Carl—now riding high in Brenda’s curvaceous, cop-fuelled body—floored the gas as he steered her patrol car toward Jennifer Trask’s suburban home. The engine roared in response, thrumming between Brenda’s tan-uniformed thighs, vibrating against the considerable weight of her ass planted firmly in the driver’s seat.
God, this feels amazing.
He squeezed one of Brenda’s meaty thighs with her own hand, then slid it higher, letting out a low chuckle as his fingers brushed the seam of her utility belt. His other hand drummed impatiently against the steering wheel—short nails, slightly chipped, painted a modest nude. Professional. Boring.
Brenda—still screaming inside her own skull—had gone from furious to outright feral.
“Get the FUCK out of me, you parasitic sonofa—”
Carl drowned her out by turning the radio up—some pop country bullshit—and singing along obnoxiously in Brenda’s husky voice.
“Ohhhh, honey, you’re a bad bad man—” He grinned, pawing at his borrowed chest. “Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth?”
The moment the car screeched to a halt in Jennifer’s driveway, Carl practically leaped out, stretching Brenda’s limbs with a groan. He rolled her shoulders, twisted at the waist, and—just because he could—cupped both hands under her heavy, duty-holster-strained tits and gave them a firm jiggle.
“Jesus shit, you’re stacked.” He smirked. “No wonder Trask couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”
Brenda’s internal cursing reached an octave only dogs could hear.
Carl ignored her, strutting toward the front door with Brenda’s key ring jingling. He let himself in—Jennifer’s abandoned, spotless home now a silent playground—and kicked off Brenda’s sensible work shoes.
First stop: the bedroom.
---
Carl flung open the master closet—Trask and Jennifer’s shared space—and immediately zeroed in on Jennifer’s lingerie drawer.
“Look at this shit,” he snorted, rifling through lace and silk. “Mrs. Goody Two-Shoes has a naughty side, huh?” He pulled out a crimson corset, holding it up against Brenda’s body. “No shot this fits you, cow.”
He tossed it aside, then—just for fun—tugged off Brenda’s uniform shirt, letting it pool on the carpet. The sight of her in just her service bra—sturdy beige, ridiculously practical—made him bark out a laugh.
“Christ, no wonder you’re single.”
Brenda’s mental rage was almost palpable now, a white-hot buzz in the back of his skull.
Carl stretched out on Jennifer’s bed—Brenda’s muscular, toned calves crossed at the ankle—and slowly dragged his hands over his stolen body. Over the dip of her waist. The soft swell of her belly. The thick, powerful thighs built for chasing perps.
Then, because he was an artist, he unhooked Brenda’s bra and let her tits spill free.
“Ohhhh, there we go.”
Brenda’s protests escalated.
Carl tweaked a nipple.
She squeaked.
“Shut up and enjoy it,” Carl purred, rolling Brenda’s hips against the comforter. “Bet you haven’t gotten this worked up in years.”
A slick pulse between Brenda’s legs silently betrayed her.
Carl’s grin turned vicious.
---
He didn’t bother with foreplay.
Brenda’s service pants were unbuttoned, unzipped, yanked down—her navy-blue panties (because of course she wore fucking navy-blue) shoved aside with a single impatient tug.
His fingers—her fingers—plunged into wet heat.
Brenda’s breathing hitched.
“Damn, girl,” Carl muttered. “You were into this.”
She wasn’t.
(She fucking WASN’T.)
But that part didn’t matter.
What mattered was the way Carl worked Brenda’s body—relentless, cruel, mocking—until her stolen voice gasped, until her stolen back arched, until—
“Oh, fuck—”
He slammed her over the edge with a brutal twist of her fingers.
And then, just to really burn it in, he brought those fingers to Brenda’s lips—her own lips—and made her taste it.
“Pathetic.”
---
Carl rolled off the bed with a groan, still buzzing from the afterglow. Time to go.
His original body—scrawny, greasy, his—was still slumped in the guest room.
