The changes are permanent

She sat up in bed, her skin still tingling, her stomach fluttering in the aftermath—but something felt wrong. Too long. Too heavy. She looked down and her breath hitched.

Her cock was still there.

Still thick, stiff, slowly softening, but undeniably real. She blinked, heart skipping. Then she grabbed the journal with trembling hands and scrawled a line:

"Return my genitals to normal."

The ink dried before her eyes. No shimmer. No warmth. No change.

She dropped the pen.

“No…” she whispered, running her hands down her body again, trying to will the change away through sheer panic. She gripped herself again, as if squeezing it would make it vanish—but it just pulsed sluggishly, stubborn and defiant.

“I undid it,” she whispered louder, flipping to a new page.

"Change my hair back to brown."

Still nothing. Her reflection in the mirror mocked her—long blonde locks, falling like a stranger’s over trembling shoulders. Her brown eyes were wide with dread.

The journal lay silent. Unmoving. Indifferent.

Her stomach twisted, bile rising. What else had she written?

Her eyes scanned the earlier pages, hunting for the first wish—the innocent, reckless one scrawled in playful curiosity.

“I am not pregnant.”

The words burned in her skull like a neon sign.

Her hands flew to her belly, flat and perfect. For now.

“No. No. No.”

But she'd felt it—the moment she wrote it. The surge of heat after Ethan begged to finish inside her. The raw pulse of his orgasm. Her own voice echoing in her head—I want your babies.

She stumbled to her feet, naked, shaking. The journal sat open, mocking her. Her perfect body, her perfect knowledge, her impossible cock... all hers now. Permanent.

She screamed. And the sound echoed hollow against the walls of her room.