Jerked into Her (TG Story) - Part 1

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/1_dCwTglfW9U9Gpwz9kqXXqaf-BespPRf/view?usp=drive_link

First Part

I never understood why people said it was easy being a guy.

They’d say it with that tired confidence, like a truth baked into biology. “You’ve got it lucky,” they'd insist. “You can come whenever you want. No strings attached. No risk of pregnancy. No one’s judging you for being horny.” And I guess, on paper, that all sounded true. I could jerk off three times a day, cum all over my belly, and sleep like a rock. I had no curfew, no pills to remember, no creeps watching me when I walked home alone. I was nineteen, healthy, technically free. My body was mine.

And I fucking hated it.

See, the thing they never talk about is how empty it can be. How mechanical, how unsatisfying, how pathetically unfulfilling it is to pump into your hand like a sad animal and pretend you’re scratching some primal itch. It’s not sex. It’s not even close. It’s barely even relief. It’s a dog chasing a shadow. You edge yourself until your balls are tight and blue, maybe fire off one half-decent load, and then sit there in your crusty boxers, mind spinning, heart still dry. Alone again. Horny again.

Always.

I couldn’t stop thinking about women. Not just in the way most teenage boys do, though God knows I had a whole gallery of downloaded porn that could crash a server. I was obsessed—fixated—on everything about them. The way they moved. The curve of their waists. Their mouths. Their clothes. But more than anything: the power they had.

It wasn’t even about beauty. It was about desire. They could walk into a room and own it. A glance, a flick of hair, a smirk. Eyes followed. Attention melted toward them like iron toward a magnet. People wanted them. Men ached to touch them. And more than that, women—some women—could feel it. They absorbed it. The pleasure wasn’t just physical—it was social, psychological, primal. A kind of ecstasy I couldn’t even begin to understand.

And that killed me.

Not because I hated them. Not even because I envied them.

Because I wanted to know. I needed to feel what they felt.

What did it feel like to have that kind of skin, that kind of heat, to be soft and curved and wet? What did it feel like to touch yourself down there and discover not shame, not pressure—but pleasure that bloomed, rolled, dragged you under like a wave?

I’d lay in bed at night, sweating under my sheets, cock aching, whispering the question like a secret spell:

What does it feel like to be a woman?

Not in some abstract political sense. Not in the sense of clothes or pronouns or pronouncements. I wanted to fuck like a woman. To come like a woman. To be touched as a woman. I wanted to know what it was like to be the one taken, devoured, adored. I wanted to be pinned down by someone who couldn’t get enough of me. I wanted to be a trembling mess of moans, body slick and begging, losing count of orgasms because fuck, there were so many.

I’d edge myself to these fantasies, sometimes ashamed, sometimes exhilarated, sometimes both. Sometimes I’d press a finger down between my legs and pretend it was a slit, a wet, hot little pussy just waiting to be licked. I’d imagine what my thighs would look like, wide and trembling. How I’d smell. How I’d taste. How I’d sound when I screamed.

I wasn’t trans. At least… I didn’t think I was. I didn’t want to be a woman forever. I just wanted to borrow the experience. Just for one night. One night of real sex, real moaning, real pleasure—as her. And when it was done, I’d go back. I’d jerk off with a grin on my face for the rest of my life knowing exactly what the other side felt like.

But that wasn’t possible, right?

That was the kind of thing you thought about in the dark, whispered into pillows, buried deep in browser history and reddit threads no one should ever see.

Except… one day, I found something.

It started as a meme. A post on some NSFW occult board. Some horny witch girl half-joking about a “sex change curse” you could cast on yourself, like a potion bottle full of estrogen and bad decisions. The comments were flooded with trolls and creeps, but one caught my eye. Long. Precise. Way too well-written for a shitpost.

It described a ritual.

Not surgery. Not pills. A ritual. Old, hidden, primal. The kind that doesn’t ask the universe—it forces it.

