Hate me harder

The tattoo was a mistake.

Kyle Miller knew it the second he woke up, head pounding, mouth tasting like stale vodka and regret. He was face-down on his buddy Brad's couch, still wearing last night's clothes, and something on his lower back burned.

"Oh fuck," he groaned, reaching back. His fingers found raised skin, tender and hot. "Oh fuck."

"Morning, princess."

Kyle looked up. Brad was leaning against the doorframe, phone out, grinning like Christmas had come early. Behind him, Jake and Tommy were already laughing.

"You don't remember, do you?" Brad's grin widened. "Dude. You absolute legend."

Kyle stumbled to the bathroom. Every step made his back throb. He turned, craning his neck to see his reflection, and—

"No. No no no no—"

The tattoo stretched across his lower back, just above his ass. Delicate pink script surrounded by flowers and butterflies. The words read: Princess Vibes Only with a little crown dotting the 'i'.

A tramp stamp.

He had a fucking tramp stamp.

"BRAD!" Kyle spun around, face burning. "What the fuck did you let me do?!"

His buddies had followed him to the bathroom doorway. All three were filming now, cackling like hyenas.

"Let you?" Brad wheezed. "Dude, you demanded it. Said you wanted something 'cute and girly.' We thought you were joking but you literally paid the guy and sat in the chair."

"I was blackout drunk!"

"Yeah, well." Jake shrugged, still filming. "Should've thought about that before you became a basic bitch."

Tommy made a kissy face. "Princess vibes only, babe."

They were laughing at him. Not with him—at him. Kyle could feel their contempt, their disgust, their gleeful mockery. Twenty-three years of being the group's punching bag, the awkward one, the virgin who never quite fit in—and now this.

The tattoo pulsed.

Kyle gasped. Heat flooded through him—not painful, but intense. Strange. His skin prickled everywhere, like static electricity building before a storm.

"You alright, dude?" Brad lowered his phone slightly. "You look weird."

"I'm—" Kyle's voice cracked. Went up an octave. "I'm fine, I just—"

His back arched.

The sound that came out of his mouth wasn't quite human. Wet cracks echoed off the bathroom tiles as his spine realigned, vertebrae shifting and compressing. His shoulders pulled inward with grinding pops. His hips—oh God, his hips—

"What the FUCK," Brad screamed.

Kyle couldn't answer. His jaw was reshaping, softening, his cheekbones rising as his skull reformed with sounds like knuckles cracking. Hair cascaded past his shoulders—longer, lighter, bleaching from mousy brown to platinum blonde as it grew.

His chest swelled.

Two mounds pushed outward against his shirt, stretching the fabric, growing larger with each heartbeat. Filling out, rounding, settling into a size that strained his t-shirt obscenely. His nipples hardened, dragging against cotton, and he—she—moaned.

"RUN!" Tommy bolted. Jake followed. Brad stayed frozen, phone still recording, face white as paper.

Between Kyle's legs, everything was changing. Shrinking. Folding. Becoming something wet and empty and hungry. She felt her thighs firm up with lean muscle, her ass swell into something round and tight, her waist pull inward to create curves that hadn't been there seconds ago.

The tattoo burned like a brand—then cooled. Settled. Completed.

Kyle Miller collapsed against the bathroom sink, gasping. The person in the mirror wasn't him anymore.

She was gorgeous.

Platinum blonde hair falling past her shoulders. Big blue eyes with naturally thick lashes. Full lips that didn't need filler. Tits that had to be D-cups, maybe bigger, sitting high and perky on a toned frame. An ass that was round and firm without being cartoonish. A flat stomach. Long, tanned legs.

She looked like a Victoria's Secret model. Like the hot girl from every college party Kyle had ever been too intimidated to approach.

"Holy shit," she breathed. Her voice was feminine and breathy. "Holy fucking shit."

Brad made a strangled sound. Kyle—no, not Kyle anymore—turned to look at him. He was still filming, hands shaking, face cycling through terror and confusion and something else.

Something like want.

"Get out," she said.

He ran.

She turned back to the mirror. Studied herself. Touched her face, her tits, her new body. The tattoo was still there—she could feel it glowing faintly on her lower back—but it had changed. More intricate now. More powerful.

And she understood, somehow, what had happened.

Their mockery. Their disgust. Their hatred of what Kyle had done to himself. The tattoo had fed on it. Absorbed their negative energy and used it to... transform him.

Into her.

Her hand drifted between her legs. She was wet. Really wet. The thought of what she'd become—of what their hatred had made her.

She needed to get off.

