth was hot, wet, relentless – tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, blonde hair spilling over your thighs. She looked up at you with those cruel blue eyes and you saw it: she owned you. Completely.
You came so hard you forgot your own name.
She swallowed, wiped her lip, and smirked.
"Same deal tomorrow, babe. My laundry won't fold itself."
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turnnoffyourmind
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