The Girls

They had been waiting for so long...

Two perfect, impossible orbs of flesh - round, heavy, and warm to the touch despite sitting in a velvet-lined trunk for God knows how many years. They didn't look like prosthetics. They looked alive. Soft pink skin, faint blue veins tracing delicate paths beneath the surface, nipples the colour of rose petals that seemed to stiffen and relax with some phantom breath. They were easily double-Ds - maybe bigger - sitting there in the dark of the trunk like two sleeping creatures.

And in a way, that's exactly what they were.

The Girls - as their previous hosts had always called them - were starving. They'd been sealed in this trunk since 2019, when their last wearer had made the mistake of falling asleep next to someone she'd wronged. Before that, they'd been on the chest of a Montenegrin socialite who'd bankrupted three families and fucked their husbands on the same night. Before that, a Tennessee beauty queen who'd destroyed every other contestant's life for sport. Before that... well, The Girls had been around for a very, very long time. Centuries, possibly. They didn't keep track. They didn't think in words or dates. They thought in want. In take. In the wet, electric thrill of a good woman's soul curdling into something delicious and dark.

Every host started the same way. Kind. Decent. Boring. And every host ended the same way - on her knees in front of a mirror, worshipping herself, incapable of a single selfless thought, her mind a cathedral of narcissism and lust and beautiful, beautiful cruelty.

The Girls didn't just change your body. They hollowed out your soul and filled the space with want. An insatiable, all-consuming hunger for cock and power and worship and more. Always more. The previous hosts hadn't just become hot. They'd become predators. Walking, talking weapons of mass seduction who left a trail of broken marriages, emptied bank accounts, and ruined lives wherever their perfect asses swayed.

And right now, after six years in the dark, The Girls wanted a chest to call home.

They were so fucking hungry.

---

"Holy shit, Mel, come look at this."

Karen Whitfield was fifty-one years old, and she said holy shit the way fifty-one-year-old women from Connecticut do - with a little gasp beforehand and her hand pressed to her collarbone. She was kneeling in the dusty attic of her friend Diane's lake house, surrounded by old photo albums and moth-eaten curtains and the general archaeological debris of someone else's family history. Karen was a kind woman. Plain-faced, a little heavy around the middle, with sensible short brown hair and reading glasses she was always losing. She wore an oversized flannel and mom jeans. She looked like someone who made casseroles for neighbours and drove a Subaru. Because she was.

"What is it?" Melody - Mel - appeared at the top of the attic ladder, brushing cobwebs from her strawberry-blonde hair. She was forty-eight, Karen's best friend since college, and similarly unremarkable in a way that neither woman had ever minded. She had kind eyes, a soft chin, and the general energy of a woman who'd made peace with middle age by investing heavily in book clubs and Pinot Grigio.

"Look at these," Karen said, lifting the lid of the old steamer trunk. "In Diane's grandmother's things. They're... I mean, they look like..."

Mel knelt beside her. Both women stared.

"Are those...?"

"They look like breasts," Karen whispered.

They did. They really, really did. Two gorgeous, impossibly realistic orbs sitting in dark red velvet. They caught the weak attic light and seemed to glow - warm and pink and alive in a way that made both women's mouths go dry.

Something shifted in the air.

It was subtle at first. Like the room getting half a degree warmer. Like a scent you couldn't quite name - sweet, musky, feminine, with an undertone of something darker, something that smelled like sex and jasmine and expensive perfume and sin - drifting up from the velvet. Karen blinked. Mel blinked. And deep inside both of their sensible, middle-aged, casserole-making brains, something whispered.

Touch us.

Karen's fingers twitched. "They're... God, they're beautiful."

"They're tits, Karen."

"I know, but—" Karen reached out. Her fingertips brushed the surface of the nearest orb and she gasped. It was warm. Soft. It yielded like real flesh, and the moment she touched it, the whisper in her head became a roar.

PUT. US. ON. We'll make you PERFECT. We'll make you everything you've secretly hated yourself for not being. Every woman who made you feel invisible - you'll make HER invisible. Every man who looked through you - he'll crawl on his fucking KNEES.

"Oh," Karen breathed. Her pupils dilated. Her cheeks flushed. She picked up one of the orbs - it was heavy, God it was heavy, it must have weighed four pounds - and she cradled it against her chest and the feeling that surged through her was not maternal. It was not kind. It was not casserole.

It was power. And underneath the power - pulsing, insistent, undeniable - was arousal. Raw, animal arousal that hit her between the legs like a fist.

You could be so much more than this. You could be everything. You could take anything you wanted. Anyone you wanted. You'd never have to be nice again. You'd never have to settle again. You'd never have to be BORING again. You'd fuck who you want, when you want, however you want, and they'd THANK you for the privilege—

"Give me those," Mel said sharply, and her voice had an edge that Karen had never heard before. Mel's eyes were wide, glazed, fixed on The Girls with an almost religious intensity. "Karen, give them to me."

"No." The word came out of Karen's mouth low and possessive. She pulled the orb tighter to her chest. "They're mine."

"I saw them too—"

"I touched them first—"

"Give me the fucking tits, Karen!"

They lunged at each other. Two middle-aged women in flannel, wrestling on the dusty attic floor of a Connecticut lake house over a pair of magic breasts. It would have been funny if it weren't deadly serious. Mel grabbed Karen's wrist. Karen shoved Mel backwards. An elbow connected with a jaw. Dust flew. The trunk toppled.

And Karen - who was bigger, stronger, more desperate - pinned Mel to the floor with one knee on her chest and reached into the overturned trunk with her free hand.

"They're mine," she snarled, and she didn't sound like Karen anymore. She sounded like something that had been sleeping inside Karen for fifty-one years and had just been woken up.

She grabbed both orbs. She pulled her flannel open, buttons scattering. She pressed them to her chest—

And The Girls attached.

---

The sound was wet and organic. Like peeling fruit in reverse. The two orbs flattened against Karen's modest B-cups and then sank in, the flesh of The Girls melting into Karen's own breast tissue like hot wax into skin. There was no seam, no edge, no boundary - just a spreading warmth that turned hot, then scorching, then somehow transcendent.

"Mmmmmmmh—" Karen moaned, and it wasn't her voice. It was an octave lower, throatier, dirtier - the moan of a woman being fucked, not a woman kneeling in an attic. She was still straddling Mel, but her body was... changing.

It started with the breasts. They swelled. Rapidly, obscenely, gloriously - pushing outward and upward like time-lapse footage of fruit ripening. Her B-cups became Cs. Cs became Ds. Ds became double-Ds that were impossibly round, impossibly perky, impossibly perfect - the kind of tits that made men lose their jobs and women lose their husbands. Her areolas shrank and darkened to a deep dusty pink. Her nipples stiffened into thick, sensitive nubs that tingled with an electric pleasure that shot straight to her clit.

"Oh God... oh fuck..." She was getting wet. Soaking. Her sensible cotton underwear was drenched in seconds and she could feel it, could feel her pussy swelling and throbbing and aching with a need she hadn't felt since she was nineteen. No - she'd never felt this. This was beyond need. This was hunger. Bone-deep, mind-erasing hunger.

The change rippled outward. Her belly flattened, her waist cinched, her hips flared. Twenty-seven years of gravity and childbirth and desk jobs melted away like snow in July. Her skin tightened, smoothed, glowed - taking on a sun-kissed warmth that spoke of yacht decks and private beaches and the kind of places where beautiful people did ugly things. Her thighs firmed. Her ass lifted and rounded into two perfect peaches that strained against her suddenly-ridiculous mom jeans. Her arms slimmed, her fingers lengthened, her nails grew and hardened into natural almonds that gleamed like they'd just been professionally done.

Her pussy tightened. She could feel that too - feel it reshaping itself, becoming wetter, tighter, more sensitive, more demanding. Her clit swelled. Every shift of her new thighs against each other sent sparks through her that made her gasp.

You're going to want to fuck constantly. Every day. Multiple times a day. It's never going to be enough. You're going to be INSATIABLE, and the more you feed it, the more powerful you become.

