From Bro to Hoe: A Werebimbo Story - Part 7

From Bro to Hoe: A Werebimbo Story

By FemmeForge

It was just supposed to be a night of beers and bro-talk. But when the full moon rose, his best friend didn’t grow fur — he grew tits.

One second, Kyle was crushing a beer can. The next, his chest was ripping open a shirt with two massive, dripping tits, nipples so hard they cut through fabric. His cock didn’t get hard — it shrank away, leaving a smooth, soaking slit that quivered and leaked under the moonlight. His screams cracked into filthy moans, his voice going high and slutty as his ass swelled into a fat, fuckable bubble that begged to be grabbed.

On his knees, grinding in the dirt, Kyle’s body betrayed him — hips snapping, pussy drooling, tits bouncing heavy with every shudder. His hands clawed at his new curves while his mouth spilled out shameless cries for cock.

Trent could only watch, cock throbbing in horror and lust, as his best friend transformed into a pink-lipped, cock-hungry werebimbo moaning his name. Every full moon, the curse takes over again — turning his buddy into a dripping fuckdoll desperate to be filled, fucked, and ruined.

Now Trent has a choice: fight the curse… or give in and use his best friend’s new body the way it begs to be used.

Now every full moon is a nightmare soaked in tits, pussy, and horny flesh. Every howl is a moan, every scream a cry for cock. And Trent has to face the truth: you can’t save your best friend when the moon wants her holes filled.

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Part 7

Trent sat there, staring, his mouth half open, breath fogging the windshield. His brain scrambled to catch up to what his eyes were telling him. Kyle wasn’t looming, wasn’t larger-than-life anymore. He looked… small. Smaller than Trent had ever seen him. Smaller than Trent himself.

It was wrong. Alien. Like seeing a statue toppled, broken into rubble.

Trent’s throat clicked as he forced a laugh, brittle and sharp. “Heh. Guess I finally got one on you, huh? Spent all those years chasing your ass in the gym, and now look at you. Little Kyle. Shorter than me.”

He meant it as a jab, a lifeline back to normalcy, but the words tasted sour. His voice shook.

Kyle winced like the words were knives, his shoulders trembling, his sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. “Don’t—fuck, don’t call me that,” he begged, his voice cracking higher. “I used to be six-three. I used to own every room I walked into. Now look at me—I’m five-six, I look up to you, and I’m still getting smaller on the inside.”

Trent’s jaw tightened. He shook his head hard, trying to bulldoze past the dread coiling in his gut. “C’mon, man, it’s not… it’s not permanent, right? You’ll bounce back. You always bounce back. So what if you’re a couple inches shorter—hell, plenty of dudes would kill to be five-six and jacked like you still are.”

But even as he said it, he heard the lie in his voice. Kyle wasn’t jacked anymore. His chest had caved, his abs melted smooth, his arms and legs twitched thin. The giant was gone, and what sat across from him now looked almost frail, dwarfed by the van around him.

Kyle gave a wet, broken laugh that turned into a moan. “You don’t get it, Trent. There’s no bouncing back. Every time the moon takes me, it strips more away. My height, my muscles, my cock—until all that’s left is a bitch in heat. A blonde little slut begging for cock.” His eyes flicked up, wet and glassy. “And now I’m already beneath you. The giant’s gone. All that’s left is the bitch waiting to be built.”

Trent’s chest clenched. His fists dug into his thighs. He wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, to stop saying those words—but his tongue stuck. Because as much as he wanted to deny it, Kyle was right. The giant was gone.

Kyle slumped in the seat, trembling, his chest heaving. He wiped at his face with one shaking hand, smearing sweat and tears together. For a moment, Trent thought maybe the convulsions had eased. Maybe the nightmare was slowing.

Then he saw it.

Kyle’s skin shimmered strangely under the dash light — not just from sweat. The faint dusting of hair across his forearms and biceps… was gone. Vanished like it had never been there.