“This is not for the faint of heart,” the post warned.
“You must want it. Need it. Crave the feminine truth beneath your skin.”

My heart raced. I screenshot everything. Saved it in five different folders. Read it over and over again like a teenager discovering porn for the first time.

The instructions were bizarre. Candles. A copper bowl. Your own semen. A sigil drawn with red lipstick and sweat. A chant spoken at the edge of climax. One single moment of absolute surrender.

It sounded like bullshit.

But it also sounded like hope.

And as I sat there, hard, frustrated, and breathless, the hunger in my chest whispered:

What if it’s real?

I didn’t tell anyone, of course.

How could I?

What was I supposed to say—“Hey man, sometimes I imagine having big tits and a dripping wet pussy so you can bend me over the couch and rail me senseless”? Yeah. That would go well. Especially with them—my friends. My bros. The same assholes I played games with, worked out with, joked about girls with. Guys who, despite their stupid jokes and shitty advice, were hot. Hot in the dumb, sweaty, effortless way that made me want to scream.

I never used to see them that way. Or maybe I did and just buried it. But lately… I’d watch them move—arms bulging, shirts clinging to their chests, sweat glistening on their necks—and I’d wonder.

What would it feel like to have them want me?

Not Eli. Not the quiet, awkward, jerk-off-in-the-dark guy they barely noticed.

No. Her.

The woman I dreamed about being.

She wasn’t just hot—she was irresistible. Tall, with thick thighs and wide hips that swayed with every step. Her waist narrow, just enough to make her ass look obscene. Her tits? Huge. Heavy. Jiggling with every breath. Perfect targets to grab, squeeze, fuck. Her skin soft, flushed, needy. Her voice—my voice—breathy, whimpering, drenched in want. And that pussy. Fuck. That aching, clenching, dripping pussy that begged to be filled. A heat between her legs that pulsed with every heartbeat.

And in my fantasy, I’d walk into the room—dressed in something tight, short, scandalous. And they’d freeze. My friends. Jason, thick and tall with that stupid perfect jaw. Mark, with arms that could crush watermelons. Evan, the quiet one, whose eyes lingered too long sometimes. They’d stare like I was a dream. Their mouths would hang open. Their cocks would get hard.

And I’d smile.

Because they didn’t know it was me.

They didn’t know that beneath the bouncy tits and pouty lips and fuck-me eyes was the same guy they never noticed.

And I’d let them touch me.

No—I’d make them touch me.

I'd crawl into Jason’s lap and grind against him like a bitch in heat, moaning into his ear, feeling his thick cock pressing up through his jeans. I’d straddle Mark, whisper filthy things as his hands explored my curves, testing the weight of my tits, his breath ragged. I’d guide Evan’s hand between my legs, whimpering as his fingers brushed over my slit, feeling how soaked I already was.

I’d be dripping. Desperate.

And when one of them finally lost control—when one of them bent me over, spread me wide, and slid inside—I’d scream.

Not from pain.

From relief.

Because it would be real. I’d finally know. I’d feel everything. Every inch stretching me, every pulse deep inside, every thrust making my tits bounce and my brain melt. I'd come over and over, sobbing into the sheets, overwhelmed by the pleasure and the madness of it all.

Used. Fucked. Desired.

And I’d love every second of it.

I’d be their fantasy. Their hole. Their obsession.

And they’d never know it was me.

God, the thought made me so fucking hard it hurt.

I remember lying there, panting in the dark, hand slick with cum, the sheets damp beneath me, thinking:

“If I could do it… just once… I would. I’d give anything.”

And I meant it.

I meant it so hard it terrified me.

Which is why when I saw that ritual again—when I scrolled back through the screenshots and felt that old hunger twist in my gut—I didn’t laugh this time.

I started collecting the ingredients.

I told myself I wasn’t serious.

That it was just for the thrill. Just some edgy little kink spiral I’d ride until I came and then laugh it off, delete everything, and move on.

But that was a lie.

