Announce new slutty names for everyone in the group, starting with yourself

Westfield Galleria food court, unknown city, at 3:17 PM on Saturday June 15th, 2024

You steady yourself on unfamiliar legs, feeling the weight of massive breasts pulling at your chest, the constant dripping wetness between your thighs soaking through the tight leather micro-shorts. Your voice comes out higher, breathier than you expect. "Alright, listen up sluts. We need names that match what we've become."

Four pairs of desperate eyes lock onto you. Tyler whimpers, squeezing her enormous pale tits through that see-through babydoll. Marcus is on her knees, milk streaming from her nipples onto the tile. Evan has both hands shoved down her soaked shorts. Derek stands unsteadily in that tiny pink outfit, her massive chest heaving.

"I'm Candi now," you announce, running your hands down your bronze curves, feeling how the leather corset digs into your waist. The touch sends electric pleasure through your hypersensitive new body. "C-A-N-D-I. Because I'm fucking sweet and everyone's going to want a taste."

Your pussy clenches at your own words, dripping even more. You need cock inside you so badly it's making you dizzy.

"Marcus—you're Milky now," you continue, gesturing at her leaking tits. "Because those fat udders won't stop squirting."

"Yes," Milky moans, squeezing her breasts harder and sending twin streams of milk arcing through the air. "Milky needs cock, Milky needs to suck—"

"Evan, you're Cumslut," you interrupt. "Self-explanatory."

Cumslut's eyes roll back. "Yes, yes, I'm a cumslut, I need cum inside me, need it so bad—" She's openly masturbating now, fingers pumping desperately.

"Tyler..." You eye her crimson hair, her porcelain skin, those massive tits. "You're Cherry. Sweet, red, and everyone wants to pop you."

Cherry collapses to her knees, tears streaming down her doll-like face. "Please, Candi, I need everything at once, my whole body is on fire, I can't think—"

"And Derek," you finish, looking at the platinum blonde bombshell in that sporty pink outfit, "you're Candy. With a Y. Because you're the sweet treat everyone wants."

"Oh god," Candy breathes, her sapphire eyes glazing over. She takes a stumbling step toward you. "Candi, I need... your scent, you smell so good, I need to—"

That's when you notice them.

Five men in mall security uniforms standing in a semicircle around your group. They've been watching. Their radios are off. Their eyes are predatory, hungry, taking in every inch of five desperate transformed sluts on display.

The largest one—a muscular Black man with close-cropped hair and a name tag reading 'Jackson'—steps forward. His hand rests on his belt. "Ladies. We've been getting complaints about your... activities. We're going to need you to come with us."

His eyes travel slowly down your body, lingering on your exposed cleavage, your bare thighs.

"Private security office," another guard adds—Latino, younger, already adjusting the obvious bulge in his pants. "To discuss appropriate mall behavior."

They're not asking.