Trent blinked hard, his stomach flipping. “Wait—your arms—”

Kyle looked down, and his eyes widened. “Oh no—fuck—no, not this…”

Even as he said it, it spread. The coarse trail of golden hair that had run from his navel down across his abs, the mark of a man carved in sweat and testosterone — it retreated like shadows at sunrise, leaving nothing but smooth, glistening skin in its place.

Kyle’s hands shook as he touched himself, sliding over the unnatural silk of his bare stomach. “It’s taking my body hair—fuck—Trent, I’m going smooth—”

Trent swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat. He remembered countless nights at parties, girls tracing that happy trail with hungry eyes, licking it on dares. Now it was gone, erased in seconds.

And worse, his gaze fell lower.

Kyle’s pubic mound, once crowned with a proud tuft of blonde hair above that monster cock, twitched grotesquely. The golden curls thinned before Trent’s eyes, retreating back into his skin. Within seconds, the patch was gone, leaving his obscene shaft jutting up hairless, obscene and slick, every vein and ridge laid bare.

Kyle gasped, staring in horror at himself, his cock still twitching hard against his belly. “Oh god—oh fuck—it’s gone—all gone!” His voice cracked, wobbling high and shrill. “I don’t even look like a man anymore—I look like—fuck—I look like a slut shaved for cock!”

Trent flinched, chest tight, as the truth of it hit. His best friend, once a tower of muscle and manhood, sat trembling smooth and slick, cock obscene and hairless, his body looking less like a jock’s and more like something prepped for porn.

Kyle moaned through clenched teeth, his head thudding back against the seat. “This is how it starts, Trent… my body stripped bare, made smooth, ready to be reshaped. Next it’ll be tits—ass—hips—fuck—I’m already half a whore just sitting here like this!”

Kyle’s chest hitched, every breath a jagged sob, his hands pawing uselessly at his bare skin. His arms, his chest, his stomach—all smooth. The faint trail of blonde that had once led down to his cock was gone, erased like it had never been. Even his pubes, that thick proud tuft that crowned his massive shaft, had vanished. His cock twitched naked and obscene against his belly, slick with pre, every vein and ridge on display.

Kyle’s lip curled, teeth bared in a grimace, but the sound that came out was a half-moan, half-sob. “Fuck! Fucking fuck! Every goddamn time, Trent—every full moon—it strips me like this.” He ran a shaking hand over his slick, smooth belly, trembling as though the silk of his own skin disgusted him. “Smooth, shaved, girly skin… it makes me look like I’ve been fucking prepped. Like I’m some pornstar bitch shaved clean for cock!”

Trent’s face twisted, his throat working. He pressed back into the passenger seat, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ, Kyle—don’t—don’t say it like that…”

But Kyle couldn’t stop. The words came out like a confession he hated himself for, bitter and filthy all at once. “The curse always makes me a shaved bimbo for men! That’s the point. It strips away the man, every bit of hair, every mark of what I built—and leaves me looking like a bitch ready to spread. Smooth skin, fat tits, soft ass—just waiting to be bent over and fucked!”

He moaned the last word, shame making it crack high, feminine, obscene. His cock jerked hard, smearing another glistening streak across his abs.

Trent’s stomach twisted. He wanted to shout again, to tell Kyle to shut the fuck up—but the image was already there, seared into his mind: his best friend, stripped smooth, shaved bare, a blonde bombshell bimbo with tits bouncing and a fat ass grinding down on some guy’s cock.

And Kyle, sobbing in the seat, already knew it.

He slammed his fist weakly into his narrow thigh, tears streaking down his flushed face. “I can’t stop it, Trent. I’ll be nothing but a smooth little slut by the end. That’s what the curse wants—a shaved, moaning bimbo for men to use.”

Kyle’s hands roamed helplessly over his chest and stomach, trembling as they slid across his bare, slick skin. His fingers clawed at the emptiness where his happy trail had once been, nails dragging across nothing but smooth flesh. He moaned raggedly, his voice breaking high.