Because the more I thought about it—the more I let myself think about it—the more I realized just how far I’d fallen. This wasn’t some passing fetish anymore. This wasn’t just some one-handed curiosity about what a girl’s orgasm felt like. This was… need. Filthy, aching, maddening need.

And it had teeth.

Every fantasy kept getting worse—or maybe better. More detailed. More depraved.

It wasn’t enough to just be a woman anymore. I wanted to be transformed into one. Violently. Sensually. Irrevocably. I wanted to feel my bones crack and hips swell. I wanted to moan as my cock shrank, as my balls pulled up inside me and melted into heat and wetness. I wanted my nipples to grow so sensitive I could cry just from brushing them. I wanted to look down and watch—watch my waist pull in, my ass bloat out, my chest swell with weight and milk and sin. I wanted to lose myself. I wanted to come from it. Come during it.

I didn’t want a sex change.

I wanted a curse.

Something ancient. Unholy. Something that knew exactly what kind of sick little freak I was and would punish me by making me everything I wanted to fuck.

And not just beautiful—slutty. Outrageously sexual. Built to tempt. To be bred. To be used. The kind of girl guys whisper about in locker rooms and dream about in the shower. A body made for lust. A mind too wet to think straight.

And the more I fed those thoughts, the more real the ritual began to feel.

The list of ingredients wasn’t long, but it was… weird.

• A copper bowl.

• A stick of black opium incense.

• Five white candles placed in a circle.

• Red lipstick for drawing the sigil.

• A mirror—“to witness the Self.”

• A vial of one’s own semen. Fresh. Warm.

That last one nearly made me close the tab.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I imagined it.

Imagined sitting in the middle of the circle, naked, hard, trembling—stroking myself until I spilled into the bowl, panting, breathless, full of shame and hunger and anticipation. Imagined whispering the chant with cum still wet on my fingers, my soul on the edge of something monstrous and divine.

I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.

And so I started gathering the items.

First came the candles—plain white tapers, bought from a dusty little occult shop downtown. The woman behind the counter looked like she hadn’t blinked in three hours. I felt her eyes crawl down my arms as she slid them into the bag.

Next was the copper bowl. I found it at a thrift store, shoved between old cookware and dusty Halloween decorations. It was heavy. Cold. It felt wrong in my hands. Like it knew what I was going to do with it.

The opium incense was harder. Had to order it from some sketchy corner of the internet. The package arrived with no return address. The stick inside was black and brittle, smelling like smoke and honey and something else—something old.

The mirror I already had. A tall, standing one in my bedroom, just wide enough to show my whole body.

The lipstick was stolen. I swiped it from my mom’s bathroom like some twisted teenage cliché. Red. Deep. The color of sin.

And finally, there was me.

Or more specifically: what I had to give.

That last part made my stomach turn. The semen. It wasn’t even optional—the ritual demanded it. “Your seed, the vessel of your former self, must be offered at the moment of longing.”

It made sense, in a gross, spiritual kind of way. My entire identity—my manhood, my frustration, my obsession—it all started with that ache in my balls. With the need to come. To release. To know. So of course the ritual needed it. My cum was me. All the years of jerking off alone, of watching porn with burning jealousy, of whispering “I wish I could be her” while unloading onto my stomach—it all led to this.

So I started planning.

I would clean my room. Dim the lights. Light the candles, draw the sigil, place the mirror. I’d undress slowly. I’d kneel in the circle. Stroke myself with shaking hands. Focus on the fantasy. The image of the woman I longed to be. The slut I dreamed of becoming. I'd hold it in my mind like a prayer—until I couldn’t hold it anymore.

And when I came—when the cum hit the bowl, warm and white and mine—I would chant.

And change.

Maybe it was all bullshit.

Some glorified internet roleplay mixed with cheap erotic horror and the right keywords to prey on a guy like me. Maybe I’d go through with the whole damn thing—light the candles, jerk into a bowl like some deranged pagan, chant gibberish in the dark—and nothing would happen. Just me, alone, humiliated, sitting in the silence of my own insanity with a puddle of cum in front of me.

