Elliot

Elliott slouched on his battered couch, the faint glow of a single lamp cutting through the gloom of his tiny apartment. The clock ticked 7pm. It was Friday night, the city’s hum a distant murmur. On the coffee table sat a small vial of Bimbo Juice, its pink liquid glowing faintly, a bottles siren’s call.

He’d spent weeks tracking it down, burning through half his savings on the dark web. The forums were full of warnings: Start small. Stay safe. Don’t be a fool. But the promise of “girlgasms”—orgasms so intense they blew your mind — drowned out the caution. He had a fatalistic desire to juice just once… just once.

Elliott wasn’t reckless. He was a data analyst, a man of logic, not some thrill-chaser. He’d calculated the dose: 25 milliliters, half the starter amount. Safe. Controlled. Just a taste.

The vial felt cold in his hands. He uncapped it, the scent of cotton candy and sharp chemicals hitting him. Was this a bad idea? Probably. He tipped it back, the syrupy liquid sliding down his throat, sweet yet stinging. He waited, heart pounding, the apartment silent except for the fridge’s hum. Then it hit—a surge of heat exploding in his chest, racing through his veins, setting his nerves ablaze. His skin tingled, hypersensitive, every inch of him alive in a way it had never been. He gasped, clutching the couch, his pulse a wild drumbeat of need.

He stumbled to the mirror, and his breath caught. His short brown hair was lengthening, softening, cascading past his shoulders in glossy waves. His lanky frame was shifting, bones shrinking, hips widening, waist cinching as he grew shorter, more petite. His chest swelled, straining against his T-shirt, now tight over his now new, full breasts. His lips plumped, his jaw softened, his eyes grew wider, sparkling with a hungry, feminine allure.

Elliott was gone.

Elle stared back, shorter, curvaceous, a voluptuous vision of her former self, her body screaming for touch. She giggled, a high, breathy sound, and ran her hands over her curves, each touch sparking fire. “Oh, fuck,” she whispered, her voice soft, sultry. The Juice had transformed her. “I’m so hot. Like fucking sexy!

She’d planned to stay in, to explore this bimbo state alone with the vibrator she’d bought. Safe, like the forums urged. But the heat in her core laughed at plans. Her fingers grazed her thighs, and she moaned, loud and unashamed. She sank onto the couch, tearing off her too-tight shirt, her new breasts bouncing free, nipples hard and aching. Her hands roamed, teasing them, each pinch sending shocks to her new and very sensitive clit, now throbbing in her jeans. She stripped them off, fingers slipping inside her boxers, finding herself soaked, pulsing, ****.

Elle’s fingers trembled as she slid her boxers down her smooth, silken thighs, the fabric catching briefly on her newly rounded hips before pooling at her knees. Her pussy was hot and oh so slick, the heat radiating intensely. She spread her legs wide, the cool air of the apartment kissing her exposed nether folds, sending a shiver through her that only stoked the fire. Her tiny little clit, now impossibly sensitive, stood erect, swollen, a little emasculated beacon of raw female need that throbbed with every heartbeat. She’d never felt anything like it—not as Elliott, not in any fleeting moment of arousal. It was as if her entire being had been distilled into that one aching point, begging for touch, for release, for more. Her cock was gone. This was so much better!

She sank to her hands and knees on the couch, her voluptuous body swaying, her heavy breasts hanging low, fat erect nipples grazing the rough fabric of the cushions. Each brush sent electric jolts of need through her, her pussy clenching in response, dripping onto the couch below. She giggled, the sound high and mindless, her mind fogging with lust as the bimbo needs took hold. She was a fuckpet now, a slut, her body a thing of insatiable female desire. Her fingers reached back, teasing and exploring her slick wet folds, but they weren’t enough—too short, too soft, unable to fill the aching void inside her. She needed cock. Needed to be fucked, pounded, taken.

Her breath hitched as she pressed two fingers inside herself, her pussy so wet they slid in easily, but it wasn’t deep enough, not nearly enough. She whimpered, frustration mixing with arousal, her hips rocking back against her hand as she imagined a man behind her, his strong hands gripping her hips, his cock thick and unrelenting, claiming her in the way her body screamed for. She could almost feel him—his fingers digging into her flesh, bruising her, holding her still as he thrust into her doggy style, her body jolting with each brutal stroke. Controlling her. Owning her. Fucking her. Her breasts bounced with the imagined rhythm, nipples scraping the couch, the friction sending sparks of pleasure-pain straight to her clit.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” she moaned, her voice a breathy groan, her mouth slack, lips parted as if ready to take him there too. Her eyes glazed over, pupils dilated, her mind a haze of animal lust, every thought consumed by the fantasy of being fucked senseless. She pictured his cock filling her, stretching her tight pussy, pounding her so hard the room spun. She wanted him to hold her down, to use her, to make her his bimbo slut. She wanted his cum in her womb, hot and thick, marking her as his forever. The thought alone pushed her closer, her pussy clenching around her inadequate fingers, her clit throbbing so intensely it was almost painful.

She rocked harder, her hips grinding against her hand, her fingers circling her clit now, teasing the sensitive bud with featherlight touches that made her sob with need. Each stroke was deliberate, slow, drawing out the unbridled pleasure, building the pressure in her sex. She imagined her master’s voice, low and commanding, calling her his “little fuckpet,” his “needy whore,” and her body responded, her pussy gushing, her moans turning to **** cries. Her breasts swayed, heavy and full, nipples dragging across the couch, each graze amplifying the heat, the need, the hunger. She was mindless, lost in instinct, her body a live wire of lust, every nerve screaming for release.

Her fingers moved faster now, rubbing her clit in tight, frantic circles, but the frigging of finger still wasn’t enough. She needed more—needed him inside her, needed to be filled, to be owned. She pictured him grabbing her hair, yanking her head back as he pounded her, his cock hitting deep, pressing against her cervix, claiming every inch of her. She imagined his hands slapping her ass, the sting blending with pleasure, pushing her to the edge. “Fuck me, please, sir,” she gasped aloud, her voice breaking, her body trembling as she teetered on the brink. Her pussy was so wet it dripped down her thighs, her clit so sensitive every touch felt like a shock, her entire being focused on the impending release.

The fantasy intensified—his hands gripping her hips, his thrusts relentless, his voice growling, “Come for me, slut.” Her body obeyed, the pressure in her tight box exploding into a girlgasm so intense it felt like her soul was shattering. She screamed, her voice raw, her body convulsing as waves of pleasure ripped through her, her pussy pulsing, clenching, gushing around her fingers. Her breasts bounced wildly, nipples scraping the couch, each jolt amplifying the ecstasy until it was unbearable. Her vision blurred, her mouth hung open, drool pooling on the cushion as her eyes rolled back, her mind blank except for the overwhelming, all-consuming bliss. Her hips bucked, her fingers still working her clit, drawing out every last shudder, every last spark, until she collapsed, panting, trembling, her body spent but still hungry.

She lay there, face pressed into the couch, ass still in the air, her pussy throbbing with aftershocks, wet and aching for more. The hunger didn’t stop—it never would. She was a fuckpet driven by instinct, her body craving cock, craving submission, craving the next hit of pleasure. Her fingers lingered between her legs, teasing her oversensitive clit, but it wasn’t enough. She needed him. Needed her phantom lover and his thick glorious cock to make her whole.