One touch—one thought—and Carl’s consciousness ripped free of Brenda’s pleasured, violated flesh.
Her body dropped like a sack of bricks.
His?
Ugh. Back in his skin.
Carl groaned, stretching aching limbs. His muscles protested. His stomach howled.
But he had work to do.
Brenda was still breathing.
So he grabbed the nearest heavy object—a decorative vase—and cracked it over her skull.
“Sleep tight, Officer.”
Twenty minutes later—after scarfing down Trask’s leftover pizza and chugging three beers—Carl crammed his few belongings into a duffel and headed for the door.
England sounded great right about now.
And hey—maybe Rotherham, in the county of South Yorkshire, England, needed a few extra ghosts.
****
Carl Edwards stood in the cramped airport restroom stall, staring at the unconscious woman slumped against the toilet.
Naomi.
A stacked brunette in her late twenties—curves for days, thick thighs that could crush a man’s skull, and a face that screamed expensive taste. She’d been texting near the sinks when Carl had slipped in behind her, pressed a chloroform-soaked rag to her nose, and dragged her limp body into the stall before anyone noticed.
Now, he had a choice.
Possession would be easier—just hop into her skin, ditch his old body, and waltz onto the plane as Naomi. But leaving his original meat-suit unattended? Bad idea. If it died, he had no clue what would happen to him.
Which meant only one option.
Transformation.
Carl smirked, cracking his knuckles.
Time to get creative.
---
He stripped Naomi first—peeling off her designer jeans, her silky blouse, even her lace-trimmed panties—until she was sprawled naked on the tile floor.
"Damn."
Carl whistled, taking in every inch of her. High, full breasts with dusky pink nipples. A narrow waist flaring into wide, child-bearing hips. A neatly trimmed patch of dark hair between her thighs.
Perfect.
He kicked off his own clothes—ratty jeans, stained t-shirt, boxers with more holes than fabric—and tossed them into a pile. Then, he knelt beside Naomi’s unconscious form and pressed his palm flat against her stomach.
Focus.
A shudder ran through him—muscles twisting, bones reshaping, skin stretching—as his body melted into hers.
His shoulders narrowed. His hips widened, flesh swelling outward in a dizzying rush. His chest ached as fat redistributed, two heavy weights forming, nipples pebbling under sudden sensitivity.
Then—the worst part.
His cock shriveled, flesh retracting, reforming into something smaller, softer—a tight little nub nestled between newly sculpted thighs.
Carl gasped—Naomi’s gasp—as the transformation completed.
"Holy. Fucking. Shit."
He—she—ran trembling hands over Naomi’s stolen curves. Over the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the smooth, hairless skin of her inner thighs.
Then, lower.
Carl bit Naomi’s lip as his—her—fingers brushed Naomi’s clit.
"Ohhh, fuck."
A jolt of pleasure shot through her stolen nerves.
Carl grinned.
This was gonna be fun.
---
He dressed quickly—Naomi’s clothes clinging to her stolen curves like a second skin. The jeans hugged her ass perfectly. The blouse gaped slightly over her chest, buttons straining.
"Hope you packed a bra, sweetheart," Carl muttered, rifling through Naomi’s purse.
He found it—black lace, barely enough fabric to contain her new assets—and fastened it with practiced ease.
Then, the finishing touch: Naomi’s passport.
Carl studied the photo—same face, same smirk—before tucking it into her back pocket.
"Time to fly."
He shoved his old clothes into the trash, lit a match, and watched them burn.
No evidence.
No ties.
Just Naomi—and a first-class ticket to England.
---
The gate agent barely glanced at Naomi’s passport before waving her through.
Carl—Naomi—sauntered down the jet bridge, hips swaying, relishing the weight of her stolen breasts with every step.
A flight attendant smiled. "Welcome aboard, Ms. Hartwell."
Carl smirked.
"Thanks, darling."
And with that, Naomi Hartwell settled into her seat—legs crossed, manicured fingers tapping the armrest—ready for whatever came next.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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