You scroll for hours. Again. Your thumb aches, but you can’t stop. Brazilian beach babes fill your screen. Tawny skin glistens under the sun, asses round and jiggling in thong bikinis, pouty lips framing Portuguese captions you can’t read but don’t need to. You tell yourself it’s just porn, just something to get off to, but your thumb keeps hovering, zooming in on the faint ripples of their thighs, the sweat clinging to their cleavage, the way their hips sway in slow motion. It isn’t just horniness. It’s longing. You just don’t know for what.

The email arrives at 3 AM: “CLICK TO BECOME WHAT YOU STARE AT.” No subject line. No sender. Your chest tightens. This has to be a prank. Some spam bot or a friend fucking with you. But your fingers move anyway. You click. What do you have to lose? A laugh bubbles up in your throat, nervous and disbelieving. This is stupid. Nothing will happen. Right?

It hits you hard. The change in scenery, the change in everything. One moment, you’re in your dimly lit room, the glow of your phone screen the only light. The next, you’re on your knees in the sand, the sun blazing overhead, the air thick with heat and the sound of crashing waves. Your brain scrambles to make sense of it, but the shift is too vast, too sudden. You try to stand, but your legs refuse, knees buckling under a wave of molten heat searing up your spine.

Your skin prickles, then burns. You watch, wide-eyed, as your pale arms darken to deep caramel, the color spreading like ink spilled across paper. Your hands, already smaller and daintier, tremble as you run them over your arms, marveling at the softness. A faint sheen of sweat makes your new skin glisten under the sun. Your pelvis cracks, flaring wide enough to ache. Fat surges into your ass, each cheek swelling heavy and dimpled, stretching the denim of your cutoff shorts until seams split. You reach back, fingers sinking into the soft, jiggling flesh. A giggle bubbles up from your throat, high-pitched and airy. “Ees dat… my ass?” you slur, the words thick with an unfamiliar accent. You can’t believe it, but the weight of it in your hands, the way it jiggles when you move. It’s yours.

Your tongue feels strange, heavy and clumsy. You try to speak, but the words come out slurred, a mix of heavily accented English and Portuguese. “Ees so hot… So calor, né?” you purr, the sound low and throaty as you fan yourself dramatically, the motion exaggerated and playful. Your voice shifts, syrup-sweet and unfamiliar, the kind of voice that turns heads. Your brain feels foggy, thoughts slipping away like sand through your fingers. All that matters is how good your body feels. How right.

Your shirt fuses to your chest, straps digging into your broadening shoulders as it transforms into a red bikini top. The fabric strains against your full D-cups, nipples peaked and sensitive against the nylon. Your shorts melt into a matching thong, the lace riding up your reshaped ass. You wiggle, the sensation of the fabric against your new curves sending shivers up your spine.

Your dick twitches, hardening one last time before it begins to shrink. You instinctively grab it, but your hands, now manicured and delicate, feel wrong against your remaining male flesh. Isso não deveria estar aqui, you think in Portuguese, meaning This shouldn’t be here. Wait. No, no, I didn’t mean— The thought flickers, clarity fading as your balls tighten, retracting. But then this final thought of resistance dies as your new pussy clenches, slickness soaking the lace thong. You moan, the sound high and breathy. Your hips rock instinctively, the pleasure overwhelming. “Ah, que gostosa…” you whisper, the words pure Portuguese now. So hot… so sexy… Your fingers slip between your thighs.

The heat between your legs throbs, demanding attention. You obey, collapsing into the sand, Portuguese endearments spilling from your lips as your hips rock. The camera clicks. You don’t question where it came from. Your Instagram feed needs updating. You try to remember your old name. Can’t. It doesn’t matter. You’re her now. A Brazilian bombshell. A beach bunny bimbo. And you’ve never been happier.

You glance at the camera, posing instinctively. The agency managing your Instagram will love this. You’re under contract now, and they’ll make sure the world sees every inch of you.