"Fuck," she whispered, fingers finding her new clit.

The orgasm hit like a freight train.

Not a normal orgasm. Something more. Pleasure so intense her knees buckled, her vision whited out, her whole body shook with waves of ecstasy that seemed to go on forever. She screamed—actually screamed—as she came harder than Kyle had ever come in his entire pathetic life.

When it finally subsided, she was on the bathroom floor, panting, trembling, tears streaming down her face.

"Oh my God," she gasped. "Oh my God."

That wasn't just an orgasm. That was... transcendent. Religious. The best feeling she'd ever experienced.

And somehow she knew—knew—that the tattoo had caused it. Fed on their hatred and converted it into pure pleasure.

She caught her reflection in the mirror again. Flushed. Glowing. Beautiful.

A smile spread across her face—slow and wicked and nothing like Kyle's awkward grimace.

"Okay," she said to herself. "Okay. I can work with this."

---

She called herself Kaylee.

The first few days were chaos. Kyle's roommates had fled—she found a terrified group text about "demons" and "calling a priest"—and his phone was blowing up with missed calls from family. She ignored all of it. Blocked everyone who knew Kyle Miller.

He was gone now. She was something new.

The transformation held steady for about forty-eight hours. Then she noticed something in the mirror.

A tiny line at the corner of her eye.

"What the fuck?"

She leaned closer. It wasn't just the line. Her skin looked... slightly duller. Less luminous. Her tits seemed marginally less perky. Her ass a little less firm.

She was aging.

Not fast—not visibly fast—but she could feel it. The tattoo was hungry. Without fresh hatred to feed on, the magic was starting to fade. And if it faded completely...

Would she turn back into Kyle?

The thought filled her with horror. Not Kyle. Never Kyle again. That pathetic, invisible, sexless nobody—she'd rather die than go back to being him.

She needed to feed the tattoo.

She needed to make people hate her.

---

The Instagram account went live that afternoon.

Profile picture: her in Kyle's too-small shirt, tits straining against the fabric, middle finger up. Bio: "ur mad & im pretty 💕"

First post: mirror selfie, ass out (tattoo visible), caption: "hotter than ur gf and i just woke up lmaooo"

She bought a few thousand followers to seed the algorithm. Then she waited.

The first hate comment came within an hour.

"desperate attention whore"

The tattoo flared.

Kaylee gasped as warmth spread through her body. The tiny line by her eye vanished. Her skin brightened. And between her legs—

"Ohhhhh..."

She came. Just from that. Just from one hateful comment. A mini-orgasm that made her toes curl and her nipples harden.

"Holy shit," she breathed. "Holy shit."

More comments. More hate. More pleasure.

"imagine being this pathetic for likes"

She moaned, feeling another wave of warmth.

"this is what's wrong with women today"

Her back arched. Her pussy clenched.

"literal whore behavior"

She came again—harder this time—and felt the tattoo pulse with satisfaction. In the mirror, she watched her skin literally glow for a moment. Saw her face get slightly prettier. Her body slightly tighter.

The hatred was making her hotter. And making her cum.

By midnight, Kaylee had orgasmed more times than she could count. Her body was better than it had been the morning after transformation—skin clearer, tits perkier, ass rounder, face more symmetrical. She looked like she'd had the world's best beauty sleep, spa treatment, and personal trainer all at once.

And she felt incredible.

She lay in bed, still trembling from her latest orgasm, scrolling through notifications. Every angry reply. Every disgusted quote tweet. Every seething comment from women who hated what she represented and men who wanted her but despised themselves for it.

Each one was a tiny hit of pleasure. A micro-orgasm. A sip of the fountain of youth.

She could do this forever, she realized.

Stay young. Stay hot. Stay fed.

All she had to do was make people hate her.

---

Kaylee learned to optimize.

Positive attention was fine. The simps and gooners who saved her pictures, the desperate men who slid into her DMs, the OnlyFans subscribers (she'd set one up immediately)—they kept her stable. Baseline maintenance. Like eating enough calories to survive but never feeling satisfied.

But hatred?

Hatred was a fucking feast.

She posted a gym video—squats in a thong, ass bouncing—with the caption: "girls who complain about gym creeps are just mad nobody's looking at them 🤷‍♀️"

Feminist Twitter went nuclear.

Kaylee was in bed when the notifications started flooding in. She'd learned not to touch herself—the tattoo would do the work. She just lay there, scrolling, reading the outrage, and feeling it.

The first thread made her gasp. A woman sharing her gym harassment story, tagging Kaylee, calling her "part of the problem."

