Jerked into Her (TG Story) - Part 2

Jerked into Her (TG Story)

From FemmeForge:

Eli’s always had this itch—one he could never scratch. Not in some tragic, soul-searching way. More in the “I get hard thinking about having tits” kind of way. Nights alone meant the same thing every time: jerking it to women he didn’t just want to fuck… he wanted to be. Stroking his cock while staring at porn and thinking, God, I wish those moans were coming out of my mouth. I wish those thighs were mine. I wish I knew what it felt like to get filled, to drip, to make guys lose it just walking past me.

Then he finds it—some sketchy-ass ritual buried deep in the filthiest corners of the internet. Not some cute horoscope shit—this one’s all candles, weird symbols, and “you’ll never be the same again” warnings.

Does Eli laugh it off? Hell no. He lights the candles. Draws the sigil. Stares at himself in the mirror while he jerks into a bowl like the world’s horniest creep.

What starts as another dirty jerk-off fantasy turns into the most fucked-up, brain-melting, body-breaking transformation he could’ve ever dreamed of—one that’s going to leave him dripping, moaning, and never going back.

Link for the PDF File: https://drive.google.com/file/d/17dwoDrRPRM8XB-7r9FYoPC7-tHCnNPIA/view?usp=drive_link

Second Part

The moon was full.

Obscenely full. It loomed through my window like an eye—watching. Pale and swollen, low in the sky, leaking silver across the walls of my bedroom in long streaks. It was too bright, too clear. It looked wrong. Like it wasn’t just rising, but rising for me.

I had checked the calendar three times that week. The Mirror Rite required a full moon, and tonight was the apex. Not just any full moon—the Blood Mother’s Moon, the post had said. I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t care.

All I knew was that it felt like fate.

My room was dark but alive with flickering shadows. The five white candles stood in precise points, forming a star on the hardwood floor. I’d measured their placement three times—one for each sense to be surrendered: sight, sound, taste, touch, scent. Each flame bobbed, steady but fragile, like it could blink out if I hesitated.

I was kneeling in the center, bare-skinned, breath shallow.

The mirror stood in front of me. Full-length. Upright. Cleaned twice. It reflected everything. My gangly body, my flushed skin, the bowl in front of me. It also reflected the moonlight—casting a ghost of me that shimmered like something half-formed, unreal. Almost her.

The copper bowl was cold. Heavy. It had a strange patina that didn’t look like rust—more like dried blood, or bruised metal. I'd found it at a thrift shop weeks ago, buried under old cookware. It hadn’t looked like much at the time, but now it radiated. Like it was waiting. Like it knew.

I’d placed it directly between my knees. Close. Too close.

Inside, a small bundle of herbs sat dry and crumbling. Mugwort, vervain, crushed rose petals. I’d followed the list perfectly. Each tied with a black ribbon and left to dry on my desk for a week. Now they were steeped in a splash of red wine, just enough to dampen them. The scent was cloying—earthy and sweet and bitter, like something that had died beautifully.

A long, black incense stick stood planted upright in a small obsidian holder beside the mirror. The moment I lit it, it hissed. The smoke rose thick and heavy, curling in strange ways, clinging to my skin like silk. It smelled like honey and rot. Like something too ancient to name. Every breath I took was dizzying—like the line between thought and fantasy was melting.

The red lipstick sat beside the bowl.

Its cap was already off.

The ritual had required it to be “smeared over the heart in the shape of her mark.” The sigil was one I’d copied from the original post: a spiral that forked like a womb, surrounded by four slashes like claw marks. It didn’t resemble anything I’d ever seen—something between a fertility rune and a predator’s scar.

I’d drawn it onto my chest slowly. Carefully.

The lipstick had dragged cold over my skin, then melted with my body heat. I could feel the shape pulsing now, a raw heat under the surface. Like the skin there had been marked.

But the worst part—the final ingredient—was still waiting.

