Jerked into Her (TG Story) - Part 4

Jerked into Her (TG Story)

From FemmeForge:

A Ritual. A Fantasy. A Transformation Too Hot to Survive.

Eli never felt at home in his body. Not in a tragic way—just in that horny, obsessive, aching way that builds in secret. In silence. In shame. Alone at night, jerking off to the women he envied more than desired, whispering the same question over and over:

“What does it feel like to be her?”

Not to live as a woman.
To fuck like one.
To be the kind of woman who moans, who clenches, who drips—who makes men lose their minds just by walking into the room.

When Eli finds a ritual online—a cursed rite whispered about in NSFW occult threads—he doesn’t laugh.
He lights the candles.
He draws the sigil.
He jerks off into the bowl.

And what begins as a filthy fantasy spirals into a full-blown, erotic, reality-breaking metamorphosis

Link for the PDF File: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1gvUdBK5nzWxU37KjW7sFJepaNzTh5x1k/view?usp=drive_link

Fourth Part

As Eli lay sprawled out on the floor—no, he lay there now—tits heaving, sweat slicked down his thighs, pussy still twitching from the aftershock of being born, he couldn’t even think straight.
His mouth was parted in a dopey, cock-drunk looking moan, even though there hadn’t been a cock yet. Just the memory of his own—now gone, melted into that soaked slit between his thighs, replaced with heat, slick, and bottomless need. His breath was all uneven gasps and shaky little hiccups, each one making his massive tits wobble against his chest like they were mocking gravity. Fat, glossy mountains of fuckme-flesh, jiggling and shifting with every flutter of his lungs.
His legs were still spread wide, pussy lips glistening, dripping, as if his body hadn’t gotten the memo that the ritual was over. His fingers were twitching between his thighs, one hand still half-buried in the creamy mess pooling down the curve of his inner thigh. He wasn’t even trying to move. Couldn’t.
His new body was just… too much.
Too soft. Too hot. Too wet. Too fucking ready.
He whimpered once—this high, slutty little noise that sounded like it belonged in a porn video, not from someone who used to jerk off with the lights off in shame. His hips gave a tiny buck, just a pathetic little twitch of instinct, and his newly-minted pussy clenched around nothing like it was pissed about being empty.
"Uhhhnn..." he moaned, dazed, face flushed, eyes fluttering.
Then—thump.
His arm flopped to the floor.
His lips parted again, but no sound came out this time.
His eyelids gave one last, bleary flutter.
And he passed the fuck out.
Gone.
Knocked the hell out by his own orgasm, his own transformation, his own overloaded, oversensitized, cum-drenched masculinity.
His tits gave one last dramatic bounce, nipples still stiff and pointed to the gods, as his body finally sagged into the floor—thighs still slick, hair fanned out like a halo of sex around his flushed, stupidly pretty face.
And there he lay.
Naked.
Wet.
Ruined.
Still twitching.
Still moaning in his sleep.
And still oozing the kind of heat that would make any guy he knew fall to his fucking knees the second he walked in and saw him like that.

He slumped back, tits still bouncing from his ragged breaths, thighs twitching, sweat dripping into the candle wax around him. Then the world just… blinked out. Gone. He passed the fuck out, body too fried to keep up with what just happened.

And then he dreamed.

Not some normal dream with random crap stitched together from his brain. No. This one felt heavy. Thick. Like the air itself knew he wasn’t supposed to be there.

He came to standing barefoot on cold stone that didn’t even feel solid, more like smoke pretending to be a floor. The room—or whatever the hell it was—didn’t have walls, or a ceiling, or even a door. Just this weird glow coming from nowhere, stretching out in all directions, endless and eerie.

And that’s when it hit him.

He was naked.

And not her kind of naked—the hot, dripping, busty goddess version he’d just been. No. This was him. Eli. The old body. The boring, awkward one. His skinny chest, flat hips, pale skin, all of it just hanging out like he was caught on camera. And right there between his legs, swinging slightly with every breath, was that same useless cock. Limp. Small. Pathetic.

His stomach dropped.

“Fuck… no. No, no, no.” His voice cracked, and even that startled him—it was his voice again. That low, awkward tone he thought he’d left behind forever. No moan, no breathy edge. Just plain old Eli.