“Look at me, Trent. Just look! I’m fucking hairless. Smooth. Girly. I don’t even look like a man anymore.” His voice cracked, bitter but filthy at the edges. “My arms? Slick as a slut’s legs. My chest? No hair, no pride, just sweaty, shaved skin. My stomach? It looks like I waxed myself just to show off in some porn shoot.”

He spread his thighs wider, his cock twitching naked and obscene against his belly, dripping pre down his smooth abs. His voice broke into a sob. “And my pubes—fuck, my pubes are gone. You see this?” He grabbed the base of his massive cock with one hand, shaking it so it slapped wetly against his stomach, smearing more pre up his body. “It looks like I shaved myself clean for cock. Like I shaved my pussy bare before bending over for some dude. The curse strips me so I can’t even pretend I’m still a man. It makes me a smooth little slut ready to spread.”

Trent’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “Kyle—stop. Just—shut the fuck up—”

But Kyle kept going, his voice raw, cracking between sobs and bawdy filth. “It takes everything, Trent. Every mark that said I was a man. The scruff on my jaw, the trail on my abs, the hair on my chest—gone. I look like a bitch fresh out of a shower, shaved smooth for some cock-hungry date.”

He moaned again, his cock twitching hard in his grip, pre bubbling out over his knuckles. “And I feel it. My skin—it’s so fucking soft. I can’t even touch myself without thinking about what’s coming. How smooth tits are gonna swell out of my chest, how this skin is gonna jiggle, how my fat ass will bounce while I’m riding some cock. I’m turning into a smooth little bimbo slut and I can’t stop it!”

His head fell back against the seat, tears streaming down his cheeks as his voice pitched high in a shrill moan. “I’m already halfway there, Trent—I feel it. Smooth, girly, weak—like I’m just waiting for my tits and ass to pop so I can spread my legs. That’s what this curse does—it prepares me.”

He sobbed, his cock twitching against his flat, hairless belly, smearing the sweat-slick surface as if mocking him.

Kyle’s bitter rant cut off in a sharp gasp. His whole body jolted against the seat as a fresh wave of pain ripped through him, deeper than before.

“Ahhh—fuck—!” His scream cracked girlishly, humiliating in its pitch.

The sound of it came next — a sickening pop-pop-crack, echoing out from his wrists, his knuckles, his fingers. He clutched his hands against his chest, trembling as the bones shifted under his skin. His palms spasmed, jerking open and closed as the joints popped.

“God—ohhh f-fuck—my hands—my fucking hands!”

Trent stared, eyes wide, his gut twisting as he watched it happen.

Kyle’s fingers stretched longer, thinner, each pop dragging them into a new, delicate proportion. The veins that had once roped his forearms retreated, fading under smooth, hairless skin. His thick, meaty palms softened, narrowing, his grip trembling weaker with every spasm. His nails darkened at the tips, pushing longer with unnatural speed, taking on a sleek, obscene femininity.

Kyle sobbed, clutching them to his chest, horrified by what he felt. “No—fuck no, not this too—these were man’s hands, Trent! I benched with these, I threw, I fought—” He held them up, trembling, as another crack reshaped his wrists slender. “Now look at them—they’re dainty—they’re fucking girly!”

He spread them wide, helpless, the fingers long and tapering, nails glossy in the dashlight. They looked like they belonged on a cheerleader, not the golden jock he had been.

Trent’s breath stuttered out of him, raw disbelief coating his voice. “Holy shit… Kyle… your hands look like—like a girl’s.”

Kyle let out a strangled, broken moan, tears cutting tracks down his flushed cheeks. He pawed weakly at his chest with those new hands, the delicate fingers splayed over his nipples, and the sight was obscene.

“Fuck—I can feel it—they’re soft, smooth—they don’t even look like mine. They look like… like hands made to stroke cock, to cradle tits, to grab a man while I’m riding him—ahhh f-fuck—”

Another convulsion snapped through his wrists, jerking his hands daintier still. His voice cracked into a high, keening whimper.

“They’re slut’s hands now, Trent. The curse is making me into a fucking doll—smooth, girly, ready to please.”

