Wake up, slut

Evan's Bedroom, Blackwood Family Home, Suburban Ohio, at 7:15 AM on Saturday June 15th, 2024 Day 1.

You stumble out of bed and nearly face-plant into the carpet. Your center of gravity is all fucked up—these massive tits are pulling you forward like two bowling balls strapped to your chest, and your hips are so wide you clip the nightstand on your way to the closet. The antique letter is already gone, just a faint smell of sulfur where it sat, but those words are burned into your brain. Twenty-four hours. Don't get knocked up. Simple enough, right?

Except your body is screaming at you. There's this constant throbbing heat between your legs, this wet ache that makes your thighs press together involuntarily. Your new pussy is practically drooling, you can feel the slick moisture coating your inner thighs, and every step sends a little jolt through your swollen clit. It's maddening. You've never felt anything like this—Evan barely even touched himself, too guilty and scared after those Sunday school lessons—but now this body wants to be touched so badly it's making you dizzy.

You yank open your closet and stare at your wardrobe. Band tees, cargo shorts, hoodies—all made for a skinny eighteen-year-old dude. You grab the biggest hoodie you own, a baggy black one with some metal band logo, and pull it over your head. It stretches obscenely across your chest, the fabric straining over tits that are easily double-Ds, maybe bigger. The hem rides up to expose your pale, flat stomach. You find a pair of old basketball shorts and step into them, but they barely make it past your thick thighs and wide hips. The waistband digs into your soft flesh, and the shorts are so tight they might as well be painted on, the fabric hugging every curve of your fat ass.

You catch your reflection in the mirror on the back of the door and freeze. A goth bombshell stares back at you—long black hair streaked with purple, huge dark eyes lined with smoky makeup, lips so plump and glossy they look like they were made for sucking cock. Your skin is porcelain-pale and flawless, your waist impossibly tiny compared to the obscene flare of your hips. You look like a fucking porn star cosplaying as a Hot Topic employee.

Then you notice it. The hoodie. The black fabric is... shifting. Thinning. The metal band logo fades and rearranges itself, letters reforming into new words across your straining chest: "BREED ME" in glittering purple script. The sleeves retract, the hem crawling upward until your midriff is fully exposed, the fabric becoming some kind of cropped mesh that barely contains your massive tits. You can see your nipples—fat, pink, and hard—pressing against the see-through material.

"No, no, no—" you stammer, tugging at it, trying to pull it down. But the more you fight it, the faster it changes. The basketball shorts shrink too, the fabric thinning into something that looks like a pair of tiny vinyl hot pants, so tight you can see the outline of your puffy pussy lips through the material. The word "CUMSLUT" appears across the ass in matching purple letters.

A wave of arousal hits you like a freight train. Your knees buckle and you grab the closet door for support, gasping as your clit throbs almost painfully. The curse is inside you, warm and hungry, and it wants you to touch yourself so badly. Your hand drifts toward your dripping cunt without permission, fingers brushing the slick vinyl covering your pussy, and you have to physically wrench your arm back with a whimper.

From downstairs, you hear your mom's voice. "Evan? Honey? Breakfast is ready!"

Your blood runs cold. Your parents. Your super religious, would-freak-the-fuck-out parents. You can't let them see you like this.

Your objective for this adventure is: Survive for 24 hours without any man ejaculating inside you, which would result in pregnancy and permanent transformation.