He looked down again, hands running over his ribs, his chest, his arms. All the curves were gone. His waist was straight. His shoulders boxy. His face—he could feel the stubble on his jaw again. The body he hated. The one he thought he’d burned out of existence with that ritual.

And for a second, he honestly thought he might throw up.

He came to standing barefoot on something that was supposed to be stone but didn’t feel like stone at all. Too smooth, too slick, almost soft. Every step he took, the ground rippled under him like smoke pretending to be solid. He stumbled forward, arms half out like he was drunk, head swinging around to get his bearings.

The place was… nothing. A room, maybe, but a room that had given up on having rules. No walls. No ceiling. No doors. Just space stretching on forever, glowing faintly with this pale, sourceless light that seemed to rise out of the floor and hang in the air like fog. No shadows, no sun, no lamps—just this weird glow humming from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was endless and eerie and quiet in a way that felt wrong, like the whole place was holding its breath.

“The fuck…” Eli muttered, voice echoing in the emptiness.

And that’s when it hit him.

He was naked.

Not her kind of naked—the kind where tits bounced with every gasp, pussy dripping, hair clinging to flushed cheeks. Not the obscene, goddess-body naked he’d just been living in. No. This was him. The body he thought he’d left behind.

“Wait—what—no—no no no…”

His voice cracked as he looked down at himself. His stomach twisted.

There it was. That chest. Flat, bony, pale. His arms, too skinny, dangling at his sides like sticks. His hips—straight, boxy, unforgiving. His skin was dull, blank, nothing to catch the light. His ribs pushed faintly against his flesh. His face itched like stubble was back on his jaw.

And between his thighs, hanging low with every shaky breath, that same cock. That useless, limp, awkward cock, dangling there like a reminder of every night he’d hated himself. Small. Soft. Sad.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, stumbling back a step. His bare heels scuffed against the floor that didn’t even feel like it was really there. “This—this isn’t right. This can’t—no. No, no, no…”

He touched himself, as if maybe it wasn’t real. His palms pressed flat against his chest—flat. His stomach—flat. His hands dropped lower, and when his fingers brushed against his cock, he recoiled like he’d just grabbed a snake.

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck.”

The sound of his own voice startled him. Deep. Plain. Eli’s voice. Not hers. Not that breathy, slutty moan he’d been drowning in minutes ago. Just his. Low. Male. Ugly in his ears.

He looked around again, eyes darting across the endless glowing nothing, hoping—begging—for something else. A wall, a door, a window, anything to make sense of this. But there was nothing. Just him. Standing there. Naked. Bare. Male.

“This isn’t real,” he said, louder this time, like maybe volume would force the dream to break. His words fell flat, eaten up by the emptiness. “This isn’t real. I changed. I—I changed, I fucking did, I felt it, I—”

But the evidence was hanging right between his thighs.

Every breath made it sway. Every look at it made his stomach knot tighter.

He wrapped his arms around himself, shaking now, eyes wide.

“Why am I back like this?” His words trembled out of him. “Why the fuck am I back like this?”

The silence answered with nothing but its own weight.

And that was the worst part.

It wasn’t just that he was here, naked, in a room with no way out.

It was that, after everything, he was here as Eli.

The one body he thought he’d finally escaped.

The one body he never wanted to see again.

He hugged himself tighter, arms crossed over his flat chest, eyes wide and darting like a cornered animal. His skin prickled with cold, even though the air didn’t feel cold at all.

“Why the hell am I naked?” he muttered, shaking his head. “Why the fuck am I naked like this?”

The words echoed back at him, thin and hollow. He looked down again at his body, pale and boring, cock hanging uselessly, and the sight made his gut clench. It was him. Every awkward, hated inch.

His throat went dry. He spun slowly in place, searching for something—anything—in that endless glowing space. A wall, a voice, a crack in the dream. But it was just him and the nothing.

“This doesn’t make sense,” he whispered, voice cracking. “It doesn’t—none of it—”

He staggered, dizzy all of a sudden, like the weight of the thought alone had knocked the balance out of him. His bare feet scuffed over the strange floor, leaving no sound, no mark. He swayed and pressed a hand to his head.