Me.

More specifically: what I would give.

The ritual was cruel in its intimacy. It demanded not blood, not hair, not bone.

But seed.

Semen. My last act of manhood. My last ejaculation as Eli.

The instructions had been clear: “You must reach climax in the circle. Offer the essence while her name burns on your tongue. This is your unmaking.”

I hadn’t touched myself in three days.

I’d been saving it. Building it. Letting the hunger grow until it bordered on madness. Every glance at the mirror, every inhale of incense, every brush of air against my skin—it all set me twitching.

I could feel it now. The pressure. The ache.

The arousal wasn’t just physical anymore. It was spiritual. It felt like my body was a container filling to bursting with something vast and feminine and inhuman. I wasn’t just horny. I was being invaded. My dick was just the exit. The offering.

The mirror caught my eyes again.

I stared into it. Into myself.

My legs were spread wide in the circle. The copper bowl rested between them like an altar. My bare chest rose and fell rapidly. My lips were parted. My eyes were glassy. The lipstick sigil glistened over my heart like a wound.

And in the reflection, I could almost see her.

Not fully. Not yet. But the shadow of her. The woman underneath me. The one whispering through my breath, licking the back of my thoughts, curling fingers inside my gut like she was already nesting there.

The one I was about to let out.

I licked my lips. Reached for my cock. My hand trembled.

But I didn’t stroke.

Not yet.

I just held it—hot and rigid, pulsing in my grip—while the bowl sat beneath me like a hungry mouth.

And I whispered:

“This is my body, given up for hers.”

The ritual had begun.

I hadn’t even started stroking yet, and I was already throbbing. Already leaking. My cock felt wrong on my body—not because it didn’t belong, but because it knew it was about to be taken. Given up. Offered.

I gripped it tighter. My hips twitched.

And all I could think about was what I was about to trade it for.

Tits. God, tits. Big, heavy, bouncing tits that would jiggle every time I moved. I wanted to feel them grow—slowly at first, like swelling fruit, then heavier, needier, until the weight dragged my shoulders forward and made my breath hitch. I wanted to watch them slosh and sway when I walked. I wanted to see them spill out of tight tops, to feel fingers grab at them, knead them, milk them. I wanted my nipples to puff out, go dark and tender, so sensitive that a breeze could make me gasp.

I moaned—just from the thought. My fingers twitched around the base of my cock.

And my pussy—fuck, I was going to have a pussy. A real one. Wet and pink and obscene. A heat between my legs that would never turn off. I imagined it already—slick, clenching, desperate. A bottomless need where my cock used to be. Always aching, always begging to be filled. I wouldn’t just want it—I’d crave it. I’d fuck myself raw if no one else did. I’d moan like a slut just grinding against my sheets, my own fingers not enough to satisfy the hunger I'd cursed myself with.

And the ass—Jesus, the ass. I wanted it fat. Round. Shameless. I wanted it to bounce when I walked, to clap when I rode someone. I wanted stretch marks and dimples and the kind of curve that made men stare and drool. The kind of ass that looked like it was made to be grabbed, spanked, spread wide while someone buried their cock in me from behind.

That was the point, wasn’t it?

To be used?

To turn this lonely, pathetic jerkoff fantasy into something real. To stop dreaming of being the girl moaning in porn and become her. To turn myself into the kind of woman who knew she was hot. Who lived in heat. Who dressed in crop tops and short shorts just to feel eyes crawl over her. Who licked her lips in public and loved watching men shift uncomfortably in their pants.

I wasn’t just about to transform.

I was about to ruin myself.

And the fucked up thing was—I wanted it. I wanted it so bad my chest hurt. I wanted to feel myself break into her, bones bending, flesh reshaping, identity leaking out of my cock like cum into the bowl. I wanted to come so hard my soul shattered and she crawled out from the pieces.