But the thing is… I didn’t care.

Because what if it was real?

What if there was even a one-percent chance that I’d get what I wanted?

That I’d wake up in the body I’d been fantasizing about for years—not just any woman, but her: the woman I saw when I closed my eyes. The one I’d imagined crawling across my friends’ laps, straddling them, whispering filthy things into their ears as they lost control. A woman with hips that swayed like sin itself, with heavy tits that bounced with every breath, with a tight, needy cunt that dripped and clenched and ached for cock the moment it was real.

If the ritual worked—even once—I’d finally know what it was like.

And I’d use it.

God, I’d use it.

I wouldn’t even wait a day. I wouldn’t play coy. I wouldn’t hide it.

I’d march into the house where we always hung out, where the boys were lounging on the couch, half-stoned, talking shit, shirtless in the summer heat, always clueless. And they’d see me—this tall, thick-thighed, wet-mouthed bombshell walking in like I owned the place. Their heads would turn. Their eyes would widen. Their dicks would stir in their gym shorts, confused, curious, hungry.

And they wouldn’t know it was me.

That’s what made it so perfect.

They wouldn’t know it was Eli—the awkward virgin with sweaty palms and nothing to say. They’d just see her. The walking fantasy. The dream. The trap they’d never escape.

I’d start with Jason. Always cocky. Always loud. I’d sit on his lap, facing him, grind my new, thick ass down into his thighs and lean in until my tits pressed against his chest. I’d whisper something filthy like, “You looked like you needed something to play with.” And when he stammered, tried to laugh it off, I’d just grab his hand and force it under my top. Let him feel the weight of my tit. Let him discover that my nipple was already hard, already aching. And when he finally squeezed it—just right—I’d moan. Loud. Needful. So he’d know I meant it.

And while Jason was trying to figure out if this was a dream, I’d glance over my shoulder—catch Mark staring. Mark with the stupid six-pack, the guy who always bragged about how many girls he’d made squirt. I’d raise my hips slowly, peel down my panties just enough to show him. My dripping slit. Pink. Glimmering. Hairless. Hungry. I’d lock eyes with him and say, “Think you could do better with this?”

I’d dare him.

And he’d take the dare.

They’d both end up on me—Jason sucking my tits like a starving dog while Mark lined up behind me, pressing the thick head of his cock against my soaked pussy lips, teasing the entrance. I’d be bent over, moaning, hands on Jason’s shoulders, feeling his tongue swirl around my nipples as Mark finally slid in. Inch by inch. My eyes rolling back as I felt what I had always wanted to feel: that stretch, that fullness, that belonging.

And fuck, I’d scream.

I wouldn’t try to hide it. I’d let them hear it—the whimpering, the begging, the squeals as Mark railed me from behind while Jason twisted my nipples and fed me filthy praise. I’d cum again and again, losing track, soaking Mark’s cock and thighs, my body quivering from head to toe.

And just when I thought I was done, Evan would be watching from the corner. Quiet. Stiff. Face flushed, dick tenting his jeans. I’d crawl over to him on trembling limbs, licking my lips, tits swaying beneath me, and whisper, “Come on, Evan. You’ve always wondered what this pussy felt like, haven’t you?”

And I’d pull him out.

Wrap my new lips around his cock, tasting him, letting his moans shake my spine as I swallowed deeper than I thought possible. Then I’d straddle him. Lower myself slowly. Let him feel me inch by inch as my soaking heat swallowed him whole.

And once he was inside, I wouldn’t stop.

I’d ride him like I was made for it—because I would be. This wouldn’t be a costume. This wouldn’t be a trick.

I’d be the real thing.

A moaning, bouncing, dripping fuckdoll of a woman. Built from the inside out for pleasure. My pleasure. Theirs.

And when they came—one after the other, filling my cunt, painting my tits, drowning my throat—I’d smile.

Because I would’ve won.

I would’ve gotten everything I ever wanted.

