Comply with security and go to their 'private office' with your group

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

You nod slowly, your new bronze-skinned body trembling with need. "We'll go," you say, your voice coming out breathier than you intended. The leather micro-shorts are soaked through now, clinging obscenely to your dripping pussy. "Lead the way."

Jackson's eyes darken with satisfaction. "Smart choice. Follow me. Single file."

You fall into line behind him, your bare feet padding on the cold tile. Behind you, Cherry stumbles in her stockinged feet, those massive pale tits bouncing wildly in the see-through babydoll. "Where are we going?" she whimpers, her violet eyes glazed and confused. "I need—I can't stop thinking about—"

"Quiet," Rodriguez snaps from the rear. "You'll get what you need soon enough."

Milky crawls on hands and knees, unable to stand in those ridiculous heels, her massive F-cups dragging on the floor and leaving twin trails of milk. "Need cock," she mutters mindlessly. "Need to suck, need to taste—"

Candy walks between two guards, her platinum hair swaying with each step. Her sapphire eyes keep darting to Jackson ahead, then to you. "Candi," she breathes, "you smell so good. I need to get closer to you. Please."

Cumslut has to be physically supported by Thompson and Williams, her legs too weak to hold her. Both hands are still shoved down her soaked shorts, fingers pumping desperately. "Can't stop," she gasps. "So wet, need it filled, please someone fill me—"

Jackson leads you through a service corridor marked "STAFF ONLY." The fluorescent lights flicker overhead. Your hypersensitive skin tingles with each step, the leather corset rubbing your nipples into stiff peaks. Between your legs, your new pussy clenches and drips, desperate for penetration.

You pass a janitor who stops to stare, mouth hanging open.

"Keep moving," Chen barks at him.

The security office is at the end of the hall—a plain metal door with a keycard reader. Jackson swipes his card and the lock clicks open. "Inside. All of you."

The office is larger than you expected. There's a front room with a desk, computer monitors showing mall security feeds. But Jackson pushes through to a back room—spacious, soundproofed padding on the walls, a large leather couch against one wall, an empty desk pushed to the corner.

No cameras.

"Lock it," Jackson tells Rodriguez, who seals the door behind the group.

Five guards. Five transformed sluts. The smell of arousal is overwhelming—your own dripping pussy, mixed with the musk pouring off Milky and Candy's pheromone-affected bodies.

Jackson turns to face you all, his muscular frame looming. His hand goes to his belt buckle. "Strip. All of you. Everything off. Now."

His eyes travel slowly across your exposed cleavage, lingering on the way your DD-cups strain against the leather corset.

"And then," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "we're going to teach you what happens to sluts who make a scene in our mall."