"Yes," Karen whimpered, grinding instinctively against Mel's pinned body. "Yes."

Her face was last. And it was the most dramatic change of all.

Mel watched in horror - and burning, agonising jealousy - as Karen's pleasant, forgettable features liquefied and reformed. Her jaw narrowed, her cheekbones rose, her lips plumped into a pillowy, symmetrical pout that looked like it had been built specifically for wrapping around a cock. Her nose refined itself into a delicate ski-slope. Her eyes widened, brightened, turned from muddy brown to a piercing icy blue that burned with intelligence and malice and a terrifying, predatory hunger. Her eyebrows arched into perfect wings. Her lashes grew thick and dark and curling.

And her hair. Jesus Christ, her hair. It erupted from her scalp in a cascade of platinum blonde silk, pouring down over her new shoulders like liquid gold, growing longer and thicker and more luminous until it reached the small of her back. It caught the attic light and blazed.

The woman straddling Mel was not Karen Whitfield anymore.

She was twenty-four. She was five-foot-seven. She was a hundred and twenty-two pounds of weaponised femininity - all tits and lips and cheekbones and hair and power. She looked like the kind of girl who'd been expelled from a Swiss boarding school for fucking someone's father. She looked like the kind of girl who'd smile at you while she ruined your life. She looked flawless in a way that went beyond human genetics - like she'd been precision-engineered to destroy.

Every pore was invisible. Every proportion was golden-ratio perfect. Her skin had a luminosity that made her look perpetually lit by candlelight. If you ran a hand down her body you wouldn't find a single flaw - not a blemish, not a scar, not a mole in the wrong place. She was physical perfection, and The Girls made sure of it, because perfection was the delivery mechanism for everything else.

She looked down at Mel and smiled. And it was the cruellest smile Mel had ever seen.

"Oh, Melody," the woman who used to be Karen purred, and her voice was honey and broken glass. "You have no idea how good this feels." She rolled her hips slowly, languidly, still straddling Mel's chest. "I'm so fucking wet right now. I can feel it dripping down my thighs. I can feel everything. Every nerve ending in my body is on fire and all I can think about is—" she paused, bit her new lip, moaned "—is how badly I need a big, fat cock inside me. Right now."

She cupped her new breasts - her breasts, The Girls - and squeezed them, and the moan that escaped her lips hit Mel like a physical force. Mel's anger drained. Her jealousy drained. Her will drained. Because The Girls were attached now, and their power had shifted. Anyone who saw them - who saw her - was filled with an overwhelming, marrow-deep compulsion to obey.

But it was more than that. The pheromones pouring off Karen's new skin - an invisible cloud of biochemical need - were rewriting Mel's brain in real time. Making her docile. Making her worshipful. Making her want to please this perfect, terrible creature in any way she could.

"Get up," Karen - the new Karen, the real Karen, the Karen that had always been hiding behind the flannel and the casseroles - said, swinging one long, tanned leg off Mel's chest. She stood. Her jeans hung absurdly loose on her tiny new waist. Her flannel was in shreds, barely containing the magnificent, gravity-defying shelf of her chest. She looked like a goddess wearing a scarecrow's costume.

She was already thinking about who to fuck first. The thought was automatic, relentless, a drumbeat beneath every other thought. Cock. I need cock. Big cock. I need someone to worship these tits and stretch this tight little pussy and—

Mel got up. She had no choice.

"Good girl," Karen said, examining her new nails. A wicked thought crossed her mind and she let it stay - let it bloom. "Now. I'm going to need a few things. New clothes - La Perla, Agent Provocateur, the good stuff. Something that shows off these—" she hefted her tits with both hands and shivered with pleasure "—properly. A hairdresser. A credit card with no limit." She paused, tilting her perfect blonde head. A smile spread across her face - slow, poisonous, delighted. "And, I think... Mel, darling? I think I'm going to need your husband."

"...What?"

Karen turned to look at her, and the fluorescent attic light caught those impossible blue eyes, and those impossible tits, and that impossible smile, and Mel's mind went smooth and blank and obedient.

"Richard," Karen said sweetly. "He's got a big cock, hasn't he? I've always wondered. You mentioned it once at wine night. Eight inches, was it?"

Mel's mouth opened. Closed. Her eyes were glassy.

"Yes," she heard herself say. "Eight and a half."

Karen's smile widened. She ran her tongue along her upper lip - slowly, wetly, obscenely. Her thighs clenched together and she exhaled hard through her nose. Eight and a half inches. Her new pussy throbbed at the thought.

"Mmmmmh. I'm going to ride him until he forgets your name." She said it like she was ordering coffee. Casual. Certain. "I'm going to put these tits in his face and make him sob. And you—" she pointed one perfect nail at Mel "—you're going to bring him to me. Tonight."

Mel nodded. Glassy-eyed. Obedient.

"And Mel? One more thing." Karen leaned close. Her breath was warm and sweet and Mel could smell her perfume - somehow she already had perfume, a scent that was part of her now, part of The Girls' magic, a cloud of vanilla and musk and sex. "I'm going to fuck other men too. Lots of them. I'm going to fuck his friends and his colleagues and anyone else with a pretty face and a big dick. And Richard's going to know, and he's going to accept it, because looking at these—" she grabbed Mel's hand and pressed it to her left breast, and the contact sent a visible shudder through Mel's entire body "—is worth any humiliation. Isn't it?"

"Yes," Mel breathed. "Yes, it's worth it."

"Good girl. Now bring him to me."

---

Three Years Later

The woman who called herself Karen now lived in a $14 million penthouse overlooking the Hudson. She slept on Italian sheets. She wore Chanel to breakfast and La Perla to bed and sometimes nothing at all. She had a walk-in wardrobe the size of Mel's old living room, filled with furs and designer heels and little dresses that would make a nun weep. She drove a white Range Rover. She had a personal trainer she fucked on Mondays and Thursdays, a stylist she fucked on his birthday, a nutritionist she flirted with to keep hungry, and a rotating roster of lovers who she summoned and dismissed like a queen managing her court.

She was insatiable.

The Girls had rewired her brain so completely that sex wasn't just a desire - it was a need, as fundamental as breathing, as constant as her heartbeat. She woke up horny. She went to sleep horny. She was wet through dinner meetings and dripping in the back of Ubers and masturbating in restaurant bathrooms and thinking about cock the way normal people thought about lunch. Not constantly, but rhythmically, predictably - a pulse of want that surged every hour and could only be temporarily sated by an orgasm so powerful it made her vision white out.

And The Girls made sure every orgasm was nuclear. When she came - and she came hard, she came screaming, she came with her back arched and her toes curled and her perfect tits heaving - the pleasure was supernatural. It flooded her system like a drug, rewarding her, reinforcing the cycle, making her want more. Always more. Bigger cocks. Longer sessions. Dirtier acts. She'd gone from a woman who'd had missionary sex with the lights off to a creature who demanded to be fucked in positions that would make a pornstar blush, who craved degradation and dominance in equal measure - sometimes wanting to be bent over and ruined, sometimes wanting to ride a man into obedience while she told him exactly how worthless he was compared to her last lover.

Richard had left Mel within a week of that day in the attic. He hadn't wanted to - not really, not the old Richard, the one who still had free will. But Karen had answered the door in a black lace bodysuit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and The Girls had pulsed, and his mind went smooth and blank and his cock went instantly, painfully hard and he packed a bag and moved into whatever Karen told him to move into and he'd been there ever since. He was devoted. Obsessed. Broken. He worked sixteen-hour days at his finance job because Karen liked nice things and nice things cost money and making Karen happy was the only thought in his head.

The tit-fucking alone was enough to keep him enslaved forever. Karen would kneel in front of him in nothing but thigh-high stockings, wrap those magnificent, magical orbs around his thick cock and pump him until he was sobbing, her blue eyes staring up at him with amused contempt, her glossy lips parted in a cruel smile, her blonde hair pooling on the floor—

"Cum for me, baby," she'd whisper, and he'd erupt, painting her tits with rope after rope while she laughed - a bright, mean, musical laugh that was the most beautiful and terrifying sound he'd ever heard.