“What if… fuck—what if it wasn’t real?”

The question hit him harder than the cold.

What if the candles, the incense, the chanting, the glowing mark on his chest, the tits spilling into his hands, the wet heat between his thighs—what if it was all just some fever dream? A long jerk-off fantasy he’d chased too far?

“What if I just… came in a circle of candles and passed out?” he muttered, half-laughing, half-sick. His stomach twisted, his vision swimming. “What if I never changed? What if I was just… some pathetic freak jerking off in front of a mirror, and my brain filled in the rest?”

The dizziness worsened. He bent forward, hands braced on his knees, cock dangling between them as bile clawed up the back of his throat. His pulse raced.

“No, no, no, I felt it,” he hissed, breath fast. “I felt my body break. I heard my voice—my tits were—my ass was—fuck, it happened, it fucking happened…”

But the more he said it, the less he believed it.

All he had here, in this room, was proof of the opposite.

Him.

Male.

Naked.

Alone.

And the doubt coiled tighter, whispering at the back of his skull:

Maybe none of it was real.

Maybe you never left this body.

Maybe you never will.

He shook his head violently, palms digging into his temples as if he could squeeze the dizziness out.

“No… no, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t.” His voice cracked, bouncing back at him in that empty glowing room. “That shit was too real to be fake.”

His breath came sharp and ragged now, chest rising and falling fast. He looked down at himself again—flat chest, ribs faintly visible, cock dangling soft and sad—and his stomach flipped.

“Where the fuck… where the fuck did it all go?” he gasped, running both hands over his torso like he was patting down a stranger. “Where are my tits? Huh? My—my big, fat fucking tits, the ones that bounced when I breathed? Where the hell did they go?”

His hands clawed at his chest, squeezing nothing but bone and pale skin. His fingers dug hard into the flatness like maybe he could force the weight back into existence.

“They were right here,” he muttered frantically, eyes wide. “Heavy. Hot. Huge. I—fuck, I felt them.”

He staggered back a step, then shoved his hands lower, over his waist, his hips. Nothing. Just the narrow, boring V of his old frame.

“No, no, no… I had hips. I had wide, slutty hips, I felt them crack open, I heard it.” His words came fast now, more to himself than anyone else. “And my ass—Jesus Christ, where’s my ass? Where’s that fat, bouncing fucking ass I couldn’t even hold with both hands?”

He twisted around, craning his neck, eyes darting over his bare backside. Flat. Bare. The same narrow ass he’d grown up hating in the mirror.

His knees went weak.

“And my thighs,” he whispered, voice shaking. He slapped his legs, pale and skinny, no curve, no softness. “I had thick thighs. I had legs that stuck together. Hourglass… I was an hourglass, I saw it—”

He dragged his hands over his waist again, his ribs, his chest. Nothing but angles and hollows.

“Where the fuck is it?” he shouted, voice cracking high. “Where’s the body? Where’s her? Where’s my tits, my ass, my fucking pussy?”

The echo swallowed his words and spat them back at him in the silence, and his heart pounded harder, because the room wasn’t giving him answers.

Just him.

Naked.

Male.

As if none of it had ever happened.

His breath hitched. His eyes dropped lower.

And there it was.

That cock. Those balls. Swinging heavy between his thighs like the world’s cruelest punchline.

He froze, stomach twisting so hard he thought he might puke. He cupped his junk like maybe it wasn’t real—like maybe if he held it, it would disappear—but no. It was hot, sticky against his palm, the same cock he’d spent years jerking, hating, pretending wasn’t even part of him.

“No… no, no, no, no…” His voice cracked to pieces. “Not this. Not again. I don’t want this—I don’t want this thing—”

He grabbed harder, almost yanking at it in desperation, like he could rip it off with sheer willpower. His knees buckled, his back arched, and he let out this ragged sob that echoed back at him from the glowing void.

“I wanted a pussy,” he choked, teeth clenched. “I wanted it gone—I felt it go, I felt it melt—” His words broke off into a dry laugh that sounded more like a scream. “I was supposed to be wet, slick, dripping—I was supposed to be ruined and begging, not—not this!”

