It just wasn’t fair. She wasn’t even supposed to be a girl at all, let alone a perverted mockery of femaleness in the shape of a Pinkie Pie pony girl with gigantic blimp tits and a cartoonish hourglass figure… Just 3 months ago, she had been an ordinary male college student, living an ordinary life as captain of the track team. Until one day there had been an accident at the school AI research lab – an experimental program had created a new strain of nanomachine virus unexpectedly when fed illicit instructions by an unauthorized undergrad who quickly realized the dire risk he’d saddled himself with and deleted all evidence of his “activities”. Unfortunately, this self-serving move would make any future possibility of understanding or countering the new nanomachines utterly impossible, which wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for the fact that the vial of viral serum was improperly disposed of in an outdoor trash can reached into by none other than the track team captain, who cut his hand on the shattered vial glass while trying to retrieve a fully-stocked Arby’s bag his friend had thrown away in error …

The changes came slowly, imperceptibly, at first. A sort of puffy itchiness in his chest. He noticed he looked a bit thinner in the mirror. He felt weak and sick. He could swear he even looked a little shorter than he remembered… then, his crotch began to ache. It was shrinking. Day by day, in horror he felt it invert itself up into his body until he was a she. The doctors were baffled and helpless, as were the researchers at the lab, who were totally unable to reverse engineer the unauthorized strain without the long-since deleted generation pattern. The changes began to accelerate. Her hair grew long and buoyant. Her stature shrank from a masculine 6’1” to a slender 5’5”. Soon, the track team captain suffered her first menstruation episode, confirming the unwelcome fact that she was now in possession of a fully-functioning female reproductive system. A shudder crawled down her spine as she realized it was now actually possible for her to get pregnant. Her body began to advertise its newfound fertility further as her new ovaries ramped up hormone production to hyperpubescent levels. Her secondary sex characteristics began to flourish rapidly: within a week of high-volume estrogen exposure, she had gone from flat to needing a D cup bra to keep her breasts in check when walking from class to class. And matters only worsened from there…

One Monday morning, she found herself absolutely incapable of sitting down to eat breakfast – it was just too painful. And then she felt it: her tailbone. It was pressing out of her skin. Over the next week it continued to blossom until by Saturday she now sported a big, bushy pony tail. All of the hair on her body had turned pink, and her ears had migrated into equine morphology. Glaring at the mirror in horror, she recognized the form: she was now some sort of freakish human/pony hybrid – and she looked like Pinkie Pie from My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, a TV show she had absolutely detested when it had been popular. But she now also carried a few “extra” attributes that the “real” Pinkie Pie had never been forced to grapple with… She looked down …

The past 6 days had been phenomenally unkind to her. Her poor back & shoulders strained with the weight of her huge heaving bosom, which she would soon need to go get measured at the specialty shop for a new JJ cup bra to properly restrain them. Walking around the campus, every guy within eyeshot either stared openly or pretended not to be staring as her fat bust wobbled through their field of vision. Her new body came with a voracious appetite for sweets, and every last calorie seemed to magnetize straight into her tits – leaving her waist to wither down to miraculously tiny dimensions. Her height had shrunk further to a petite, frail 5’2”. Between the crude gaze of her teammates, the hefty yanking tug of her womanly burdens against the integrity of her chest wall, and the sheer delicateness of her new purely ornamental physique… she’d had no choice but to give up the track team – and give up running & all athletics altogether.

She began to withdraw. She felt very alone.

Two months passed. Her body’s drastic, rapid changes had mostly slowed down after those harrowing first few weeks, as it seemed to reach its goals and slowly stabilize into relative equilibrium. Unfortunately, her new body’s “equilibrium” was patently absurd by normal human standards. She now stood an embarrassingly tiny 4’11”, and now simply trembled in fear as every man on campus absolutely dwarfed her, looming like goliaths as their eyes all invariably traced her gigantic hooters’ every motion as they strained against the fabric of her shirt in the holsters of her colossal orthopedic bra. No matter how hard she tried, they had proven themselves totally, utterly impossible to hide, no matter how modestly she tried to dress herself. They had grown nearly a cup size per week since she had given up track before reaching what seemed to be their final size a couple weeks ago: 34P. Each breast was easily bigger than her head, and heavier too… Her impossible hourglass figure felt as if it might snap in half from the struggle of supporting such monstrous melons over such a minuscule waist. Her hips had flared into wide, fecund fertility-signals, her ample ass studiously counterpointing the sheer magnitude of her bust deliciously.
Her body was designed for one purpose, and one purpose alone.

It certainly wasn’t designed for moving around easily. Everywhere she went, her titanic tits were getting in the way – flopping against her arms, slapping into tables, banging into doors, bumping into strangers’ elbows – she had focus her attention just to walk around, steering her protruding bust as if her body were a great ship just to avoid the nigh-inevitable. Her body wasn’t made for making friends, either – other girls teased & bullied her out of fear or jealousy, and boys just drooled after her tits. Her body wasn’t very ideal for academics, either – increasingly reluctant to leave her apartment to attend classes (she had abandoned her job at the hardware store) and thoroughly demotivated to do any reading, her mind itself seemed to atrophy as her body proliferated.
Her body had other plans for her mental faculties.

Slowly, the tickling sensitive sensations that teased the nerve-endings of her new body began to demand more & more mental real-estate. It started with little shudders of pleasure in the shower as the hot water ran over the sleek surfaces of her breasts, and little by little escalated into long sessions of brain-melting masturbation, squeezing and fondling her fat overripe fleshbags as she manipulated the tender folds of her pussy, rolling about in bed for hours savoring the only joy of relief she could find these days. At first, the pure feeling of sensation itself had been sufficient, but as her pussy became more acquainted with the feeling of friction, her mind began to fill in the gaps, as her thoughts turned first involuntarily and then enthusiastically to thoughts of penetration by any one of those tall, dark, threatening leering figures who so dearly wished to fill her tight tightness full with their full fullness…

Her first foray into OnlyFans was only because she needed the money to pay rent that month and she had already burnt through what little savings she’d had. All she’d had to do was jump around a bit in her bra and let her tits flop around beneath a fake smile for a couple minutes in her first video, and soon with a little self-promotion on Instagram she’d made enough for 2 months’ room & board. After two weeks she was masturbating for her fans regularly. In another month, she’d done just about everything a girl could do for the camera, but still her body wanted more…
Waiting alone in the lobby of the office of the manager of the strip club, a tacit singe of guilt suddenly slit the sinews of her overburdened heart. Was she really going to go through with this? Her new high heels clicked nervously at the cold tile floor. Self-betrayal burst into her complacent mind. Frowning, she looked down. The bloated upper lobes of her massive boobs stretched the material of her attempt at professional modesty, filling the scope of her vision. The reinforced cups of her custom-made P cup bra (was it time to go up another cup size? the tops of her tits felt like they were spilling out a bit more than usual) dug subtly into the lean ribs of her torso, chafing her flesh. The small of her back screamed at her to get a reduction, but the research scientists, when asked, had gravely cautioned her that… bizarre as it may sound… her nanomachine-accursed body seemed… unfortunately, quite likely to prioritize rapid regrowth of her breasts – to the direct detriment of her own health and perhaps, even endangering her life…

The entire fabric of her being was woven around the concept of mass-market sex appeal.
Her whole body was a walking, talking, breathing advertisement for sex.
This body was built for fucking… and making babies.
And –
making money.
…
One glance from the manager, and that job was already hers.
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