Pleasure rolled through her body like a wave.

The second thread made her moan. A video essay about "pick-me culture" with her face as the thumbnail.

Her pussy clenched. Wetness soaked her sheets.

The third thread made her scream. A feminist account with two hundred thousand followers calling her "everything wrong with women today."

She came so hard she saw stars.

"Fuck yes," she gasped, riding the aftershocks. "Fuck yes."

By morning, she looked five years younger. Not that she'd looked old before—but now there was a freshness to her face, a tightness to her body, that screamed youth. She could pass for nineteen, maybe eighteen. Her skin was flawless. Her hair was shinier. Her tits defied gravity in a way that made push-up bras obsolete.

She stood naked in front of the mirror, running her hands over her perfect body.

"This is insane," she whispered. "This is... this is..."

Perfect, her mind supplied. This is perfect.

All she had to do was keep the hate coming.

And she was very, very good at making people hate her.

---

"You're promoting a literal pyramid scheme," the girl said.

Kaylee smiled at her phone. The live stream had twenty thousand viewers—her biggest yet. The girl calling her out was some small commentary YouTuber named Sarah who'd made a video about Kaylee's crypto shilling.

Sarah was right. The token was garbage. Kaylee had been paid fifty grand to promote it, and she didn't give a single fuck if her followers lost money.

"Babe," Kaylee cooed, adjusting her top to show more cleavage, "you're just jealous you're too ugly to get brand deals. Like, sorry you have to actually work for money? Must suck."

The chat exploded.

Kaylee felt the tattoo pulse with each angry comment. Warmth spread through her body. Her nipples hardened. Between her legs, she felt herself getting wet.

"You're—you're literally scamming people," Sarah sputtered.

"Sounds like cope to me." Kaylee stuck out her tongue. "Maybe spend less time being a hater and more time on a treadmill. Just saying."

She ended the stream.

The clip went viral within hours. "INFLUENCER ADMITS TO SCAMMING AND MOCKS CRITIC'S WEIGHT." Every commentary channel picked it up. The outrage was beautiful.

Kaylee spent the entire night in bed, not touching herself, just receiving. Wave after wave of pleasure as the hatred poured in. Orgasm after orgasm, each one triggered by a new angry video, a new disgusted tweet, a new think-piece about how she represented "the worst of influencer culture."

She lost count somewhere around fifteen.

By morning, she looked like a college freshman. Tight. Fresh. Dewy. The kind of effortless beauty that made other women furious and men stupid.

She checked her reflection obsessively now. Looking for any sign of aging. Any tiny line or slight sag that would indicate the magic was fading.

Nothing. She was perfect.

As long as she kept feeding.

---

The beef with Amber was her masterpiece.

Amber Stone. Brunette. Tanned. Gym-toned. Three million followers. "Unproblematic." The kind of girl Kyle would have obsessed over in his old life—hating her and wanting to be her in equal measure.

Now Kaylee was going to destroy her.

It started with a subtweet: "some girls think working out is a personality... like ur still mid babes 🫠"

Amber responded gracefully. "Not sure who this is about but let's lift each other up queens! 👑"

Boring. Predictable. Perfect.

Kaylee screenshot it: "imagine being this boring and having a platform... couldn't be me"

The stan wars began. Kaylee's followers versus Amber's. Comparison videos. Drama channel coverage. The internet loved nothing more than watching pretty girls tear each other apart.

Then Kaylee leaked the DMs.

Fake, obviously. Photoshopped screenshots making Amber look racist. It took thirty minutes to create and six hours to end Amber's career.

Kaylee watched Amber's tearful apology video in bed, naked, legs spread.

The hatred was overwhelming. From Amber's defenders who saw through the manipulation. From people who believed the fake DMs and were disgusted by Amber. From everyone who'd been following the drama and felt dirty for engaging.

All of it flowed into the tattoo.

Kaylee came for three hours straight.

Not exaggerating. Three hours. Wave after wave after wave, each orgasm blending into the next until she couldn't tell where one ended and another began. Her sheets were soaked. Her voice was hoarse from moaning. Her whole body trembled with overstimulation.

And when it finally subsided, she looked in the mirror and saw a goddess.

Not an impossible cartoon—still human, still real—but the absolute peak of what a human woman could be. Face like a young Margot Robbie. Body like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. Skin that glowed with health and youth. Eyes that sparkled with wicked intelligence.

She looked twenty-one. Maybe twenty.

She was twenty-three.

"I could do this forever," she whispered to her reflection. "Stay young. Stay hot. Forever."

All it cost was being hated.