"Mmmm," she'd purr, rubbing his cum into The Girls like moisturiser, and they'd absorb it, drinking it in, glowing faintly as they fed. "Good boy. Now clean me up and get me ready for Marcus."

Marcus was her Tuesday. A 6'4" personal trainer with an eleven-inch cock who made Richard look like a boy. Karen had discovered him at the gym, taken one look at the outline in his shorts, and decided he belonged to her. She'd walked up to him, pushed The Girls together with her forearms, and said, "You. My place. Eight o'clock. Don't wear underwear." He'd shown up at seven-thirty.

She fucked Marcus while Richard sat in the next room and listened. This was a rule. Richard wasn't allowed to watch - not because Karen was merciful, but because the not watching was worse. The sounds were enough. The rhythmic slap of skin on skin. The creak of the bed. Karen's moans - God, her moans, escalating from breathy gasps to full-throated screams that shook the walls.

"Fuck me harder... harder... yes, yes, YES, right there, don't you DARE stop— FUCK, you're so fucking BIG, you're stretching me so— oh God oh God oh GOD—"

And then the sound of her cumming. That sound was a weapon in itself. A piercing, guttural, animal scream followed by a cascading series of whimpers and moans that went on for thirty, forty, fifty seconds as the orgasm rolled through her in waves. The Girls amplified it. Fed on it. Made it last longer than any human orgasm should.

Richard would sit in the living room with his head in his hands, rock-hard and agonised, knowing that the most beautiful woman in the world was being satisfied by another man in ways he never could be. And he'd hate himself. And he'd stay. Because the alternative - leaving, never seeing The Girls again, never being allowed to worship at the altar of that perfect, evil body - was unthinkable.

Karen knew this. She counted on it. She'd reduced a successful, intelligent, forty-seven-year-old man to a simpering wallet with a heartbeat, and she found it hilarious.

She was cruel in ways that went beyond sexual sadism. She was cruel the way a cat is cruel to a mouse - not out of malice, exactly, but out of a total, serene indifference to anyone's feelings but her own. She insulted people casually, destroyed relationships on a whim, manipulated everyone she met with the effortless precision of a woman who knew that The Girls made her untouchable. She'd befriend women just to steal their boyfriends. She'd compliment a man's wife just to make him realise what he was missing. She'd show up to parties in dresses so tight and low-cut that every conversation stopped, and she'd spend the entire evening collecting the attention of every man in the room like a child picking flowers - not because she wanted them all, but because she could.

The old Karen - the Karen who made casseroles, who worried about others, who felt guilt - was gone. Not buried. Not suppressed. Gone. The Girls had eaten her. Digested her completely. In her place was a creature of pure appetite - beautiful, pitiless, and perpetually, magnificently hungry.

She never wondered if she'd gone too far. The concept didn't exist for her anymore.

She was perfect. The world owed her everything. And anyone who disagreed simply hadn't seen her tits yet.

---

But The Girls had a weakness. And Mel had not forgotten.

---

Mel had spent three years in a fog. The first six months were the worst - she could barely function, barely think, existing in a grey haze of obedience and heartbreak while the woman who used to be her best friend stole her husband, her confidence, and her dignity. Karen had summoned her regularly at first - not to torture her, but to use her as an audience. Mel had been forced to sit in Karen's bedroom while Karen got dressed for dates with Richard, watching this perfect, blonde, twenty-four-year-old stranger parade around in lingerie that cost more than Mel's car.

"What do you think, Mel? The red or the black?" Karen would ask, holding up two scraps of La Perla lace, her tits impossible and glowing and utterly, devastatingly perfect. "The black, right? Richard likes the black. He told me it reminds him of—" a cruel pause, a crueller smile "—well. Never mind what it reminds him of."

But eventually Karen had gotten bored of her. The way a child gets bored of a broken toy. Stopped calling. Stopped summoning. Moved on to newer, more interesting victims. And without regular exposure to The Girls, the fog slowly - agonisingly slowly - began to lift.

By year two, Mel could think clearly again. And what she thought about, every single day, was getting those tits off Karen's chest.

She couldn't do it alone. She knew that. One look at Karen's rack and she'd be back in the fog, crawling and obedient. She needed someone who'd never seen The Girls. Someone with no connection to Karen. Someone she could trust.

She called her niece.

Sophie Park was twenty years old and genuinely, uncomplicatedly good. A nursing student at UConn. Vegan. Volunteered at animal shelters. Had a boyfriend named Tyler who she'd been with since prom - sweet, reliable Tyler with his neat haircut and his five-foot-ten frame and his respectful, gentle lovemaking that always ended with him asking if she'd finished. She was pretty in a wholesome, girl-next-door way - dark hair, clear skin, athletic build from years of high school soccer. She wore minimal makeup and Patagonia fleeces and she called her mum every Sunday.

She was the last person on earth who would ever want magic evil tits.

The Girls would disagree.

"Aunt Mel, this sounds insane," Sophie said, sitting across from her in a diner off I-95. She had her hands wrapped around a mug of peppermint tea - of course it was peppermint tea - and her brown eyes were wide with concern. "Magic... breasts?"

"I know how it sounds." Mel looked terrible. Thin, drawn, her strawberry-blonde hair now streaked with grey. She looked a decade older than forty-eight. "But I'm not crazy, Sophie. I've spent three years researching this. Whatever those things are, they're old. Really old. There are references in folklore, in occult texts - 'twin vessels of Lilith,' 'the harlot's heart,' different names across different cultures but always the same thing. Two fleshy objects that attach to a woman's chest and give her... power. Total, absolute power over anyone who sees her."

"And what does that power—"

"It makes her perfect." Mel's voice cracked. "Physically perfect. Supernaturally beautiful. And it makes her... evil. Not right away, not always, but eventually - completely, irreversibly evil. Selfish. Manipulative. Sex-obsessed. The texts describe hosts who became so consumed by their own appetites that they destroyed entire families, entire communities, without a shred of remorse. One account from 1743 describes a woman in Prague who—" Mel stopped. Shook her head. "It doesn't matter. The point is, they can be removed."

Sophie stared. "How?"

"Only when she's unconscious. That's the only time they're vulnerable. The bond between The Girls and the host is weakest during deep sleep." Mel leaned forward. "Sophie, she stole my husband. She stole my life. She walks around that penthouse like she owns the world, and everyone just... lets her. Because of those things. If we can get them off her, the spell breaks. Richard comes back. Karen goes back to... to whoever she was."

Sophie chewed her lip. "You want me to knock her out."

"I want you to help me knock her out. You're strong, you're young, and you've never been exposed to her. As long as you don't look directly at her chest—"

"Aunt Mel—"

"I'll handle the rest. I'll remove them. I just need you to be my backup." Mel's eyes were shining. "Please, Sophie. She used to be my best friend. I want to save her."

Sophie looked at her aunt - this broken, hollowed-out woman who used to make her birthday cakes and take her to the movies - and her heart ached.

"Okay," she said. "I'll help."

---

They went at 2 AM.

The penthouse was absurd. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a living room that could host a gala, a kitchen full of appliances that had never been used because Karen didn't cook - she had people for that, had people for everything, including the twenty-three-year-old personal trainer she'd drained and dismissed at midnight, sending him stumbling into a cab with empty balls and a glazed expression that wouldn't fade for hours.

Karen was asleep.

She slept naked, naturally. Sprawled across a California king bed in a room that smelled of sex and Diptyque candles and something else, something sweet and musky and intoxicating that was just her - the scent of The Girls, the pheromone cloud that never fully dissipated, that soaked into furniture and sheets and brains. Her platinum hair fanned across silk pillowcases like a halo made of moonlight. Her body - that impossible body - was on full display. Even in sleep, she was staggering. Flawless. Not a pore visible, not a hair out of place, her skin glowing with that supernatural golden warmth. The moonlight through the windows painted her in silver and shadow, and The Girls rose and fell gently with each breath, round and full and luminous and still faintly, faintly pulsing.