His thighs trembled as he stumbled backward, hand still clutching himself, face twisted in horror.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“If this is a dream, then why the fuck couldn’t I have dreamed myself as her? Huh? Why couldn’t I see that when I opened my eyes? Why couldn’t I look down and see what I always jerked off to—big tits, wide hips, fat ass bouncing while I screamed like one of those pornstars I wasted hours watching?”

His voice echoed, raw, desperate.

“That’s what I wanted… that’s what I asked for… I didn’t want to wake up like this!”

His cock twitched weakly in his hand, traitorous and alive, and the sight of it made his chest seize with rage and shame. He dropped it like it burned him, wiping his palm against his thigh, but the feeling clung.

“I don’t want it,” he whispered again, voice shaking. “I don’t want to be him. I wanted to be her. I wanted to be mine—the pornstar, the goddess, the bitch I saw in the mirror when I closed my eyes. I was supposed to be her…”

His words bled into silence, swallowed by the endless glowing space, leaving him trembling, naked, wrecked, cock and balls hanging like the chains he thought he’d broken.

He stood there, still trembling, still clutching at himself like the damn thing might just vanish if he squeezed hard enough. But it didn’t. It just hung there, soft and stupid, attached to him like it always had been.

And the thought hit him like a slap.

God, I’m fucking ridiculous.

His chest heaved with an ugly, shaky laugh. “What the hell was I even thinking?” he muttered, voice low, cracking. “That my cock was just gonna… what, turn into a pussy? Like magic? That I was just gonna wake up dripping wet and ready to get railed?”

The words echoed back at him, crueler every time.

He staggered a step, bare feet sliding on the not-quite-stone beneath him. His face twisted up, torn between laughing and sobbing.

“I really thought it’d happen,” he said, voice climbing, almost shrill. “I thought I’d light some candles, jerk off in a bowl, mumble a chant, and poof—new me. Big tits, fat ass, juicy pussy. Just like that. Like some busted porn fantasy.”

He pressed his palms to his eyes, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ. I actually believed it. I actually thought I’d turn into one of those pornstar bitches I jerked off to at three in the morning.”

The laugh that escaped him this time was bitter, cracked.

“And worse—worse than all of that—I thought I’d just… what? Walk into my friends’ place? Bend over the couch and let them all fuck me like a slut? Like they’d even want me? Like I’d even be her long enough for it to matter?”

The words made his stomach churn.

He looked down again at his limp cock, swinging lightly as he shook, and the shame hit harder than the cold.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he whispered.

He dragged his hands down his face, palms hot against his skin, trying to block it all out. The emptiness, the glowing space, the sight of his own naked, boring body. But the thought wouldn’t leave.

“God… but damn,” he muttered, voice breaking into a half-laugh. “It would’ve been fucking awesome, wouldn’t it?”

He lowered his hands and stared out into the nothing, eyes glassy.

“Being her. With that body. Those tits bouncing in everyone’s face, that fat ass clapping every time I moved. Wide hips, thick thighs, dripping pussy… and getting fucked stupid in front of everyone I know…”

His cock twitched, traitorously, and he clenched his fists.

“Fuck, it would’ve been so hot,” he admitted, almost a whimper now. “Being used like that. Finally knowing what it felt like.”

Then the shame crashed back over him. He shook his head violently, laughing bitter.

“No. Stop. It’s not real. None of it. I’m here, I’m me, I’m… this.” His hand gestured down at himself, at the limp cock, the flat chest, the narrow hips. “This piece of shit body. No pussy. No tits. Nothing.”

He squeezed his chest in both hands, just skin and ribs under his fingers, and groaned. “No big boobs. Not even a handful. Just me.”

He looked down again, staring at the cock between his thighs, swinging like a curse.

“And I thought it would just change,” he muttered, almost laughing again. “I really thought it would fucking turn into a pussy.”

He hugged his arms around himself, shaking, teeth clenched.

“But it didn’t.”

The room stayed silent. Just him. Just Eli.

And every fantasy he’d had a minute ago felt like it was slipping through his fingers, leaving him stranded with nothing but the body he hated most.

Until…

To be continued..