“I’m inviting him to rape me,” she thought to herself, and still she couldn’t stop herself, nor could she control her traitorous cunt, dripping with sex juices at the thought of being violently penetrated by the stranger’s cock.
All she had wanted was to be more attractive. She was already pretty, but the ad on the internet promised to make her irresistible – and all for free! She had clicked through the link, and then sat there staring at the page that popped up for what she later learned was nearly 12 hours, enraptured by its barely-audible sounds and flashing, mystifying patterns. It had seemed to be talking to her, telling something she could almost understand. She thought she might have masturbated to orgasm several times while watching it. She wasn’t sure.
When she had finally closed the tab she had been tired, dehydrated, drenched in sweat. She had gone to make a drink and dinner, only realising halfway through that the reason it was so difficult was that she was unconsciously rubbing her wet fuckhole.
She took her dinner back to the computer and started browsing. She had an urge to find role models, attractive women she should be like, and so she started looking for images of strong, professional women. But as she navigated through them, she found herself starting to select for the women in poutier, sexier poses, and before long she was surfing porn pages, staring at undressed women cupping their tits and spreading their cunts. But that still wasn’t enough, and she found herself looking for the ones with big, fake, plastic tits and blonde hair. They were the most attractive, she thought.
She imagined knowing one of those girls, kissing her, licking her tits. She thought about sharing a man with one, the two of them offering their pussies for a man’s pleasure. She thought about *being* such a girl, and then she orgasmed.
As she orgasmed, her mind filled with knowledge of what she had done, and her body flushed with shame and humiliation and guilt. What had she been doing? Looking at porn of stupid big-uddered bimbos? She wasn’t a lesbian.
She dressed to go out. She didn’t know yet where she was going, but she noted that she wore a tight top with no bra. It looked slutty in the mirror but she didn’t want to change it. She felt distressed at the thought of a bra. Her pussy felt strangely empty, too, so she found her favourite vibrator and slid it inside her. It felt weird and slutty walking around with her cunt stuffed with a large plastic intruder, held in place only by her panties, but it felt weirder without it. She was worried if her pussy was empty she would want to masturbate in public.
It turned out she wanted to go to a chemist, where she headed straight for the hair dyes aisle. She gravitated straight to the platinum-bimbo-blonde hair colours and bought a bottle. Back in the car, afterwards, she couldn’t stop staring at the fake bleached slutty look of the model on the packaging, and before she knew what she was doing she was fucking the dildo in and out of her cunt until she orgasmed again, right there in the parking lot.
At home she wasted no time in undressing – being naked felt better – and bleaching her hair. She liked the look – she looked like a cheap slut. It felt right. She would be attractive like this.
Part of her was howling, telling herself to stop being a whore. To shut it up, she ordered a small pizza to be delivered, and when the driver came she answered the door nude, letting him take in her whorish fucktoy body as she thanked him for the pizza.
While she ate, she found another number on the internet, and heard herself dialling a plastic surgery firm and scheduling herself for breast implants. “Yes please, big round fake ones,” she heard herself say. “I want anyone who sees them to know I specifically chose to make myself look like a sex toy.”
Then she scrolled through her phone, trying to decide which of her male contacts she detested the most, so she could invite him over and find out just how attractive she was to a man she hated. Could she get him to fuck her?
Months later, and her transformation was complete. Part of her was constantly crimson with humiliation at her new life. She had very few clothes, all of them slutty, and her big fake tits and blonde hair clearly identified her as an empty-headed wet dream. She wanted to hide away from the world, but here she was, wandering into a stranger’s back yard, mostly nude, coyly seducing him with her body language. She knew that her approach made him see her as an object, not a person, and that made her wet. She knew that he would likely take her up on what she was offering, and that made her wet. And she knew that inside she would be squealing, desperate not to be raped, even as she spread her legs and cupped her fake fuckballoons for this man.
Maybe he wouldn’t do that to her. But she knew that she would; she was too attractive to resist. She had, at least, gotten what she wanted.