Richard was away - some business trip Karen had sent him on so she could have the penthouse for her Tuesday session with Marcus. She'd fucked Marcus for three hours. Three hours. She'd cum nine times and each orgasm had been more powerful than the last, until the final one had left her momentarily blind, vision whited out, body convulsing, screaming his name into a pillow while The Girls blazed with light. Marcus had passed out from exhaustion. Karen had called him an Uber, washed him off her skin, and fallen asleep smiling.

Mel had given Sophie strict instructions. Eyes on the floor. Don't look at her chest. Don't look at her chest. Don't look at her chest.

Sophie kept her eyes down. She was wearing dark clothes, her dark hair tied back, her heart hammering so loud she was sure it would wake the sleeping goddess. She carried a chloroform pad - Mel had gotten it through some connection Sophie didn't want to know about.

And even with her eyes down, Sophie could smell her. That scent. Sweet and musky and electric. It curled into her nostrils and something deep in her brain - something old and female and competitive - sat up and took notice.

Something powerful is in this room.

Sophie shook it off. Crept forward. The carpet was so thick and soft it swallowed her footsteps. Karen murmured in her sleep - a soft, breathy moan that sounded like a woman mid-dream about something filthy - and Sophie's stomach clenched with a feeling she refused to name.

She reached the bed. She kept her eyes on Karen's face - only her face - and even that was almost too much. The sleeping woman's features were so perfect they looked wrong. Too symmetrical. Too refined. Like someone had taken the concept of female beauty and distilled it past the point of reality. Her lips, even in sleep, formed a natural pout that looked like an invitation to sin.

Sophie pressed the chloroform pad over her mouth and nose.

Karen's eyes flew open. Icy blue. Stunning. Furious.

She thrashed. She was strong - stronger than a girl that slim should have been, some residual magic in those perfect muscles, some feral survival instinct from The Girls who were not going back in a box - and she grabbed Sophie's wrist and squeezed. Sophie gasped in pain but held firm, pressing harder, and Karen's struggles weakened, her magnificent body writhing on the sheets in a way that was involuntarily, devastatingly sexual—

Her eyelids fluttered.

Her grip loosened.

She went limp.

"She's out!" Sophie called, stepping back, breathing hard. "Aunt Mel, she's out!"

Mel rushed in. She'd prepared for this moment for years. She had gloves on - thick rubber gloves, because she wasn't sure what touching The Girls directly would do to her and she wasn't taking chances. She climbed onto the bed, straddling Karen's unconscious body, and looked down at her chest.

Oh God.

Even through the gloves, even through three years of hatred and heartbreak, the sight of them hit her like a freight train. They were perfect. Round and full and glowing faintly - actually glowing, a soft warm light emanating from the skin itself, pulsing in time with Karen's heartbeat. They looked alive. They looked like they were breathing. And even unconscious, even detached from a waking host, they called to her. The scent intensified - pouring off Karen's skin in waves, soaking into Mel's clothes, her hair, her mind—

Put us on.

"No," Mel whispered. Her hands were shaking. "No, I'm here to take them off. I'm here to save Karen."

Karen doesn't want to be saved. Karen is HAPPY. She came NINE times tonight, Melody. Nine. Can you even imagine? Can you even remember what it feels like to cum ONCE? Put us on. Put us on and you'll cum so hard you'll forget your own name. You'll cum and you'll KEEP cumming. You'll cum while men worship you. You'll cum while women envy you. You'll cum until the whole world is on its KNEES—

"SHUT UP!" Mel's gloved fingers found the edges of The Girls - the faintest ridge where magical flesh met human flesh - and she pulled.

The sound was horrible. Wet. Tearing. Like separating conjoined twins. Karen's unconscious body arched and a low, animal moan escaped her lips - a moan of loss so profound it sounded like grief. The Girls resisted, clinging to their host with invisible tendrils of magic sunk deep into Karen's nervous system, but Mel was desperate and furious and she ripped them free with a sound like a bandage torn from a wound.

She held them up.

Two perfect orbs, warm and heavy in her gloved hands, trailing thin filaments of connection that withered and dissolved in the air like spider silk in flame. They were angry. She could feel it through the rubber - a vibrating, petulant fury, like holding two small furious animals. Their glow intensified, pulsed, demanded.

PUT US ON PUT US ON PUT US ON—

Beneath them, Karen's chest was... flat. Not just flat - concave slightly, like the space remembered what had been there and was grieving. And Karen... Karen was changing. The blonde hair was darkening, shortening, retreating. The perfect face was softening, rounding, ageing. The tight body was loosening, thickening. Fifty-one years of reality crashed back in like a wave. In thirty seconds, the goddess was gone, and Karen Whitfield - the real Karen Whitfield, flannel and casseroles and all - lay unconscious on a billionaire's bed in a body that felt like a punishment.

"Oh my God," Sophie breathed from across the room. "It worked."

Mel was crying. Her best friend was back. Her best friend was—

She looked down at The Girls in her hands.

She'd taken the gloves off. When had she taken the gloves off? She couldn't remember taking the gloves off but the rubber was on the floor and The Girls were against her bare palms and they were so warm and they were pulsing gently, rhythmically, like two hearts beating in time with her own and the warmth was spreading up her arms and into her chest and between her legs and—

Hello, Melody.

The voice was different this time. Softer. More intimate. Like a lover whispering in her ear after a long separation.

We missed you.

"No," Mel whispered. But her voice had no conviction. Her eyes were wide and dark and hungry.

You've waited so long. You've suffered so much. Three years of being invisible, being discarded, being NOTHING. Don't you deserve this? Don't you deserve to be BEAUTIFUL? To be POWERFUL? To walk into a room and feel every eye on your body? To wrap these around a thick, hard cock and hear a man BEG?

"I... I came here to save Karen..."

Karen stole your husband. Karen humiliated you. Karen made you CRAWL. She fucked Richard in this bed - THIS BED, Melody - while you sat at home in your empty house eating microwave dinners and crying. And now you're holding the most powerful objects in the world and you're going to - what? Put them back in a box? Be the bigger person? Be BORING, frumpy, sad little Melody for the rest of your pathetic life?

The warmth from The Girls was between her legs now. A throbbing, liquid heat that made her thighs clench. She was getting wet. Wetter than she'd been in years. Wetter than Richard had ever made her.

You don't even remember what a good orgasm feels like, do you? But WE remember. We remember NINE orgasms in THREE hours. We remember screaming so loud the windows shook. We remember cumming so hard we went BLIND. And that was with a host who was fifty-one years old, Melody. Imagine what we could do with YOUR body. Not as good as a twenty-year-old, but we'd MAKE it good. We'd make it PERFECT. We'd make you tight and wet and hungry and you'd never - EVER - feel empty again.

Mel's fingers tightened on The Girls. She was breathing hard. Her nipples were stiff. Her mouth was wet. A trickle of arousal ran down her inner thigh.

"Aunt Mel?" Sophie's voice, distant, concerned. "Aunt Mel, what are you doing? Put those down—"

"I can't," Mel said, and her voice was thick and strange. She was lifting The Girls towards her chest. Her flannel was already unbuttoned - when had she unbuttoned it? - and her plain beige bra was on display and she was pulling the cups down with trembling fingers, exposing her small, tired breasts to the cool air. "I can't, Sophie, I can't, they're— I need them, I need to feel— I need to be—"

Say it.

"I need to be fucked," Mel whispered, and the word came out of her like a confession.

"Aunt Mel, NO—"

YES. Put us on. Put us on, Melody. BECOME.

"Fuck," Mel moaned, pressing The Girls against her bare chest. "Fuck, yes—"

Sophie tackled her.

The impact sent them both crashing off the bed and onto the carpet. The Girls went flying - bouncing, rolling, coming to rest by the window where the moonlight hit them and they blazed with warm light. Brighter than before. Angrier than before. Their glow pulsed rapidly, urgently, like two hearts in cardiac arrest.