She was more than willing to pay that price.

---

The OnlyFans expansion changed everything.

Not the porn itself—though she leaned hard into degradation content, cuckolding videos, girlfriend experience packages designed to make men's actual girlfriends feel inadequate. It was how she talked about it.

"If your boyfriend subscribes to my OF, that's your fault for being mid. Maybe try being hotter? Just a thought 💕"

The tweet generated three days of outrage. Relationship advice columns wrote about her. Morning shows discussed "the death of shame." Conservative pundits used her as proof that society was collapsing.

Kaylee spent those three days in a constant state of low-grade orgasm.

She learned to function through it. To post and respond and create content while her pussy throbbed and clenched and leaked. The pleasure was always there now—a baseline hum of ecstasy that spiked whenever a particularly hateful comment came through.

She leaned into the villain role. Not because she had to—because she wanted to.

Every terrible thing she did felt good. The scams, the callouts, the manufactured drama—each one was foreplay. Building toward the inevitable explosion of outrage that would make her cum and keep her young.

She'd stopped aging entirely now. If anything, she was getting younger. The stress lines that had started to appear when she went too long without feeding—they reversed completely after a good hate-feast. She could pass for eighteen on a good day.

And every day was a good day when you were the most hated woman on the internet.

---

"Do you have any regrets about who you've become?"

Kaylee was on a yacht she didn't own, answering fan questions in a bikini that barely contained her. Fifty thousand people watching live. Half of them wanted to fuck her. Half of them wanted to see her fail.

She loved both equally.

"Regrets?" She laughed—high and bratty and mean. "Babe, look at me. I'm literally perfect. I'm rich, I'm famous, and I'm so fucking hot it makes people angry. Why would I regret any of this?"

She leaned into the camera, tits nearly spilling out.

"You know what I used to be? Nobody. Literally nobody. Invisible. Forgettable. Now millions of people think about me every single day. Even the ones who hate me—especially the ones who hate me—they can't stop thinking about me."

She felt the tattoo pulse. Felt the familiar warmth between her legs.

"And you want to know a secret?" She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "The hate feels so good. Like, actually. Every time someone calls me a whore or says I'm ruining society or whatever—I literally get off on it. I'm getting off right now, actually."

She wasn't lying. A small orgasm rolled through her as she spoke, triggered by the horrified reactions in the chat.

"So keep hating, losers." She kissed the camera. "It just makes me hotter."

---

The clip broke records.

Fifty million views. Endless discourse. Video essays about narcissism and influencer culture and the death of shame. Congressional hearings about "the dangers of social media."

Kaylee spent a week in a near-constant state of orgasm.

The tattoo had grown. It covered most of her lower back now, intricate pink designs spreading across her skin like beautiful vines. Sometimes she caught it glowing faintly in the dark, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

Her body was perfect. Not impossibly perfect—still within the realm of human possibility—but at the absolute peak. D-cups that sat high and firm without support. An ass that looked incredible in everything and better in nothing. A face that could launch a thousand ships or sink a thousand careers.

She looked nineteen years old.

She planned to look nineteen years old forever.

---

ONE YEAR LATER

The woman who used to be Kyle Miller stood at the window of her Miami penthouse, watching the sunrise.

She was the most followed person on every platform now. Not because people liked her—they didn't. But they couldn't look away. She was a car crash in designer lingerie. A disaster with perfect tits.

The tattoo covered her entire lower back, spreading tendrils up her spine and around her hips. Pink and intricate and beautiful. It pulsed gently with each heartbeat, a constant low-grade pleasure that kept her wet and wanting.

Her body was flawless. Not inhuman—still the kind of body that could exist in the real world—but at the absolute ceiling of genetic potential. Supermodel proportions. Skin like silk. A face that made people stop and stare.

She looked eighteen years old.

She would look eighteen years old forever, as long as she kept feeding.

Sometimes she tried to remember being Kyle. The memories were there, technically. But they felt like they belonged to someone else. A sad, pathetic nobody who'd spent his whole life invisible and miserable and unfuckable.

She'd shed him like a snake sheds skin.

No regrets.

Kaylee picked up her phone. Her latest post was already going viral—a video of her mocking a disability rights activist. The comments were a symphony of hatred.

She felt the familiar warmth between her legs. The first orgasm of the day rolled through her, gentle and sweet.

"More," she whispered, already planning her next outrage. "Always more."

The sun rose over Miami, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.

Kaylee smiled—beautiful, youthful, eternally wicked—and started typing.

She had forever to be hated.

And she intended to enjoy every second of it.