Transformations by Rose

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Uh-uh-uh! hands off, Mark! Did I say you could touch? I don't think so. I know, I know... you're used to the old Sarah. The sweet, shy girl who was just so grateful to have a boyfriend. The one who wore baggy jeans and let you paw at her whenever you wanted. But look at me now. Seriously, look at this ass. Do you really think these glutes were built for a soft, pathetic grip like yours?" "I've spent six months sweating, squatting, and transforming myself into pure perfection. I walk down the street now and necks snap. CEOs buy me drinks. Trainers offer me free sessions just to watch me bend over. And you? You're still just... you. The same boring guy on the same boring couch." "So here's the new reality, babe. You see this ass? This round, hard, gravity-defying masterpiece? It's strictly 'Look, Don't Touch' for you from now on. You don't get to smudge the artwork. You don't get to act like you own a Ferrari just because...

Lily used to cry at commercials. Literally sob at those shelter dog ads with the Sarah McLachlan music. She apologized when people bumped into her. She stayed late at work covering for others. She was everyone's therapist, everyone's doormat, everyone's sweet, reliable Lily. Then she signed up for the trial. "Emotional Regulation Therapy," they called it. A simple injection to help with her anxiety. What they didn't mention was that her anxiety came from caring too fucking much, and the serum would fix that by deleting her capacity to care at all. The first sign came Tuesday. A coworker spilled coffee on Lily's laptop, destroying her presentation. Old Lily would have said "it's fine!" while internally spiralling. New Lily just stared at her and said, "You're going to replace that." No smile. No reassurance. The coworker's face crumpled. Lily felt... nothing. Actually, no—she felt a tiny spark of something warm. Something lik...

Ava Hawkes stood outside The Velvet Room at 9:47 PM on a Tuesday in March, staring at the neon sign that bathed the cracked sidewalk in pink light. The silhouette of a woman's arching body flickered above the door, one leg extended, back curved in a pose of pure seduction. Rain had started falling, light and cold, soaking through her cheap jacket. She was forty-two years old. A journalist. Or she had been, until the newspaper folded three months ago and took her career with it. Twenty years of investigative reporting, of breaking stories, of mattering, all gone in a single afternoon meeting where they'd handed her a severance check that wouldn't even cover two months of rent. Ava didn't look like a stripper. She knew this with painful, humiliating certainty as she caught her reflection in the tinted glass door. Her body was what her ex-husband had called "athletic" when he was being generous, and "built like a twelve-year-old boy" when he was drunk a...

Steam rolled over the glass shower door, blurring the outline of Angela’s voluptuous body until she pulled the curtain aside, exposing herself, skin slick and luminous in the low light. Water traced over her breasts, those massive, high-set domes bouncing subtly as she tilted her head back, raven hair plastered to her shoulders. The bathroom door cracked open with the softest whisper, just enough for her “innocent” watcher to drink in the forbidden spectacle. Angela already knew she was being watched; she had seen the dilated pupils in the mirror’s reflection, heard the muffled breath on the other side. She let the voyeur stare while she lathered soap between her hands and massaged it over her nipples, letting them pebble before she turned off the water, grabbing a thick towel, wrapping it lazily around her waist, leaving her tits freely swaying for the final performance. She stepped out of the shower and caught the little peeper with a single cold stare. “You really thought you could ...