I wanted to scream in the mirror as I changed—watching my cock shrink and melt away while my tits erupted from my chest, while my moans climbed higher and higher until they weren’t mine anymore. I wanted to feel her take over.

I wasn’t going to jerk off like a man.

I was going to come like a sacrifice.

And she would rise from the spill.

This wasn’t masturbation.

This was a summoning.

This was an offering.

I took a breath. My hand started to move—slowly, reverently. The incense swirled around me like smoke from another world. My thighs trembled.

And somewhere, inside the deepest, filthiest part of me, a voice whispered—

“Make me. Fucking make me.”

I was ready.

And she was so close.

My hand began to move.

Slow at first—trembling fingers curling around the base, sliding up along the flushed, veiny shaft slick with precum. I gasped. Not because it felt good—though it did, agonizingly so—but because it felt wrong. Like I was already trespassing. Like I was touching something that wasn’t mine anymore. Something about to be stolen.

But that only made it hotter.

I bit my lip and dragged my palm down again, slower this time, twisting just a little near the tip. My thighs shivered. My toes curled against the cool floorboards. The air was thick with incense and candlelight and the wet, unholy need pooling between my legs.

“I’m really doing this,” I whispered.

I was jerking off into a fucking copper bowl.

In a circle of candles.

With a lipstick sigil smeared across my chest like a cursed tramp stamp.

All to become a woman.

Not just a woman.

Her.

My other hand moved to my chest. I traced around the drawn sigil, fingertips brushing against my nipple—still flat, still boring, still mine—for now. But I imagined what it would be like. After. When this chest would rise with heavy, bouncing tits. When the nipple beneath my finger would puff up into something dark and sensitive, begging to be sucked.

I moaned and pumped harder.

My hand slid faster now, wet with need, slapping faintly with each stroke. I didn’t care how obscene it sounded. I wanted it. I needed to hear it. That sticky, wet sound of shame and lust. Of a man cumming for the last time.

I imagined it—every detail.

My cock shrinking. Inch by inch. Still leaking. Still twitching in my hand even as it withered down into a clit—swollen and hypersensitive. My balls pulling up, squeezing tight, then melting into the heat of my pelvis. My slit splitting open, wet and raw, hungry for touch.

Would it hurt? God, I hoped so. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted the pleasure and pain tangled together until I couldn’t tell the difference. I wanted to scream as my hips snapped wider, as my spine curved, as my ass exploded outward into a fat, jiggling shelf of fuckable meat. I wanted to sob with joy and horror as my nipples popped out, aching and erect, so sensitive I’d cry if someone so much as breathed on them.

“Take it,” I groaned, stroking faster. “Take all of it. Make me your fucktoy.”

My breathing hitched. My chest was rising and falling fast, sweat dripping down between my pecs—soon to be tits. My moans were starting to sound… different. Higher. Needier. Like the change had already begun. Like I was already halfway into her.

And oh, God, the fantasy was blinding.

I imagined my friends again—Jason’s jaw going slack as I strutted in, tits bouncing, eyes half-lidded and hungry. Mark’s hands spreading my thighs as I begged him to slide in. Evan’s mouth whispering praise against my neck as I bounced in his lap like a bitch in heat. I imagined myself in lace, in heels, in nothing at all—licking cum off my lips, crawling on all fours, full of moans and cum and filthy, dripping bliss.

I wanted to be wrecked.

I wanted to belong to the heat between my legs.

I wanted to jerk myself into ruin.

My hand blurred. My thighs clenched. My moans came in gasps now, ragged and high. The smoke curled tighter. The bowl seemed to vibrate beneath me, hungry.

The chant was coming.

I was close.

I could feel her. Breathing with me. Moaning through me.

And I knew—this wasn’t jerking off anymore.

This was goodbye.

I was stroking like a madman now.

