SillyTales773
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Sticky and wet....
🕑 Added 2025-11-28 04:31:42 +0000 UTC
"Well, that's a fucking disaster," Wendy muttered to herself, fingers freezing mid-keystroke as the spreadsheet corrupted for the third time in twenty minutes. The glow of her laptop screen painted harsh shadows under her tired eyes.
"I need coffee," Wendy announced to no one, cracking her knuckles before attacking the keyboard again. The deadline loomed,...7:43 PM blinked on her monitor, mocking her. One email. One goddamn attachment. But the universe seemed determined to stitch her into this purgatory of spinning loading icons and frozen cursors.
She snatched the lukewarm cup from beside her keyboard, gulping down bitter dregs that had gone oily with age. The scalding liquid hit her throat too fast and too hot, but she welcomed the jolt. Behind her, the photocopier hummed its endless dirge, punctuated by the squeak of dress shoes against linoleum. She didn't need to turn around to know whose footsteps those were.
"You look like someone pissed in your coffee," Frank's voice dripped from the doorway. His tie was loosened just enough to suggest casual confidence rather than actual overtime exhaustion.
Wendy exhaled sharply through her nose, fingers tightening around her mug. "And you look like someone's about to," she said, not bothering to turn. The chair groaned as she pivoted halfway, just enough to fix him with a look that could curdle milk. Frank chuckled, leaning against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world, which, judging by the lack of paperwork in his hands, he probably did.
"Oh come on, Wendy-pie," Frank drawled, his voice slick with that faux-charm that made her teeth ache. He took an exaggerated sip from his own coffee cup -black, no sugar, because of course he'd mention that three times in the break room- and winked. "Just checking in. You’ve been hunched over that screen like it’s your last will and testament." His grin widened, revealing a smear of coffee foam on his canine.
Wendy’s grip on her mug tightened until her knuckles burned white. She inhaled slowly through her nose, counting the cracked tiles on the ceiling (seven, she knew, she'd counted before) before answering. "Frank." The word came out flat, dead. "It’s 7:52 on a Tuesday. What part of fuck off isn’t translating?" Her free hand jabbed at the keyboard with enough force to make the desk shudder.
Frank’s grin didn't falter. If anything, it stretched wider, like a rubber band pulled to snapping. "See, that’s what I like about you," he said, stepping fully into her office like he owned the air itself. "That spark. Most women just say ‘not interested.’ You?" He mimed an explosion with his fingers. "Fireworks." He leaned over her desk, close enough that she caught the stale coffee-and-cigarettes stink of his breath. "Admit it. You love the attention."
Wendy’s vision tunneled. The mug trembled in her hand, hot liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. She didn’t blink, didn’t breathe...just stared at him with the kind of slow, simmering disgust usually reserved for finding maggots in leftovers.
"What," she said, voice low and jagged, "the actual fuck is wrong with you?" The words dripped like acid. "You think this is cute? You think...what, I’m playing hard to get?" Her laugh was a sharp, brittle thing. "The only thing I’m interested in is finishing this fucking report before midnight. Not you. Not your pathetic little ego-stroking routine. Not one goddamn thing else." Her knuckles ached, fingers welded around the mug.
Frank’s grin faltered, just for a second, before he recovered with a theatric roll of his shoulders. "Oh, come on, Wendy," he crooned, stepping closer still, hip cocked against her desk. His fingers drummed a lazy rhythm on the edge of her keyboard, dangerously close to her wrist. "You can’t tell me you don’t enjoy it a little. That fire? That bite?" His gaze dragged down her body like a physical touch, lingering too long on the curve of her collarbone, the way her blouse pulled taut when she leaned forward. "Women like you are all the same. You want the chase. You want to be..." he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "persuaded."
Wendy’s lips parted, not in shock, but in something colder, sharper. Her nose wrinkled, the kind of involuntary twitch someone makes when they step in dog shit. "What?" The word cracked out like a gunshot. She didn’t raise her voice. That was the terrifying part. It was ice and razors, every syllable precise. Her fingers twitched toward the mug again, but she forced them still.
Frank mistook her silence for hesitation, grinning like he’d just won a prize. "You heard me," he purred, thumb swiping at his bottom lip where coffee had stained it. "Every bitch who acts like you...Deep down, they just want to get railed into next week. That’s the game." His tongue darted out, wet and pink, as if he could taste her disgust on the air. "And baby, I love playing."
The mug left her hand before she registered throwing it. Porcelain shattered against Frank’s temple with a wet crack. Coffee sprayed in an arc...black, bitter, scalding across his cheek, his collar, the wall behind him. He staggered back, hands flying to his face, mouth working soundlessly like a fish tossed onto pavement. The smell of burnt coffee and iron bloomed between them.