FIND US. PICK US UP. PUT US ON—

Mel screamed - actually screamed - with loss and rage and desperate need. She thrashed under Sophie's weight, clawing at the carpet, trying to crawl towards them. Her face was twisted with an addict's desperation.

"GIVE THEM TO ME! THEY'RE MINE! I DESERVE THEM! I'VE EARNED—"

Sophie pinned her aunt's arms. She was younger, stronger, and she had leverage. But Mel was fighting with a strength that went beyond muscle - it was mania, pure and electric, and Sophie could barely hold her.

And then Sophie looked up.

She didn't mean to. It was instinct - checking the room, making sure they were safe. Her eyes swept across the carpet, past the bed, to the window.

To The Girls.

Oh.

They caught the moonlight and they caught Sophie's gaze and it was like looking into the sun - not blinding, but illuminating. Like a door opening in her mind that she'd never known was there. And behind that door was everything she'd ever wanted and never let herself want. Everything she'd been too good, too kind, too nice to reach for. Everything she'd strangled in its crib because wanting it made her feel guilty.

She saw herself - not as she was, but as she could be. Taller. Hotter. Blonde. Tanned. Tits that could stop wars, lips that could start them. Walking into a room and watching every head turn and every jaw drop and every woman shrink. Walking into a room and knowing - knowing with total certainty - that she could have anything. Any man. Any woman. Any thing. That the world was a buffet laid out for her pleasure and all she had to do was eat.

And she was so, so hungry.

Hello, Sophie.

The voice wasn't a whisper this time. It was a purr. Warm and dark and intimate, like a hand sliding up her thigh under a dinner table.

We've been waiting for you.

"No," Sophie said. But the word had no force behind it. It was reflexive. A muscle memory of goodness that was already atrophying.

Yes you have. You've been pretending your whole life, haven't you? Pretending to be kind. Pretending to be humble. Pretending you don't look at those girls on Instagram - the ones with the perfect bodies and the sugar daddies and the Birkin bags - and think 'why not me?' Pretending you don't lie in bed next to Tyler and his sweet little five-inch dick and think 'is this IT? Is this all I get?'

Sophie's breath caught. Her grip on Mel's wrists loosened. Between her legs, a warmth was blooming that had nothing to do with exertion.

You've been SO good, Sophie. SO responsible. SO boring. Vegan food and animal shelters and sensible fleeces and a boyfriend who asks 'did you finish?' because he can never fucking TELL. You're TWENTY years old. You should be getting railed by men who make you forget your own name. You should be wearing dresses that cost more than Tyler's car. You should be DRIPPING with cum and confidence and the certain knowledge that you are the hottest, most powerful, most DANGEROUS woman in any room you walk into.

"Stop," Sophie whispered. But she didn't mean it.

You don't want us to stop. You want us to keep going. You want to hear the truth because the truth makes you WET, doesn't it, Sophie? You're wet right now. You've been wet since you walked into this room and smelled HER on the sheets. That scent. That power. That's what we offer. Not just beauty. Not just sex. DOMINION. Total, absolute dominion over every pathetic person who crosses your path.

Sophie's eyes were locked on The Girls. They pulsed in the moonlight. Beckoning. They were the most beautiful things she'd ever seen.

And you'll be PERFECT, Sophie. Not just hot. PERFECT. Every cell in your body rebuilt from the ground up. Skin like silk. Hair like liquid gold. Tits that make grown men weep. An ass that stops traffic. A face so beautiful it HURTS to look at. And a pussy - oh, sweetheart, the pussy we'll give you... tight as a fist, wet as a river, sensitive enough that a breeze could make you moan. You'll cum harder than any human woman has ever cum. You'll cum until you can't SEE. And the hunger - the beautiful, magnificent HUNGER - will never, ever go away. You'll always want more. More cock. More power. More worship. More MORE. And that hunger will make you CRUEL and the cruelty will make you POWERFUL and the power will make you CUM and the cumming will make you HUNGRY and round and round and round it goes, forever, FOREVER—

"Sophie?" Mel's voice was ragged, desperate. She'd felt the grip loosen. She could see her niece's face and what she saw there turned her blood to ice. "Sophie, what are you— your eyes, they're—"

"Shut up," Sophie said quietly.

The words came out of her mouth like they'd been waiting there her whole life. And she meant them. God, she meant them. The sound of Mel's whimpering, pleading voice was suddenly the most annoying sound in the world. The voice of weakness. The voice of settling. The voice of a woman who'd had magic tits in her hands and been too pathetic to put them on.

"Sophie, listen to me, you have to fight it, you have to—"

"I said shut up, Aunt Mel."

Sophie looked down at her aunt. And Mel - who had just been in the grip of the same madness - saw something in her niece's brown eyes that made her blood run cold. Not confusion. Not corruption. Recognition. Like Sophie wasn't being changed into something new. Like she was finally being allowed to be something she'd always been. Like twenty years of goodness had been a costume and the real Sophie - the true Sophie - was a creature of pure, gleeful, unapologetic hunger.

Sophie's hand closed around her aunt's throat.

"Soph— hhkkk—"

"You were going to put them on," Sophie said, her voice eerily calm. She squeezed. Not hard enough to kill - just hard enough to restrict airflow, to make Mel's vision swim and her struggles weaken. "You were going to put them on and become hot and become powerful and what, Aunt Mel? Steal Richard back? Walk around in lingerie and ruin people's lives?" She laughed - a short, cold, delighted laugh. "You? You'd have spent the first six months feeling sorry for people. You'd have been a hot girl with a conscience and that is the most pathetic thing I can possibly imagine."

Yes. YES. She's not worthy. She would have WASTED us. But you, Sophie... you won't waste a single drop.

"Whereas I..." Sophie smiled, and it was the smile of a girl watching her last inhibition die. Not with reluctance. With relief. Like shedding a skin that had been too tight for years. "I'm twenty years old, Auntie. I've got my whole life ahead of me. I've got a tight little body that's going to become the tightest, hottest body on the fucking planet. And I am so fucking tired of being good."

Mel's vision was going dark. Spots of black at the edges, closing in. She pawed weakly at Sophie's wrist. "Soph... please... you're not... this isn't you..."

"This is the most me I've ever been." Sophie leaned close. Her dark hair fell like a curtain around their faces. Her eyes were luminous, wild, ecstatic. "Do you know what I'm going to do with those tits, Auntie? I'm going to put them on and I'm going to become a fucking goddess and then I'm going to walk out of this penthouse and find the man with the biggest cock in Manhattan and let him worship me. And then I'm going to find the second biggest. And the third. And I'm never going to stop. I'm going to be wet and hungry and evil for the rest of my perfect, beautiful, endless life."

She squeezed harder.

"Shhhhh. Go to sleep, Aunt Mel. When you wake up, everything will be different. I'll be different."

Mel's hand fell.

Her eyes rolled back.

She went limp.

Sophie held the choke for five more seconds - just to be sure, just because it felt good to be sure - then released. She stood up. Her hands were shaking. Not with guilt. Not with doubt. With excitement. Pure, electric, full-body excitement that made every nerve ending sing. And between her legs, she was wetter than she'd ever been in her life - soaked through her underwear, slick on her inner thighs, her clit throbbing with a need that made her knees buckle.

She walked to The Girls.

They were waiting for her. Glowing. Pulsing. Breathing. They knew. They'd known from the moment she'd walked into the room. The aunt was a distraction, a stepping stone, a delivery mechanism. Sophie was the one they wanted. Young. Fit. A lifetime of repressed hunger coiled up inside her like a spring. The Girls could taste it. Could taste the cruelty hiding behind the kindness, the ambition hiding behind the humility, the slut hiding behind the saint.

She was going to be magnificent.

Sophie knelt down and picked them up, and the moment her fingers touched that warm, impossible flesh, a moan tore out of her that she didn't recognise. Low, guttural, animal. Every nerve in her body lit up at once. Her nipples hardened so fast it hurt. Her pussy clenched around nothing. Her mind went white and then dark and then filled with images - cocks and mouths and hands and bodies, writhing, fucking, worshipping, hers - a kaleidoscope of sex and power and domination that felt like a prophecy.

