It started with boredom.
Brandon had scrolled past the weird product ad three times before finally clicking. "Reality Reversal Remote — Try Life As Her. One Night Only. Free Trial."
It was probably a scam, or one of those creepy roleplay apps. But two days later, a slim black box arrived in his mailbox. Inside: a sleek, matte-black remote with a glowing red button labeled "Alt." No manual, no instructions. Just a sticker on the back:
"One use. 12 hours.
Effects begin immediately."
He chuckled. "Sure. Why not."
Sitting on his bed in just boxers, Brandon pointed the remote at himself and pressed the button.
What followed was not a joke.
A pulse hit him first — sharp and deep, like a sonic boom through bone. He gasped and doubled over as the heat spread. His skin flushed. His heart raced. Every muscle seized and flexed on its own.
Then the shifts began.
His chest swelled, nipples pushing outward, skin stretching. He groaned, gripping them
instinctively — now warm, full, and insanely sensitive.
His hips cracked wider with a jolt. His waist sucked inward. His legs thickened, thighs ballooning with soft curve and firm bounce. His ass exploded in size, round and
springy.
But the worst came last.
His cock twitched once… then began to sink. He shrieked — or tried to — as it softened, retracted, inverted. It was like melting and blooming at the same time. He felt his balls tighten, tingle, then vanish, pulled into some new core.
When it was over, Brandon lay on his back, panting, soaked in sweat.
Only… it wasn't Brandon anymore.
She stumbled to the mirror.
The reflection was wild. Long black hair framed a sinful face — soft cheeks, pouty lips, long lashes, huge eyes. Her neck looked kissable. Her collarbones
delicate.
Her breasts — tits, she had to admit — were full DDs, sitting high and perky, capped with thick pink nipples that peeked out even without stimulation.
Her waist dipped inward to an absurd curve, then flared out to hips and thighs that screamed "breed me." Her ass? Ridiculous. Her legs? Thick, tan, and smooth.
And between them…
She hesitated, breathing hard, then spread her legs.
The slit was there. Smooth, pink, glistening slightly even without touching.
Her voice was a whisper. "Holy shit."
Once the initial shock passed, her eyes drifted back to the small red text on the wall-mounted remote:
"Reverts at sunrise."
That did something to her. No panic. Just freedom.
Twelve hours.
Her hand drifted to her breast — she squeezed it gently and gasped. The nipple flared with pleasure so raw her thighs clenched. She squeezed harder, rolling it between her fingers, watching it stiffen as if begging for more.
The heat between her legs pulsed. The more she played with her tits, the more her slit throbbed.
She couldn't help it. She slid her hand down.
The first contact was electric.
Just brushing her folds made her knees buckle. Slick. Warm. Responsive. When her
fingertip found her clit, it felt like someone had shoved a live wire into her spine. Her hips jerked.
"F-Fuck…"
She circled it slowly. Her breathing turned ragged. The wet sounds were obscene
already, but she didn't care.
Her other hand returned to her breasts — she tugged and twisted her nipples like dials, arching her back as her body buzzed under her own touch.
Then she slipped a finger inside.
Her gasp turned into a moan.
Tight. Soft. Hot.
Her body gripped her finger like it was
starving for it. She started thrusting — slow, deep, curious. Then another finger. Her hips moved on their own, bucking upward with every thrust.
"Shit…I'm gonna…"
The orgasm hit like a freight train.
Her legs locked. Her back arched. Her pussy clenched and gushed as her moans went
breathless. It didn't feel like cumming with a dick. It felt like breaking. Like her whole body
was shattering under her own fingers.
But even as she collapsed… she wasn't satisfied.
Not even close.
She crawled to the bathroom on trembling legs, grabbed the detachable showerhead,
and turned it to pulsing spray.
One foot on the edge of the tub, she spread herself wide and aimed the nozzle.
The second it hit her clit, she screamed.
Water pounded the swollen nub as she shoved two fingers back inside, faster this time, reckless. She stared at her soaked reflection in the mirror — flushed cheeks, tits bouncing, her tongue hanging out — and came again.
She slid down to the floor, still spraying her pussy, grinding against the cold tile like a bitch in heat. Her moans echoed off the bathroom walls. Her thighs were trembling nonstop.
And yet… she kept going.
Later, in the kitchen, she got bold.
She bent over the counter and slid the thick end of a cold cucumber deep into her slick cunt. It stretched her more than her fingers ever could — she whimpered as it popped inside, her body clenching around the ridges.
Hands on the countertop, she fucked herself with it — fast, sloppy, shameless. Juice dripped down her thighs. Her ass jiggled with each thrust. She looked over her shoulder at her reflection in the window and loved what she saw.
Another orgasm. Hard. Messy.
Then another on the floor.
Then another on her knees in front of the fridge.
She didn't care anymore. She was feral.
Hours blurred together. The house smelled like sweat and sex. Her skin was sticky.
Her tits were red from all the squeezing and sucking. Her pussy was raw but still drooling.
She lay on the couch now, legs over the top, head hanging off the seat, lazily fingering herself upside down while pinching her nipples.
She'd used two wooden spoons. A rolled-up sock. Even the TV remote.
Anything to keep the fire burning.
And the orgasms kept coming. Her body no longer waited for permission — even brushing her inner thigh would trigger another flood of pleasure.
She was soaked from stomach to ankles.
And then came the mirror floor scene.
She dragged a large mirror to the bedroom floor, laid it flat, and knelt over it. Her reflection stared up at her — ruined, ruined, ruined.
She straddled it. Lowered herself. Let her pussy kiss its twin on the glass.
And she humped.
Slow at first, just grinding her soaking folds against the cool surface. Then faster. Her breath fogged the glass. Her tits swayed. Her moans rose in pitch and never stopped.
She drooled. She cried. She came.
Over and over.
Until finally, sometime close to sunrise, she lay flat on top of the mirror, twitching. Cum covered the glass. Her eyes were glazed. Her fingers still twitched near her clit.
She whispered, voice broken:
"I'm such… a fucking… whore…"
And blacked out.
Morning came like a slap.
The sun cut through the blinds. Her body stirred.
And everything was… normal.
Brandon sat up slowly. Flat chest. Rough stubble. Morning wood.
No tits. No slit. No wetness.
Just the ache of exhaustion — and the faint scent of sweat and shame in the sheets.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the remote.
Then he smiled.
"Yeah…we're doing that again."