Makoto Nijima, Student Council Prez is about to become a trashy bimbo!

AN: this storyline is very much inspired by Mega W's Trashy Bitch saga but definitely not as **** and remember everyone is over 18 in this AU.

Makoto’s sneakers scuffed against the cracked pavement as she ducked behind a neon-lit pachinko parlor, her narrowed eyes locked on Sakamoto's spiky blond hair bobbing through the crowd. The air smelled of fried food and cigarette smoke, thick enough to make her throat itch, but she barely noticed. Her fingers twitched at her sides—something was wrong, a prickling heat crawling under her skin, but the urgency of tailing them overrode everything else. If she doesn't get results on this she won't be useful... She has to be useful or what good is she?

A group of salarymen jostled past, their laughter too loud, and Makoto pressed herself against a garish poster plastered to the wall. The moment she did, her blazer seams groaned, the fabric straining across her shoulders. Buttons threatened to pop as her chest swelled, the weight of it unfamiliar, heavy, yet her focus stayed riveted ahead. Sakamoto and Amamiya had stopped at a dimly lit alley entrance, whispering to each other.

Her skirt hem rode higher with every step, the pleats tightening against her hips as they rounded out, her once-modest uniform now clinging like a second skin. The fabric at her thighs itched, the material shifting on its own—darkening, fraying at the edges into something shorter, sluttier. A breeze teased the new expanse of tanned skin exposed by the rising hemline, but Makoto only huffed, impatient.

She edged closer, oblivious to the way her short hair strrreeeetched, dark strands slithering down her back in a cascade of unnatural colors—pink, teal, streaks of gold—until it spilled past her ass, vibrant against her deepening tan. The alley’s flickering light caught the glitter of her chipped, manicured nails as she gripped the wall for balance.

Her shirt collar sagged, the top button pinging off into the shadows as her cleavage threatened to spill free. The fabric knit itself tighter, the sleeves vanishing, the white cotton brightening into a tube top that barely contained her. A jingling sound nearly made her glance down—since when did she have a belly chain?—but Ryuji’s voice yanked her attention back.

“—think she followed us?” he muttered.

Makoto froze. Shit. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her new, glossed lips parting in a gasp that sent a waft of bubblegum-scented breath into the air. The transfer student turned, their eyes scanning the crowd, and Makoto ducked again, her ass bumping against a street vendor’s cart. The vendor leered, but she didn’t notice, too busy adjusting her for some reason stupidly tight top.

Makoto’s fingers trembled as she snatched a tattered magazine from a nearby rack, holding it up like a shield. The glossy pages stuck to her suddenly sweaty palms as she pretended to read, but the words swam before her vision. A hot, syrupy sensation oozed across her face—her eyelashes fluttered, weighed down by sudden clumps of mascara, while her cheeks burned as blush deepened into the garish, dusty stripes of manba makeup. Her lips plumped with a soft pop, swelling into glossy, pouty pillows that tasted artificially sweet, like cheap lip gloss.

She peeked over the magazine’s edge just in time to see Ryuji shrug and turn away, the transfer student following without a second glance. Relief prickled through her—until her grip on the magazine slipped, her nails now elongated claws painted in neon blue, the polish flawless as if airbrushed. A startled glance downward revealed her toenails gleaming the same electric hue through the new slits of her strappy platform heels, the shoes having replaced her sneakers without her noticing. The towering soles wobbled as she shifted, the unfamiliar height throwing her balance.

Then the weight hit her.

Her titties (she's never called her breasts titties....)—god, they were obscene now, round and heavy, straining against the barely there tube top with every shallow breath. The fabric dug into her skin, the outline of her nipples visible through the thin material (they look so erect.... It feels good). Her ass had swollen to match, the once-modest skirt now practically a belt that barely cupped her cheeks, riding up with every slight movement. A breeze teased the newly exposed skin of her thighs, and she shuddered, finally registering the faint, ticklish fuzz darkening her armpits and the patch between her legs—not wild, but there, soft and unshaven in a way that made her face burn hotter (she looks so hot... Wait....).

She took a step forward, and the world tilted.

One platform heel caught on a crack in the pavement, sending her lurching sideways. Her magazine fluttered to the ground as she windmilled her arms, her new oversized chest throwing her off further. She crashed into a giggling group of gyaru clustered around a purikura booth, their baked tans and glittering nails mirroring her own. One of them steadied her with a manicured hand, grinning. “Whoa, girl! Those shoes own ya, huh?”

Makoto’s breath hitched. The girl’s reflection in the booth’s mirror showed a stranger—pouty lips, neon nails, and a body that belonged to a Shinjuku back alley whore, not a Shujin student. Her own widened eyes stared back, jaw dropping in shock.

Looking at the gyarus she quickly realized she looked like them!