And he sat there, clutching his trembling, feminine hands to his chest, as the moonlight poured through the van window, washing him in its cruel glow.

Kyle’s sobs rattled his chest, his breath catching as he stared down at his trembling hands. They looked alien, obscene — the long, tapering fingers quivering in the glow of the dashlight, the glossy, newly grown nails flashing faintly as he moved them. His palms were smaller, slimmer, delicate in a way that made his stomach twist.

Another pop snapped through his wrists, forcing a cry from his lips. The joints cracked daintier, narrower, until his hands looked almost weightless at the ends of his trembling arms.

“F-fuck… oh god… they’re not mine anymore,” he gasped, voice breaking. “They’re so small—so smooth—it feels like they don’t even belong to me.”

Trent sat frozen, staring. The same hands that had once shoved him playfully, gripped weights until knuckles bled, and slapped his back after touchdowns were now unrecognizable — fragile, girlish things, fluttering against Kyle’s bare chest like props in some porno.

Kyle’s tearful eyes flicked to him, wide and desperate. “Trent… look.” His voice cracked high, pleading. “Look how small they are now.”

Before Trent could stop him, Kyle lurched forward and pressed his trembling hand against Trent’s.

The difference was immediate.

Trent’s broad, calloused palm dwarfed Kyle’s new one. Where once Kyle’s grip had matched his strength for strength, his palm now looked tiny, swallowed whole by Trent’s. His long, slender fingers splayed out weakly across Trent’s rougher ones, the glossy nails grazing his skin.

Kyle’s breath hitched, a strangled moan slipping free. “Oh fuck… they’re dainty, Trent. Look at them compared to yours. I used to crush your grip in practice—now I can’t even cover your palm.” His voice cracked, wobbling high with humiliation. “They’re not hands for lifting, for fighting… they’re hands made for stroking cock, for… for wrapping around you while I choke on it.”

Trent jerked his hand back like he’d touched fire, his face pale, throat tight. “Jesus Christ, Kyle—don’t—don’t fucking say that!”

But Kyle just stared at his new hands, moaning through his tears, turning them over in the green glow. His delicate fingers curled inward, trembling. “They’re slut’s hands now, Trent. Soft, smooth, tiny little whore hands. The curse is stripping me down one piece at a time until there’s nothing left of the man I was.”

He pressed those small hands back to his chest, clutching at the sagging remnants of his pecs, trembling all over as his cock twitched against his belly.

And Trent, frozen in the passenger seat, could only watch, horror clamping down on him as his best friend’s hands — once the mark of a jock, strong and calloused — had become obscene little playthings, fragile and girlish in every way.

Kyle turned his wrists over in the glow of the dash, staring at them like they belonged to someone else. The fingers were too long, too slim, the palms too soft and narrow. His nails gleamed faintly, glossy and obscene.

His breath hitched, a shudder running through him. “Oh god… they don’t even feel like mine.”

Trent shifted uneasily in his seat, his eyes locked on those delicate hands. He wanted to tell him to stop, to put them down, to quit showing him — but the words stuck in his throat.

Kyle’s fingers trembled as he flexed them, testing their new shape. The motion alone made him groan, the sound ragged, shameful. “They’re not man’s hands anymore. They’re… they’re soft, girly little whore hands.”

His lips quivered, voice dropping into something raw and filthy. “All I can picture now is them wrapped around a big fat veiny cock. My fingers stroking the shaft slow, my glossy nails dragging along the veins while he groans. My hands pressed together around it, jerking him off, slick with spit and cum until it’s dripping through these dainty fingers.”

Trent flinched like he’d been hit, his face pale. “Kyle—Jesus Christ, don’t—”

But Kyle couldn’t stop. His hands curled weakly in the air, miming the grip, obscene in their delicacy. His cock twitched violently against his bare stomach as another moan tore out of him. “I can see it, Trent—I can feel it. My small little hands barely able to wrap around his size, stroking, milking him, jerking until he explodes all over me. That’s what these are now.”