"Y-You fucking bitch!" Frank spat, clutching his temple as blood seeped between his fingers, slick and dark. His voice cracked halfway through, more shrill than commanding. Wendy stood slowly, her chair rolling back with a hollow scrape.
She didn't blink.
The adrenaline hit her veins like a shot of cheap whiskey...
Wendy leaned forward, palms flat on the desk now, knuckles still white from the throw. "What happened to you?" she asked, voice softer than the shattered porcelain littering the floor. Not curiosity, diagnostics. Like she was dissecting some festering roadkill. "What sad little worm crawled up your ass and convinced you that acting like a goddamn sewer rat was personality?" Her lips peeled back, not in a smile, but a grimace of pure revulsion. "I feel bad for cockroaches stepping over your DNA. You fucking piece of human landfill."
Frank's laugh was half-hysterical, blood dripping onto his starched collar in fat, uneven droplets. "Oh, look who's got jokes now," he wheezed, fingers pressing harder against the wound, like he could shove the pain back inside his skull. "You think you're special? You're just another frigid bitch who-"
Wendy moved before he could finish. Her hands weren't trembling anymore. She snatched the bronze letter opener from her desk drawer, the one HR gave her last Christmas engraved with the company logo, and lunged forward in one fluid motion. The tip pressed into the soft pouch of Frank's throat before he could blink. His Adam's apple bobbed against cold metal, his breath hitching wetly. The smell of his sweat mixed with the coppery tang of blood.
"You're right," Wendy whispered, so quietly Frank had to strain to hear it. "I am good for one thing." She leaned in, close enough to count the burst capillaries in his reddening eyes. "Making sure trash like you gets taken out." The letter opener twitched, dimpling his skin.
Then her free hand dipped into her blazer pocket while Frank flinched, expecting pepper spray, a knife, but what emerged was a tiny glass vial, the kind women kept in clutches at galas. The stopper popped off with a sound like a bone snapping. Frank had half a second to register the sickly-sweet stench of gardenias before Wendy jammed the nozzle against his bleeding temple and depressed the atomizer in three short bursts.
"Ah-Ah, w-what the fuck-?" His hands scrambled at his face, smearing blood through sudden wetness. The perfume burned like battery acid in the wound. Frank reeled back, gagging on the cloying stench, eyes streaming tears that cut tracks through the mess on his cheeks. Wendy watched, her smirk curling slow and venomous as his knees hit the floor.
"You're gonna smell like a horny whore's boudoir in no time..." Wendy murmured, watching Frank claw at his face like a drowning man. A slow, jagged smile split her lips, not amusement, but the giddy thrill of watching a cockroach scuttle from light.
"Which, frankly..." She tilted her head, considering his writhing form with clinical detachment. "Might be the first honest thing about you."
"W-What are you...Ohhh fuck..." Frank's words dissolved into a wet gasp as the perfume's chemical payload hit his nervous system like a freight train. His pupils blew wide, swallowing the blue of his irises, while his throat worked around sounds that weren't quite words. A violent shudder wracked his frame, first his shoulders jerking, then his hips stuttering forward like he'd been electrocuted. The sudden pressure against his zipper was obscenely visible, fabric straining as his body betrayed him in real time.
Wendy circled him like a raptor, heeled pumps clicking against the linoleum with surgical precision. "There it is," she crooned, bending just enough to let her breath ghost over his ear. "The little soldier reporting for duty." Frank's hips jerked violently, his tie now a twisted noose against his sweat-slicked throat. The scent of gardenias clung to him like a second skin, mingling with the coppery stench of blood, sweet decay.
"O-Oh god, wh-what the fuck-" Frank's words dissolved into a wet moan as his hips bucked involuntarily against his own thigh. His cock strained against his slacks, fabric tenting obscenely as every nerve ending in his body lit up like a live wire. The scent of gardenias hung thick in the air, sweet and cloying, crawling down his throat with every ragged breath. His skin burned...not pain, but an unbearable, electric sensitivity that made the brush of his own clothing feel like sandpaper. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, erratic and deafening, drowning out everything but the slick, involuntary sounds escaping his lips.
Wendy crouched beside him, close enough that her breath stirred the sweaty curls clinging to his forehead. "Special formula," she murmured, tapping the empty vial against his flushed cheekbone. "Extract of Spanish fly, synthetic pheromones..." Her grin widened as Frank's body shuddered violently, his cock jerking against his zipper like a thing possessed. "And just a dash of estrogen to...soften you up." She laughed, low and throaty, as Frank's hands scrambled uselessly at his own chest, fingers catching on his nipples through the thin fabric of his shirt...already swollen, sensitive peaks that made him whimper at the barest contact.
