Bullying Bri

 

The attic air was stale, thick with dust and the scent of forgotten mothballs, but Arthur—sweet, hapless, doormat Arthur—didn’t mind. He was just happy to help Mrs. Higgins down the street. He was a good man. A kind man. A boring, flannel-wearing, soft-spoken father who always put others first.

He hefted a cardboard box marked "Trash" toward the hatch when something slipped out, tumbling onto the rough floorboards with a plastic clatter. It was a doll - still in the plastic packaging. But not like the ones his daughter used to play with. This one looked… new. Viciously modern.

It was a "Bullying Bri" doll.

Arthur picked it up. The packaging was glossy, screaming in hot pink font: Be the Ultimate Bitch! Bri was depicted on the front, a blonde, pouty vision of malice, wearing a tiny pink skirt and crop top. She looked expensive, cruel, and undeniably alluring.

"Kids these days," Arthur muttered, shaking his head. Intrigued he ripped open the packaging and took out the plastic figurine. He turned the doll over in his hands. There was a plastic cord sticking out of her back, a tab hanging down like a ripcord on a chattering teeth toy. Pull for Total Transformation, the small text read.

Curiosity, that fatal flaw, got the better of him. He gave the cord a sharp tug.

ZZZZZZZZT.

A jolt of electricity, purely magical and terrifyingly potent, shot up his arm. It wasn't painful; it was intoxicating. Like a shot of adrenaline mixed with pure ecstasy.

"Wha—?" Arthur gasped, dropping the doll. He tried to clutch his chest, but his hands were… changing.

"Oh, fuck yes," a voice whispered in his ear, but it wasn't his voice. It was hers. Bri's. It was inside his head, and it was hungry.

The changes didn't wait. They slammed into him like a freight train made of silicone and pink energy.

He felt his spine crack—pop, snap, crunch—realigning into a arch that pushed his chest out and his ass back. His broad, dad-shoulders shrieked as they narrowed, the bone structure melting away like wax under a flame. His skin began to tingle, a rush of heat radiating outward.

Mmmmmh… look at you go, the inner voice cooed. Goodbye, Daddy. Hello, Goddess.

Arthur watched in horror as his hands slimmed down, the knuckles vanishing, his fingers becoming delicate, manicured talons tipped with a fresh coat of bubblegum pink polish. The hair on his arms dissolved, the pores tightening, leaving behind skin that was rapidly tanning, smoothing out, becoming flawless.

"No… I need to… I need to check on… Sarah…" he stammered, but his voice was rising in pitch, cracking and skipping octaves until it settled into a high, bratty soprano.

Sarah? The voice laughed cruelly. You mean that pathetic little loser you used to call a daughter? Please. She’s about to become your favourite punching bag.

The heat concentrated on his chest. Arthur looked down, expecting the flattening sensation he'd feared, but instead, his pecs just… vanished. His ribcage narrowed, his waist pinched in violently, corseting itself without the fabric. He was flat, but not in a manly way. In a perky, athletic, supermodel way. His nipples puffed up, sensitive and prominent against the friction of his flannel shirt.

His jeans felt tight, agonizingly so, but not around the waist. His hips flared out with a wet, sucking sound, the bone widening, creating the perfect shelf for an ass that was currently inflating like a balloon. He felt his glades harden, tightening, becoming a muscle so firm and round it could crack walnuts.

"Unnngh… feels… so… good," Arthur moaned, his eyes rolling back. The moral struggle was over before it began. The kindness, the fatherly love—it was being drowned in a tidal wave of toxic, narcissistic pleasure.

His clothes were the next to go. The flannel shirt dissolved into mist, replaced instantly by the fabric from the box. A tight, vibrant pink cropped tank top materialized, straining against his smooth, flat torso. The square neckline highlighted his collarbones, now sharp and elegant. Below, his jeans ripped apart, the denim turning into pink pleats. A short, flirty skirt with white horizontal stripes fluttered around his new, thick thighs.

He looked down at his feet. The work boots were gone. In their place, pink high-heeled sandals strapped themselves onto his smaller, arched feet, lifting him up, forcing his center of gravity to shift to that new, amazing ass.

His face… he could feel it shifting. His jawline softened, his chin receded slightly. His cheekbones rose, high and sharp. His lips, once thin and pursed, plumped up, swelling until they were two soft, pillows of flesh—cocksucking lips, designed for pouting and sneering. His eyes turned a icy, dismissive blue, framed by lashes that thickened and lengthened.

Finally, his hair. It grew with explosive speed, tumbling down his shoulders in long, straight sheets of platinum blonde. It felt heavy, silky, perfect.

Arthur was gone. Standing in the dusty attic was Bri.

She shook her head, the white sunglasses perched on her head rattling slightly. She adjusted the large hoop earrings dangling from her lobes and grabbed the small white clutch purse that had manifested in her hand. She ran a hand over her toned, tanned stomach, admiring the definition. She was a gym bunny, a hot little piece of ass, and she knew it.

"Ugh, this attic is tragic," Bri whined, her voice dripping with venom. "It smells like old people and failure."

She looked down at the floor. There lay the doll. But it wasn't Bri anymore. The plastic had warped and twisted. It now had short, thinning hair. It wore a tiny flannel shirt. It had a kind, bored expression. It was Arthur.

A wicked grin spread across Bri's face, stretching those plump lips.

"Well, well, well," she giggled, a sound like breaking glass. "Look at you, Daddy. You look pathetic."

She raised one foot, admiring the pink stiletto heel. It was sharp. Deadly.

"I don't need a way back," she purred, kicking the doll onto its back. "Why would I want to be a boring dad when I can be her? I can be the Queen Bee. I can be the girl every girl wants to be, and every guy wants to fuck."

Do it, the voice urged. Kill him. Kill the past.

"Bye-bye, Artie."

BAM.

She slammed her heel down. The plastic head of the Arthur-doll cracked. CRUNCH.

Bri giggled, high and manic. She stomped again. STOMP. The torso caved in. STOMP. The legs shattered. She ground the heel of her sandal into the pile of broken plastic, twisting her ankle, obliterating the only link to her former life. The magic reversed permanently. There was no going back. The reality outside this attic was already rewriting itself. She wasn't Sarah's dad anymore. She was Bri, the girl who made Sarah's life a living hell.

The thought made her pussy throb. A wet heat pooled between her thighs, soaking the tiny thong she now wore.

"Mmmmmh…" Bri moaned, licking her lips. She could practically smell the fear. She opened the attic hatch and strutted down the pull-down stairs, her hips swaying with a practiced rhythm that promised destruction.

She stepped out into the hallway of Mrs. Higgins' house, but it didn't feel like an old neighbour's home anymore. The air hummed with her new power. She pulled out her phone—it was pink, encrusted in rhinestones—and scrolled. Sarah's name was there.

Time to remind that little nerd who runs this school, she thought, her heart racing with dark, delicious anticipation.

Bri laughed, tossing her blonde hair back, and headed out the front door, ready to claim her throne.