Yes. YES. You're READY.

She pulled off her black t-shirt with one hand, her other hand still clutching The Girls, unwilling to let them go for even a second. She unhooked her sports bra. Her chest was modest - a B-cup, firm from soccer, perfectly adequate for a twenty-year-old nursing student. Perfectly adequate for someone who didn't know any better.

She knew better now.

She looked down at The Girls in her hands. They looked back at her - not with eyes, but with something deeper, some ancient awareness that saw her completely and found her worthy.

"Make me perfect," she whispered. "Make me evil. Make me a fucking bitch."

She pressed them home.

---

The merge was violent.

Where Karen's transformation had been a wave, Sophie's was a detonation. The Girls hit her chest and exploded inward with a wet, crunching, gloriously obscene sound that echoed off the penthouse walls. They didn't just attach. They invaded. Boring into her flesh, her muscle, her bone, her nerves - millions of microscopic tendrils burrowing deep into her body, hooking into her nervous system, her endocrine system, her brain, rewiring everything they touched.

Sophie threw her head back and screamed.

Not pain. Not exactly. It was like every orgasm she'd ever had - every disappointing, muffled, is-this-it orgasm she'd faked through with Tyler - compressed into a single white-hot point at the centre of her chest and then expanded outward in all directions at once. It was ecstasy so intense it short-circuited thought. Her eyes rolled back. Her legs gave out. She hit her knees on the carpet and she didn't feel it, couldn't feel anything except the pleasure rewriting her body cell by cell.

Her breasts swelled first.

It was obscene to watch. Her modest B-cups erupted outward like they were being inflated from within, the flesh rippling and stretching and growing with an audible creak of expanding skin. Bigger. Bigger. Bigger. The growth didn't stop where Karen's had. It exceeded it. Because The Girls were feeding on Sophie's youth, her vitality, her twenty years of repressed hunger, and they were gorging.

B to C. C to D. D to DD. DD to... something beyond letters. Something that shouldn't exist on a frame this slim but did - two massive, round, impossibly perky spheres of flesh that jutted forward like a declaration of war against modesty. They were perfectly shaped. Not a hint of sag, not a millimetre of asymmetry, not a stretch mark to be found. They looked like they'd been sculpted by a god with a fetish for perfection. Her areolas were small and dark pink, perfectly circular, perfectly placed. Her nipples were thick and stiff and so sensitive that the air itself made them tingle.

"Oooooh fuuuuck," she groaned, and her voice was already wrong - already not hers, already something new, something that dripped with sex the way honey drips from a spoon. Her hands flew to her new tits and the moment she touched them the pleasure doubled - tripled - quadrupled - and her pussy convulsed and she came.

Just from touching them. Just from touching her own tits. She came hard enough to make her vision blur, her abs clench, a gush of wetness soak through her remaining clothes. She screamed through it - a raw, animalistic sound that rattled the windows.

"Oh my GOD—"

That's just the beginning, sweetheart. That was a TWO. Wait until you feel a TEN.

The transformation accelerated. Her waist cinched like an invisible corset was being tightened, her ribcage narrowing, her midsection sculpting itself into a flat, tight plane of tanned muscle - not bulky, not masculine, just defined enough to look like she lived at the gym without ever needing to go. Her obliques cut lines along her sides. Her navel deepened into a perfect oval that begged for a piercing.

Her hips cracked. The sound was like a knuckle popping amplified to eleven - a wet, bony SNAP that should have been agonising but instead felt like a stretch after years of stiffness. They widened, flared, pushed outward until the ratio between her waist and hips was something out of a Renaissance painting. Wider. Wider. An hourglass taken to its mathematical extreme.

Her ass came next. She felt it happen - felt the muscle swell, felt new tissue weaving itself into existence, felt her glutes inflating into two round, firm, magnificent globes that would have made a Kardashian weep with envy. It rose, lifted, tightened, became a shelf you could set a drink on. She was still on her knees and she could feel the new weight of it behind her, the sheer presence of it, and she clenched it experimentally and moaned because even that felt sexual now.

Everything feels sexual now. Everything WILL feel sexual, forever. Your body is an instrument of pleasure and it's being tuned to PERFECTION.

Her legs lengthened. She felt the bones stretch - not painfully, more like a deep, satisfying pull - adding two inches of height that went entirely into her legs. Her thighs thickened with lean, sculpted muscle. Her calves defined. Her feet arched, restructured, became the feet of a woman who was born to wear six-inch heels and nothing else.

Her skin changed. The pale, sensible skin of a Connecticut nursing student dissolved like watercolour in rain, replaced by a deep, luminous, golden tan that seemed to glow from within. Not orange, not fake, not human - something richer, warmer, the colour of sunlight on honey. It spread from her chest outward in a wave, smoothing every imperfection it passed over. Her pores vanished. Her skin became flawless at the cellular level - softer than silk, smoother than glass, with a dewy luminosity that looked like she was permanently bathed in golden-hour light. She would never get a blemish. Never scar. Never age. Every inch of her, from her scalp to the soles of her newly arched feet, was machine-perfect.

And then the face.

She felt it happening and she gasped - not with fear, but with a shuddering, almost sexual anticipation. Her skull shifted. Her jaw narrowed from square to delicate, from girl-next-door to femme fatale. Her cheekbones didn't just rise - they carved themselves into razor-sharp wings that could cut glass and hearts with equal ease. Her brow smoothed, her forehead refined, and her nose resculpted itself into a small, perfect, turned-up slope that was somehow both cute and devastatingly sexy.

Her lips. Oh God, her lips. They swelled like fruit ripening in time-lapse, plumping from thin and sensible to full, pouty, obscene - a natural bee-sting that fell into a default expression somewhere between a smirk and an invitation. Her cupid's bow sharpened. Her lower lip grew heavy and soft, the kind of lip that made men imagine it wrapped around their cock. The kind of lip that made women reach for their lip liner in futile envy.

Her eyes changed last. The plain brown brightened, warmed, ignited - turning from earthy and kind to a vivid, predatory amber that seemed to glow with their own internal light. Cat eyes. Bedroom eyes. Eyes that said I see you, I want you, and there's nothing you can do about it. Her lashes grew thick and black and curling, so long they cast shadows on her new cheekbones. Her eyebrows arched into perfect, sharp wings - expressive, devastating, capable of communicating more contempt in a single raise than most people could manage in a paragraph.

She was beautiful. She was beyond beautiful. She was a weapon. Every feature calibrated to maximum impact, every proportion golden-ratio perfect, every detail attending to. If you looked at her from any angle, at any distance, in any light, she was flawless. Not a flaw. Not a single point of weakness. She was physical perfection so complete it was almost aggressive - beauty wielded like a blade.

And her hair.

Her dark hair erupted. It lightened as it grew - brown to caramel to honey to gold to blazing, eye-watering platinum that poured from her scalp in a silken waterfall, strand by strand, thick and heavy and luminous. It didn't just grow - it cascaded, falling over her new shoulders, down her new back, past her new ass, pooling on the carpet behind her in a river of liquid gold. It was the kind of hair you saw in shampoo commercials and thought nobody actually has hair like that. She did. It caught every photon in the room and sent it back doubled. It was alive, responsive, electric - shifting and settling around her like a sentient garment.

Sophie Park stood up.

Slowly. Like a queen rising from a throne. Like a predator uncurling from sleep.

She was five-foot-nine. She was a hundred and nineteen pounds of pure, concentrated evil. She was twenty-four - The Girls always made you twenty-four, that perfect apex of youth and sex and power - and she was, without question, without exaggeration, without the slightest possibility of argument, the most beautiful woman who had ever existed.

Not the most beautiful woman alive. The most beautiful woman who had ever existed. The Girls had outdone themselves. They'd taken Sophie's youth and repressed hunger and turned it into something that made their previous hosts look like rehearsals. Karen had been gorgeous. The Montenegrin socialite had been stunning. The Tennessee beauty queen had been breathtaking.

