Try to crawl away toward the door while the men are distracted undressing

Evan's Bedroom, Blackwood Family Home, Suburban Ohio, at 9:10 AM on Saturday June 15th, 2024 Day 1.

You try to move. Your arms push against the mattress, your knees dig in, and you start crawling toward the door on your hands and knees, your massive tits swaying beneath you like pendulums, your thick ass high in the air. It's a clumsy, uncoordinated attempt—your new body's proportions are all wrong, your center of gravity thrown off by those enormous tits, your braid dragging behind you on the sheets like a dead weight.

But the curse has other plans.

Your right hand slips on a wet patch—Derek's cum still soaking into the sheets—and your body lurches sideways. Your knees slide off the edge of the bed and you tumble to the floor, landing on all fours directly in front of Evan's full-length closet mirror. The curse hums triumphantly in your skull, positioning you like a doll on a shelf.

And there you are. Staring back at yourself.

The reflection is devastating. A goth bimbo with vacant, glassy eyes stares back at you—beach-blonde streaks already creeping into your black hair, your braid hanging past your ass, your tits straining against that mesh top like two overinflated balloons with 'BREED ME' stretched across them. Your pussy is swollen, pink, glistening with cum and arousal, your clit visibly throbbing between your spread thighs. You look like a breeding whore from a porn video, and the worst part is the tiny spark of recognition in your foggy brain that whispers that's me.

"Well ain't that a perfect view," Tyrell's voice rumbles from behind you.

You see him in the mirror before you feel him. He's stripped off that basketball jersey, revealing a torso carved from obsidian—abs stacked like bricks, pecs thick as slabs, shoulders impossibly wide. And when his jeans drop, your breath catches.

His cock is monstrous. Easily eleven inches, thick as your wrist, veined and dark, hanging heavy between his thighs with the head already glistening with precum. His balls are huge—swollen, heavy, clearly full of cum. He strokes himself lazily as he approaches, his shadow falling over your kneeling form.

"Look at yourself, baby," Tyrell commands, his massive hand gripping your braid and yanking your head up so you're forced to watch the mirror. "I want you to see every inch go in. I want you to watch your face when I stretch this little pussy open."

Behind him, Jake and Marco are stripping down too—Jake's thick, veiny cock already hard and bobbing, Marco's lean shaft curving upward as he strokes it. Derek watches from the doorway, phone recording.

Tyrell drops to his knees behind you, his massive hands gripping your hips, positioning you exactly where he wants you. The head of his cock—fat, blunt, leaking—presses against your already-stretched entrance. He's so much bigger than Derek. So much thicker. Your pussy clenches in terrified anticipation.

"Breathe," he says, and pushes forward.

The stretch is obscene. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as inch after inch of his impossible cock forces its way inside your cum-slick pussy. You watch it happen in the mirror—watch your eyes go wide, your lips part, your whole body shudder as he splits you open. Three inches. Five. Seven. Still going. Your walls stretch around him like he's reshaping you from the inside, the pressure against your cervix intense and relentless.

"There we go," Tyrell groans, sinking the last two inches home. You're completely full—stuffed to the brim, his cock pressing against places no cock has ever reached. In the mirror, you can see the slight bulge in your lower belly where he's buried inside you. "All eleven inches, baby. Look at that."

He holds still, letting you feel every throb, every pulse of his heartbeat through his shaft. Then he pulls back slowly—agonizingly—and slams forward, making your whole body rock, your tits bouncing wildly, a strangled moan ripping from your throat.

"Yeah," Jake mutters, stroking himself. "Wreck that shit, Ty."

"Mira esa cara," Marco adds, grinning. "She loves it."

Tyrell sets a slow, brutal pace, each thrust bottoming out with a wet slap against your ass. And you can't look away from the mirror. The curse won't let you. You watch your own face contort with pleasure—watch your eyes roll back, your tongue loll out, your expression dissolve into mindless, drooling bliss as his massive cock ruins you inch by devastating inch.