Not with rhythm. Not with finesse. Just need. Brutal, aching need. My fist was slick with pre, sliding wildly up and down my throbbing cock like I was trying to beat the man out of me. The whole shaft was swollen, red, angry—veins bulging, twitching with every pulse of my heart. I felt like I was going to die if I didn’t cum soon. Or worse—if I did.

My hips bucked uncontrollably, grinding into my palm like some rutting beast. The room blurred around me. The smoke, the flickering candles, the mirror—they melted into one vibrating, fevered hallucination. The incense had invaded my lungs, my bloodstream, my brain. Everything smelled like lust and magic and rot and sweat. Everything felt too good.

My balls were pulled tight to my body, throbbing with pressure. It felt like years of jerking off had been bottled up in there—like I’d never actually cum before, not really, and now my body was going to unload all of it in one violent, world-ending release.

I couldn’t think.

All I could do was chant filth in my head—a spiral of need and corruption, spinning faster and faster:

Turn me into her.
Take my cock. Make me wet.
Give me tits. Huge, heavy, fuckable tits.
Rip the man out of me and fill the hole with heat.
Make me a pussy.
Make me a hole.
Make me cum until I forget my name.

My thighs were spread so wide they burned. I was breathing in short, desperate pants. My whole body was twitching, curling in on itself, ready to snap. I imagined my cock shrinking in my hand with each stroke, imagined it drooling one last bead of cum before disappearing forever. I could already feel the phantom wetness between my legs, the slick heat of a pussy aching to be fucked. My nipples were burning, like they were trying to force their way out of my chest, demanding to exist.

I moaned loudly—high-pitched, wrong. My voice cracked halfway through. It didn’t sound like Eli anymore. It sounded close to her. The her I had seen in my dreams. The her I had drawn from my fantasies like a fever-born deity. She was inside me now, clawing her way out through every breath, every heartbeat, every frantic jerk of my hand.

My body was a fucking altar.

My cock was the last candle waiting to burn out.

And the bowl—the copper bowl beneath me—sat patiently, reverently, ready to catch my sacrifice.

“Fuck—fuck—please—” I gasped.

The words weren’t to God. They weren’t even to the ritual.

They were to her.

To the woman inside me, the monster, the slut, the truth. I wanted her to take over. To devour me. To break me open and crawl out of the ruins wearing my skin with a smirk and a moan.

The sigil on my chest burned. I swear I felt it throbbing. Like a second heart. Like it had teeth. Like it was feeding on my orgasm before I even let it out.

And then—

It hit me.

No warning. No edge. Just a detonation.

“AAAAAAAHHHH—! FUUUUUUUCK—!”

I screamed—loud, raw, feminine. My whole body convulsed, back arching so violently I thought my spine might snap. My hand clamped tight around the base of my cock as it exploded—gushing thick, hot ropes of cum into the copper bowl beneath me. It splattered with lewd, wet sounds—each jet bigger than the last, like I was pumping out my entire self with it.

My body spasmed. My thighs jerked. My toes curled so hard they cramped.

The pleasure was beyond words. It wasn’t orgasm—it was rapture. A total-body unmaking. I wasn’t cumming—I was dying, burning, being reborn through my own cock, one blinding, howling spurt at a time.

My vision whitewashed. My ears rang. I heard myself sobbing—loud, desperate sobs of pure sensation, overwhelmed by the intensity of it. I couldn’t stop shaking. My balls felt like they’d emptied everything I’d ever been. My chest heaved. My fingers trembled.

Cum dripped steadily from the tip of my still-twitching cock, stringing down into the bowl like the last drops of a spell finishing itself.

The mirror in front of me blurred.

Cum dripped steadily from the tip of my still-twitching cock, stringing down into the bowl like the last drops of a spell finishing itself.

My body stayed frozen—quivering, slick with sweat, my breath ragged and uneven.

My chest heaved.

My fingers trembled.

My whole world had gone silent except for the pounding in my ears and the echo of that raw, ragged scream still ringing in my throat.

The offering was done.

To be continued...