"How's it feel? Knowing you're about to drop to your knees for the first stranger who glances your way?" She let the vial roll from her fingers, watching it shatter against the floor in a starburst of glass and residual perfume. Frank's entire body convulsed as his cock throbbed visibly through his slacks, twitching like a dying animal. Every muscle in his abdomen clenched and released in erratic spasms, his shirt riding up to expose the dark trail of hair leading to the obscene bulge.
Tears carved paths through the blood and sweat on his cheeks, mixing with the drool pooling at the corner of his slack mouth.
Wendy nudged Frank’s twitching knee with the pointed toe of her pump. “Aw, look at you,” she cooed, tilting her head like she was inspecting roadkill. “All dressed up for your first bukkake party.” Her laughter was a razor wrapped in velvet. “Guess who’s swallowing every drop tonight?” She flicked his swollen lower lip with her thumb, watching his eyelids flutter like moth wings against his feverish skin.
"Ugh...UGhh...I...I...OOOOOOHHHHH!" Frank's entire body bowed off the floor like a snapped rubber band, his spine arching so violently Wendy heard vertebrae pop. His cock pulsed visibly through ruined slacks, thick spurts soaking through fabric in obscene dark blooms as his hips jackhammered against nothing. The stench of sex and gardenias choked the air, burning sugar and musk and the coppery tang of his own blood still leaking from the gash on his temple. Every convulsion tore a fresh moan from his throat, high and broken like a dying animal's whine.
The last wet, broken whine tore out of Frank’s throat, but it wasn’t Frank’s voice anymore. It cracked in the middle, jumped an octave, and spilled out high and sugary, the sound a porn star makes when she’s paid by the moan.
Wendy stood over him, arms folded under her breasts, head tilted like she was admiring modern art made of filth. A lazy, feline grin curled her mouth.
“Look at you,” she purred, voice velvet and venom. “All that toxic masculinity just… melting. I should’ve brought popcorn.”
On the floor, the thing that had been Frank writhed in the ruins of his own body. The gardenia-soaked shirt clung to new curves, buttons straining, then popping one by one as the chest beneath surged forward. Two soft, heavy tits (no, breasts, perfect, obscene double-Ds) swelled like rising dough, nipples stiff and fat, poking shamelessly through wet cotton. Every heartbeat made them bounce, jiggle, sway. The areolas had spread wide and dark, glossy as fresh paint, begging for teeth.
“Jesus, those udders,” Wendy laughed, low and cruel. “HR’s gonna need a whole new dress-code memo. ‘No underboob before nine a.m.’”
The hips were next. Crack. Crack.
The pelvis split and re-knit wider, bones singing a wet symphony as the waist cinched inward like someone had yanked a corset string. A perfect, tiny, waspish waist appeared above an ass that ballooned outward in two ripe, heart-shaped halves. The slacks (already soaked at the crotch) split along the seams with a sound like tearing paper, unable to contain the new, plush, fuckable swell of a bubble butt built for spanking and spreading.
Frank’s hands flew to the ruined fabric, trying to cover, to hide, but the fingers were already delicate, nails lengthening into glossy almond tips painted a slutty candy-apple red none of us saw coming. The palms were soft, the wrists narrow. She looked like she’d spent years on manicures instead of mansplaining.
Wendy crouched, skirt riding high on her thighs, and tapped one of those trembling new claws with her own manicured nail.
“Careful, princess. You’ll chip the polish before your first gangbang.”
A high, desperate sob answered her (except it came out breathy, needy, dripping with fresh estrogen). The face was almost done cooking. The jaw had melted into a soft, rounded V; cheekbones lifted like someone had injected them with pure sex. Lips plumped into a permanent cock-sucking pout, glistening and parted.
Eyelashes swept upward, thick and doll-like; the brows thinned into elegant, bitchy arches. Hair exploded from the scalp in a black silk waterfall, sliding over bare shoulders, tickling the tops of those obscene new tits, pooling on the linoleum like spilled ink.
And the cock (God, the cock)...It gave one last pathetic twitch, spat a final dying ribbon of cum across the inside of the ruined slacks, then shrank like a deflating balloon. Inch by inch it retreated, folding in on itself, softening, shrinking, until only a slick little pearl of a clit remained, peeking shyly from between puffy, freshly minted pussy lips. The balls drew up with an audible wet pop, vanishing inside to become ovaries. A slick, pink, cunt flowered open where a dick had been thirty seconds ago, already drooling, already aching to be filled.