Sophie was annihilating.

She walked to the full-length mirror.

And she laughed.

It came out of her like champagne from a shaken bottle - bright, bubbling, wicked. A laugh of pure, undiluted delight. She sounded like a mean girl at a party, like a rich bitch at an auction, like a woman who had just been told the funniest, cruellest joke in the world and found it hilarious.

She turned sideways. She turned back. She cupped her tits - The Girls, her Girls now, her beautiful, magnificent, evil Girls - and the weight of them in her hands made her moan. They were heavy and warm and they pulsed when she squeezed them, sending waves of pleasure radiating outward through her body. She bounced them. Watched them sway. Watched them glow.

"Mmmmmmmh... fuck. Look at me."

She looked at herself. The reflection was pornographic. Those impossible tits. That tiny waist. Those wide hips. That ass. That face. The hair, falling around her like a golden curtain, framing everything. She was wearing nothing but her dark jeans - which now hung obscenely low on her widened hips, her new ass threatening to split the seams - and she looked like a magazine cover that had been banned in fourteen countries.

And she was wet. So wet she could feel it running down her thighs. Her new pussy - because it was new, The Girls had rebuilt it from scratch, made it tighter and wetter and more sensitive than any human organ had a right to be - was throbbing. Pulsing. Hungry. It felt empty in a way that was almost painful. It wanted to be filled. It wanted cock - big cock, thick cock, cock that would stretch her and split her and make her scream - with a desperation that eclipsed every other thought.

This is your baseline now. This hunger. It never fades. It never dulls. It's going to be the background music of your entire life. Every conversation, every meal, every breath - underneath it all, you'll be thinking about getting FUCKED.

"Mmmm, good," Sophie purred, and the sound of her own voice - that low, honeyed, sex-soaked rasp - made her shiver. She ran her hands down her body. Waist, hips, thighs. Everything was silk and heat and power. "I want to be hungry. I want to be starving. I want to walk into rooms and make men hard and women obsolete."

Inside her head, the last traces of good, kind, vegan, animal-shelter-volunteering, Patagonia-wearing Sophie were dying. Not slowly. Not with dignity. They were being devoured - consumed by a new personality that was growing at an exponential rate, fed by The Girls, shaped by The Girls, nurtured in darkness and cruelty and narcissism until it filled every corner of her mind.

I should feel bad about this.

The thought was faint. Distant. The voice of Old Sophie, speaking from the bottom of a well that was filling rapidly with something dark and sweet.

I choked out my aunt. I stole—

You didn't steal anything. You CLAIMED what was yours.

But Aunt Mel—

Aunt Mel is a pathetic, sexless loser who was going to waste the most powerful artefact in human history on getting her boring husband back. She doesn't deserve these tits. She doesn't deserve to be in the same ROOM as these tits.

Tyler... I have a boyfriend...

Tyler. The new voice in Sophie's head laughed - that bright, cruel laugh again. Tyler who you had to TEACH how to find your clit. Tyler who cums in three minutes and apologises for it. Tyler who bought you a FLEECE for your birthday. Oh, Sophie. Sweet, naive Sophie. Do you know what you're going to do to Tyler? You're going to call him tomorrow. You're going to put on the tightest dress you can find and show up at his apartment and he's going to open the door and his JAW is going to hit the floor because you're so far beyond anything he's ever seen that his brain won't be able to process it. And you're going to smile. And you're going to tell him it's over. And then you're going to walk next door to his roommate - the tall one, the one with the big hands, the one Tyler always felt insecure around - and you're going to fuck him. Right there. With the door open. With Tyler LISTENING.

Old Sophie's voice went quiet.

Then, impossibly, it laughed too. A different laugh. Not kind. Not gentle. Not Sophie.

Yeah, said the last trace of the old her, conceding, capitulating, drowning with a smile on her face. Yeah, that does sound pretty fucking hot.

And then she was gone. The well filled. The light went out. Old Sophie died the way all good things die in the presence of The Girls - completely, irreversibly, and without anyone mourning.

New Sophie looked at her reflection and licked her lips. Slowly. Wetly. Tasting herself. She tasted like vanilla and venom.

"Okay," she said, to the mirror, to The Girls, to the universe. "Here's what's going to happen."

She turned around. Her aunt was still unconscious on the floor. Karen - the real Karen, the boring Karen, the fifty-one-year-old Karen - was still unconscious on the bed. Two broken, useless women who had touched the most powerful objects in the world and been too weak to claim them.

Sophie was not weak. Sophie was the strongest person in this room. The strongest person in this building. In this city. In the world. Because The Girls didn't just give you a perfect body. They gave you certainty. Absolute, diamond-hard certainty that you were better than everyone else. That your desires were the only desires that mattered. That morality was a leash for ugly people and you were free.

"When you two wake up," she said, walking past them towards Karen's walk-in wardrobe, her bare feet silent on the carpet, her new hips rolling with an unconscious, devastating rhythm that could have started a religion, "you're going to see me. And you're going to kneel. Because that's what people do when they see me now. They kneel. They stare. They serve."

She opened the wardrobe. Racks and racks of designer clothes. Thousands of dollars of silk and lace and leather arranged by colour, by occasion, by season. Karen had good taste - The Girls had seen to that. Sophie ran her fingers along the racks, selecting, discarding, selecting again.

She chose a black La Perla bodysuit that looked like it had been made for a slightly less perfect woman than her - because it had, it had been Karen's, and Karen had been a masterpiece but Sophie was a magnum opus. She stepped into it, pulled it up over her hips, over her waist, and the sheer black fabric clung to The Girls like a second skin, barely containing them, the lace straining, her nipples visible and stiff and perfect through the mesh.

She looked at herself. The bodysuit turned her body into a weapon that should have been classified by the Pentagon. Every curve, every line, every shadow was weaponised. She looked like a Victoria's Secret Angel who'd made a deal with the devil and come out ahead.

She found heels. Black Louboutins, six inches, with the red soles that screamed money and the architecture that screamed sex. She slipped them on and stood taller and felt more - more powerful, more dangerous, more hungry.

And she found lingerie. Karen had an entire drawer of it. Bras and thongs and suspender belts and bodysuits in every colour, every fabric, every designer. Sophie opened the drawer and the scent of expensive lace and Karen's old perfume wafted up and she smiled because none of it was hers anymore. It was all Sophie's. Everything was Sophie's.

She selected a pair of sheer black stockings and rolled them up her long, golden legs, snapping the lace tops against her thighs with a satisfying crack. She found a garter belt - red satin, Agent Provocateur - and clipped it to the stockings. She chose a thong - black, barely there, a triangle of silk that disappeared between the perfect cheeks of her perfect ass.

She looked at herself one final time.

The woman in the mirror was... inhuman. Beyond human. An apex predator wearing lingerie and a smile that could curdle milk. Every inch of visible skin was golden and glowing. The Girls heaved with each breath, straining against the La Perla lace, luminous and powerful and hungry. Her blonde hair cascaded down to her waist, framing everything, catching the light. Her face was a weapon - those cheekbones, those lips, those predatory amber eyes.

She was perfect. Not in the way flowers are perfect, or sunsets, or any other gentle metaphor. She was perfect in the way a sword is perfect. Perfect in the way a virus is perfect. Form following function, and the function was destruction.

"And then," she said, her voice a silky purr, turning to admire her ass in the mirror - round, high, obscene in the sheer thong - "I'm going to do everything that scared little Sophie was too afraid to dream about. I'm going to be rich. I'm going to be famous. I'm going to be worshipped. I'm going to make men bankrupt themselves for a chance to kiss these tits. I'm going to make women starve themselves trying to look like half of what I am. I'm going to fuck who I want, when I want, and I'm going to be so good at it that they'll ruin their entire lives for a second round."

She paused. Cupped The Girls through the bodysuit and squeezed, and a fresh wave of arousal crashed through her so hard she gasped.