Tears spilled down his face, shame burning in his voice. “I trained these hands to lift iron, to punch, to win. And now they look like they were made for nothing but jacking off men and choking on cock.”

His glossy nails caught the dashlight again as he clutched them to his chest, sobbing through his teeth, his voice breaking high. “They’re bimbo hands now. Shaved, soft, useless… perfect for pleasing cock.”

Across from him, Trent sat frozen, bile in his throat, horror etched across his face. But no matter how badly he wanted to deny it, the image Kyle had painted was already burned in his head — his best friend’s slender, girlish hands wrapped around a fat cock, stroking it like they’d been made for nothing else.

Kyle stared at his trembling hands, glossy nails flashing in the glow, long fingers twitching like they were already learning their new purpose. His chest heaved, voice cracking with shame and filth as the words spilled out.

“I can’t stop thinking about it, Trent… these little hands—” he lifted them, spreading his dainty fingers wide, “—they’re not for football anymore, not for weights, not for fighting. They’re for cock.”

Trent shifted in his seat, eyes wide, shaking his head. “Don’t—don’t fucking say that—”

But Kyle pressed on, his voice breaking into a moan. “I can see it, Trent. These hands wrapped around your cock. Your big, fat, veiny cock. My fingers sliding up and down that thick shaft, barely able to close around it. My nails gliding along your veins while you groan and curse at me.”

Trent flinched, his chest tight, bile and heat rising in equal measure. “Kyle, shut the fuck up—”

But Kyle only moaned louder, obscene and desperate. He mimed the motion, curling his delicate fingers around air, stroking. “I’d spit on it—let my smooth, girly palms glide over your cock while I pump you, both hands working you faster, jerking you so hard the pre drips between my fingers. You’d look down and see me—see these hands—making you cum.”

Trent’s breath hitched, shame and something darker twisting in his gut.

Kyle sobbed, his words ragged, shameful. “That’s what the curse wants, Trent. It takes my jock’s grip and turns it into bimbo hands—hands built to stroke, to please, to serve. And the worst part?” He whimpered, cock twitching violently against his belly. “I want it. I can feel how right it is. My body wants to use these hands on you. On your cock. To make you cum all over me until I’m dripping in it.”

Trent’s fists clenched in his lap, his heart hammering as his best friend sat trembling in front of him, delicate fingers twitching like they were already wrapped around him.

And the thought made Trent’s cock throb so hard it hurt.

Trent’s whole body jolted, his face twisted as if Kyle’s words had physically struck him. His fists slammed against his thighs, the sound sharp in the cramped van.

“Enough!” he barked, his voice raw, shaking. “Shut the fuck up, Kyle! Do you hear me? Stop saying that shit! Stop talking about your fucking hands on my cock!”

Kyle flinched like a scolded child, his glossy nails trembling at his chest, but tears kept spilling down his flushed face. His cock jerked against his bare stomach, leaking fresh pre across his smooth skin, betraying him even as Trent screamed.

Trent’s voice cracked, louder, almost desperate. “You’re my best friend! You don’t fucking say that! You don’t look at me and talk about jerking me off, or sucking me, or whatever the hell this curse is making you think!” He was breathing hard now, chest heaving, eyes wide with panic. “That’s wrong, Kyle. It’s sick. It’s not you!”

Kyle whimpered, his voice breaking high. “But it is me now, Trent! That’s the curse! It strips me down until there’s nothing left but a bimbo slut who can’t stop thinking about cock—your cock.” His hands twitched again, obscene in their daintiness as he mimed the grip once more. “I can already feel how good it would be… stroking you… milking you until you cover me—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Trent roared, cutting him off. His face was pale, eyes blazing with panic and disgust. He pressed himself back against the passenger door like he needed distance, his fists trembling in his lap.

But no matter how loud he shouted, the damage was already done. The image was burned into his skull — Kyle’s delicate, girlish hands wrapped around his fat cock, stroking, milking, making him cum.

And Trent hated himself for how hard his own body was reacting to it.

To be continued...