Wendy’s grin widened until it threatened to split her face.
“There she is,” she whispered, reverent and vicious. “Say hello to Fanny with a c.”
The new woman on the floor shuddered violently, thighs spreading of their own accord. Her back arched, presenting those dripping tits and that greedy new slit to the fluorescent light like an offering.
A thin, silvery thread of girl-cum stretched from her cunt to the floor as her hips rolled helplessly, chasing friction that wasn’t there.
“Please…” It came out a squeaky, porn-sweet whimper. “Please, I...I need..."
Wendy clicked her tongue, mock-sympathetic. “Need what, sweetheart? Need someone to bend you over the copier and fuck you stupid? Because that can be arranged.” She leaned in, breath hot against a shell-pink ear. “I bet if I call security right now, all three night-shift guys would take turns stuffing that pretty new pussy till you forget your own name. You’d let them, wouldn’t you? You’re already dripping like a faucet.”
Fanny sobbed, but her hips kept rocking, those tits heaving with every breath. The scent of gardenias and fresh, fertile cunt filled the office until it was almost suffocating.
Wendy straightened, smoothed her skirt, and stepped over the writhing, newly-minted slut like she was a puddle of spilled coffee.
“Welcome to the other side, Fanny,” she said, voice dripping honeyed contempt. “You still think women secretly want it?” The new girl’s thighs snapped together in a futile attempt to stifle the pulsing need between them, only to shudder apart again with a wet sob. Every inch of her hypersensitive skin burned as her nipples stiffening against air, cunt clenching around nothing, hips jerking in tiny, involuntary circles like a broken wind-up toy. Tears streaked her fresh mascara in black rivers as she clawed at her own swollen tits, fingers sinking into plush flesh as if she could squeeze the fire out.
"F-Fuck...oh God..f-fuck you...fuck youuuuu," Fanny whimpered, except it came out as a wet, mewling moan, her hips bucking against her own shaking thighs. The slick sound of her desperate cunt echoed obscenely in the silent office, juices dribbling down her inner thighs in thick, pearly strands. Wendy watched, arms crossed, as the newly minted slut's fingers scrabbled at her ruined clothes, fabric tearing away in shuddering handfuls until Fanny lay sprawled naked on the linoleum, her body a trembling, glistening testament to every cruel hormone pumping through her veins.
"Oh, look at you." Wendy's voice dripped with mock sweetness as Fanny writhed on the floor, her thighs slick with arousal, fingers clawing at her own flesh like she could tear the hunger out. The ruined blouse hung in tatters, barely clinging to those heaving tits, nipples pebbled and aching against the shredded fabric. Every sob hitched into a gasp as Fanny's hips jerked, her cunt pulsing visibly, drooling onto the linoleum in thick, glistening strands.
"Moaning and rubbing yourself like a bitch in heat. Disgusting." She reached for Frank's discarded phone, still logged into his cloud storage. The cracked screen illuminated Fanny's twitching form as Wendy scrolled through his contacts as every saved name was female: secretaries, interns, subordinates. She tapped one-handed while Fanny writhed, fingernails scraping at the linoleum. She ripped Fanny's old male garments apart until every last scrap of fabric was scattered like confetti. The last button rolled away beneath a filing cabinet with a final ping.
"Yeah, you're sooo horny." Wendy grinned wide enough to show teeth. "And yet..." She leaned in, dragging her knuckles up Fanny's inner thigh just shy of where the girl's fingers were frantically rubbing in frantic circles. Fanny arched violently, a choked sob ripping from her throat as her clit pulsed under her own touch. "You can't stop, can you?" Wendy whispered, close enough that her breath stirred the sweat-damp curls clinging to Fanny's forehead.
"Oh..fu-fuck you....yoiu...you f-fuckign...you fu-fucking....bitch-OOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Fanny's screaam was primal, animalistic, her entire body bowing off the floor as her hips jackknifed violently. Thick ropes of girl-cum sprayed from her pulsing cunt in gushing arcs, splattering across Wendy's polished pumps, the desk leg, the underside of the filing cabinet with wet, obscene smacks. Her tits jiggled wildly, nipples stiff as bullets, as her orgasm ripped through her like a live wire dipped in kerosene.
Wendy watched, rapt, as Fanny's newly minted pussy clenched and quivered around nothing, each contraction squeezing out another syrupy strand of arousal that painted her inner thighs glossy. The scent of sex was thick enough to taste, musk and salt and the cloying chemical sweetness of gardenias clinging to Fanny's sweat-slicked skin. Her swollen clit throbbed visibly beneath twitching fingers, still rubbing frantic circles even as her body convulsed through the aftershocks.