"Mmmmmh... and right now... right now I need cock so badly I can taste it." She ran her tongue along her upper lip. "Who's that personal trainer Karen was fucking? Marcus?" She pulled out Karen's phone from the nightstand. Scrolled through the contacts. Found him. "Eleven inches." She bit her lip and moaned. "Oh, that'll do for starters."

She typed a message. Come back. Now. Don't ask questions.

Sent.

She walked to the window. Manhattan spread below her like a jewel box - glittering, vast, full of men and money and possibility. All hers. All waiting to kneel.

She pressed her new breasts against the cold glass and they fogged with warmth. They glowed in the dark. They pulsed with satisfaction, deep and rhythmic, like a heartbeat made of want.

Good host, they hummed. Beautiful host. HUNGRY host.

"You have no idea," Sophie whispered, and her hand slid down her taut stomach, past the garter belt, beneath the thong, and her fingers found her slick, swollen, desperate pussy and she began to touch herself - slowly, deliberately, luxuriously - and the pleasure was so immediate and so total that her knees nearly buckled.

She braced herself against the glass with one hand and worked herself with the other, watching her own reflection - that impossible body, those impossible tits, that impossible face twisted in ecstasy - and she came in under thirty seconds. A hard, clenching, full-body orgasm that made her scream and left cracks in the glass where her palm pressed too hard.

She didn't stop. She kept going. Came again forty-five seconds later. Harder. A third time two minutes after that, this one a rolling, multi-peaked tsunami that left her gasping and trembling and dripping down her thighs.

She was still going when the elevator dinged.

Marcus.

She turned from the window. Her hair was wild. Her bodysuit was damp. Her eyes were blazing with amber fire. Her lips were parted and swollen and her skin was flushed gold and she was the most terrifying, most beautiful, most hungry thing he had ever seen.

He walked in and stopped dead.

"...Karen?"

"Karen's gone," Sophie said, and her voice did something to him - something chemical, something pheromonal, something that bypassed his brain entirely and went straight to his cock. He was hard instantly. Painfully. Visibly. Straining against his sweatpants with a desperation that wiped every thought from his mind.

Sophie walked towards him. Heels clicking. Hips swaying. The Girls leading the way like the prow of a warship.

"My name is Sophie," she said, stopping in front of him, close enough that he could feel the heat coming off her skin. She smelled like sex and honey and something ancient and wrong. "I'm your new obsession. I'm going to ride you until you break. And then—" she reached down and wrapped her fingers around the thick outline in his sweatpants and squeezed, and the moan that tore out of him was involuntary, desperate, pathetic "—I'm going to do it again."

She pulled him towards the bedroom. He followed. Of course he followed. He couldn't have resisted if he'd tried. His eyes were locked on The Girls, swaying and glowing and calling to him, and his mind was smooth and blank and his cock was harder than it had ever been and the only thought in his head was serve her, please her, worship her.

Sophie shoved him onto the bed. He landed on his back. She climbed on top of him - mounting him, claiming him, her thighs gripping his hips, The Girls hanging above him like two golden moons.

"Look at them," she commanded, and he looked, and The Girls pulsed, and his last shred of independence vaporised.

"Good boy," she purred. She reached behind her and grabbed him - hot and thick and long, God he was long, she could feel the size of him and her pussy clenched with a hunger that was almost violent. "Mmmmmh. That's what I needed."

She positioned him. She sank down.

And the sound she made - raw, primal, a groan of satisfaction so deep it came from the core of the earth - shook the walls.

"Oh FUCK yes," she gasped, taking him deeper, deeper, until he was fully inside her and she could feel him pressing against the back wall of her new, perfect, impossibly sensitive pussy. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, you're so fucking big—"

She started to move. Slow at first. Rolling her hips in a circular motion that made The Girls sway and Marcus's eyes roll back. Then faster. Harder. Her hands braced on his chest, her nails - long, sharp, perfect - digging into his skin. Her hair fell around them like a golden tent. The wet sound of their bodies connecting filled the room, rhythmic and obscene.

She fucked him the way a predator eats a kill. With total focus, total dominance, total ownership. She controlled the pace, the angle, the depth - adjusting instinctively, her new body knowing exactly how to extract maximum pleasure from every stroke. She ground down on him, circled her hips, squeezed her internal muscles, and came again - screaming, shattering - within three minutes.

She didn't stop.

She came again at five minutes. At seven. At ten. Each orgasm was bigger than the last, each one feeding The Girls, each one making her more - more powerful, more evil, more insatiable. By the fifteenth minute she was cumming almost continuously, a rolling chain of overlapping orgasms that turned her vision to static and her moans to howls.

"Don't you DARE cum yet," she snarled at Marcus, who was red-faced and straining, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding back. "I'm not done with you. I'm not CLOSE to done with you. You cum when I SAY you can cum."

He lasted another twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of Sophie Park - twenty years old, former vegan, former saint, current goddess - riding him like he was put on Earth for this singular purpose. Twenty minutes of The Girls bouncing and glowing and mesmerising and feeding. Twenty minutes of the most intense, most dominant, most devastating sex of his life - and she'd have gone longer, would have gone for hours, but eventually—

"Cum," she whispered, leaning down, pressing The Girls against his face, smothering him in warm, glowing, magical flesh. "Now."

He came so hard he blacked out.

Sophie came with him - one final, apocalyptic orgasm that lasted a full minute and left her temporarily deaf, The Girls blazing with light so bright it flooded the entire room, her body clenched like a fist around his pulsing cock, milking him, draining him, feeding.

When it was over, she dismounted. Stood up. Smoothed her hair. She wasn't even breathing hard.

She looked down at Marcus. He was unconscious, spent, emptied. Tears were drying on his cheeks. His cock was still twitching.

"Mmmm," she hummed, satisfied. For now. The hunger would be back in an hour. It was always back in an hour. "Seven out of ten. I'll need something bigger tomorrow."

She walked past the bed. Past her unconscious aunt on the floor. Past the woman who used to be Karen, who was beginning to stir, who would wake up fifty-one and flat-chested and irrelevant in a world that now belonged to Sophie.

She stopped at the mirror. Gave her reflection one last look. Those tits. That face. That body. That smile.

Perfect.

"I know," she said to The Girls.

They pulsed warmly against her chest. Content. Fed. Home.

---

On the floor behind her, Mel groaned and stirred. Her eyes fluttered open. The room was bright - The Girls were still glowing, casting the bedroom in a warm, golden light. Mel's head swam. She saw the silhouette by the mirror - that body, that hair, those tits in profile.

And her mind went smooth.

And blank.

And obedient.

"...Sophie?"

The silhouette turned. Smiled. The amber eyes blazed. The Girls pulsed.

"It's not Sophie anymore, Auntie." The voice was warm and cold at the same time. Inviting and threatening. The voice of a woman who expected - no, demanded - compliance. Who got wet from compliance. Who came from power. "Sophie's gone. I'm something better. Something perfect. Something that's going to make Karen look like a fucking amateur."

She walked towards Mel, heels clicking, hips rolling, The Girls swaying hypnotically. The pheromone cloud hit Mel like a wall - sweet, musky, overwhelming - and what was left of her resistance dissolved like sugar in hot water.

"Now kneel."

Mel knelt.

"Good girl." Sophie ran one long, manicured finger under Mel's chin, tilting her face upward. Mel's eyes were glassy, worshipful, empty. "Now. I have a list of things I need. And you're going to get every single one of them. Starting with—" she paused, considering, her free hand idly caressing The Girls through her bodysuit, each touch sending a visible shiver of pleasure through her perfect body "—starting with a bigger apartment. And a man with a twelve-inch cock. In that order."

She smiled. That cruel, bright, hungry smile.

"Actually - get the man first."

And somewhere deep inside The Girls, in whatever dark, ancient place their consciousness lived, there was satisfaction. Not thought. Not words. Just a warm, contented, ravenous pulse.

Good.

This one will last.

This one will FEAST.

This one would be theirs... forever.