"That's the Frank I always knew was hiding under all that toxic sludge," Wendy murmured, watching Fanny's body convulse through wave after wave of forced orgasms. Her freshly painted fingernails scraped uselessly at the linoleum, leaving behind pink streaks of arousal-slicked fingertips. Wendy tilted her head, fascinated by the way Fanny's new breasts jiggled violently with every spasm, nipples so hard they could cut glass.
"A horny and pathetic mess, just as I expected," Wendy mused, circling Fanny's trembling form with predatory amusement. She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a crumpled lingerie set, a black lace, barely-there straps, the kind that whispered rather than concealed. Tossing it onto Fanny's sweat-slicked stomach, she smirked. "Put it on. That's all you're good for now."
Fanny gasped, her fingers twitching toward the fabric whether to obey or resist, even she didn't know. But her body betrayed her, hips rocking eagerly as the scent of the lace mingled with her arousal. A shuddering moan escaped her lips as she clumsily pulled the straps over her shaking thighs, the delicate material clinging to her glistening skin. She wanted to scream, to run, but her cunt clenched violently, sending another thick pulse of arousal down her trembling legs.
"Bitch, you're a natural," Wendy purred, angling Frank's phone to capture every twitch of Fanny's flushed face as she struggled into the lace. The camera shutter clicked incessantly each snap immortalizing another trembling finger hooking a strap, another involuntary shudder as the fabric brushed oversensitive skin. Fanny's thighs squeezed together instinctively, but her hips kept rolling, grinding the soaked lace against her swollen clit with tiny, desperate circles. The phone screen reflected her own glassy eyes, mascara smeared into raccoon rings, lips parted around panting little moans that sounded like a dying porn star's audition tape.
"P-Please s-stop filming, ple-OOOHH!" Fanny's protest dissolved into a keening wail as Wendy jammed the phone's corner against her clit through the soaked lace. The unexpected pressure sent lightning up her reshaped spine, her hips bucking violently as another gush of arousal darkened the fabric. The shutter clicked relentlessly, capturing every twitch of her ruined face.
"Look at you," Wendy crooned, zooming in on the quivering mess between Fanny's thighs. The lace had ridden up, exposing puffy lips that glistened under the fluorescent lights. "Dripping through designer lingerie like some back-alley whore." She punctuated each word with another cruel press of the phone, watching Fanny's freshly painted toes curl against the linoleum. "Guess all that locker-room talk about 'sluts begging for it' wasn't projection after all, huh?" SHe tilted the screen to catch the way Fanny's tits bounced with every ragged breath, nipples stiff enough to dent steel.
"FU-FUCK YOU–OHHHH GODDAMMIT!" Fanny's curse dissolved into a wet, shuddering wail as her fingers spasmed against her own clit...too much, too rough, but she couldn't stop. Her hips pistoned against nothing, heels scraping bloody tracks into the linoleum as orgasm after orgasm ripped through her freshly rewired nervous system. Every muscle locked and released in jagged, uncoordinated bursts, leaving her twitching like a puppet with half its strings cut. Her swollen lips gaped open, drooling slick down the crease of her ass in thick, syrupy strands that pooled beneath her.
Wendy crouched, tilting the phone to capture the glistening mess between Fanny's thighs. "Say cheese, cunt." The flash illuminated the way Fanny's freshly-split pussy pulsed visibly around nothing, each contraction squeezing out another gush of arousal that splattered against her own trembling thighs. The scent was overwhelming...coppery blood, chemical gardenias, and the thick musk of a body drowning in its own desperate fertility. Fanny's newly lacquered nails scraped uselessly at the floor, fingertips leaving pink smears where arousal met linoleum.
"People are gonna see this," Wendy whispered, the phone's camera shutter clicking like a metronome synced to Fanny's gasps. "See you dripping, twitching, rubbing yourself raw." Her grin widened as Fanny's fingers spasmed deeper between her own thighs, knuckles glistening.
"The internet's gonna love their new favorite cumdumpster." She flicked through the gallery with one hand while Fanny's fingers clawed at her own thighs, leaving angry red streaks in their wake. Every swipe showed another angle of her ruined face sucb like her tear-streaked, drooling, eyes rolled back like a cheap hooker mid-pounding. The lace clung to her tits like a second skin, each ragged breath making those swollen nipples peek through the fabric like they were begging to be bitten. The former man couldn't even form coherent insults anymore...just wet, hiccuping moans every time her traitorous fingers brushed that throbbing clit.