And they’d never know they used to play video games with me on that same couch.

That’s why I had to do the ritual.

Even if it was fake. Even if it was the dumbest thing I’d ever done. Even if I ended up jerking off into a bowl of copper and candlelight and nothing ever happened.

Because if there was even the smallest chance that I could become her…

God help me, I’d risk anything.

It started creeping in during the quiet hours. The ones between midnight and dawn, when the world was still, and the air tasted thin, like something had gone missing from it. That’s when I felt her most. Felt myself, maybe. I’m not sure anymore where the lines are.

I’d sit in bed, the room lit only by the faint blue haze of my monitor, and I’d stare into the blackness of the screen long after it had gone idle—watching my reflection, barely visible, distorted by shadows. My face. My too-long nose. My scrawny neck. My boy body that had never once felt like home. And I’d imagine it sliding away like silk.

I’d imagine my lips puffing out into something kissable. My cheeks softening. My jaw rounding. I’d reach up and cup my chest with both hands, trying to feel what it might be like when the skin there stretched and bubbled, fat rising like a tide. I’d picture my nipples darkening, growing sensitive to the point of agony, until even breathing made them throb. I’d slip a hand under my waistband and pretend the tip of my cock was a clit—pressing and rubbing until the edges of thought started to fray.

I stopped watching porn.

I didn’t need it anymore.

I was my own fantasy now.

I had folders—god, so many folders—filled with AI-generated women I thought looked like how I might turn out. I’d scroll through them like a psychopath, muttering to myself, “Yes… those tits, but maybe a smaller waist… That ass. That face. That one looks like she’d ruin a man’s life.”

Sometimes I’d jerk off to the thought of just seeing myself like that. Looking in the mirror, after the ritual, watching my reflection twist and change in real time. My mouth falling open as my body swelled, reshaped, blossomed like a flower opening in reverse. Nipples first, fattening and darkening. Then tits, huge and round and sensitive—so sensitive they hurt to look at. My hands would be trembling as I gripped them, pinched them, tasted my own new moans as they escaped my lips in rising pitch. My voice, no longer mine—hers. Soft. Sultry. Whimpering.

Then my thighs. My hips. My hole.

My balls drawing up, melting into my pelvis, pulling a scream from my throat—not one of pain but of release. Of truth. My cock twitching one last time before it was gone forever—swallowed by the heat between my legs and replaced with something slick, swollen, soaked. A pussy built from fantasy. Mine. Wet without touch. Needy without shame. A bottomless pit of hunger begging to be filled.

Sometimes I’d cry after coming to it.

Not out of guilt.

Out of loss.

Because I knew I’d have to go back to being me. To this.

And each time I did, it felt worse.

It felt like climbing back into a cage after tasting freedom.

I stopped leaving my room. Friends would text and I’d leave them on read. They had no idea. No clue that every time I saw their names—Jason, Mark, Evan—I got hard. Not because I wanted to hang out. But because I imagined bending over in front of them. Spreading my legs on their lap. Licking the sweat off their necks and whispering, “Guess who I used to be.”

I wanted them to use me.

Not because they cared.

Because I didn’t.

I didn’t care about who I had been. I didn’t want to be loved. I didn’t want to be cherished. I didn’t even want to be respected.

I wanted to be fucked.

I wanted to be the kind of woman men ruined themselves for. The kind that got passed around, filled up, moaning as someone else’s cum dripped out of her while another cock pushed in. I wanted to feel my tits bouncing as they slammed into me from behind, their names blurring together as I begged for more with a smile on my lips and drool on my chin.

That’s who I wanted to be.

A monster. A slut. A goddess.

And all I had to do was give up… me.

Give up Eli. The failure. The virgin. The guy who never knew what it was like to be kissed with hunger, touched with reverence, stared at like salvation.

The guy who had nothing to lose.

The closer I got to the day I chose for the ritual, the more unhinged I became. I started sleeping less. Eating less. My hands shook. My skin tingled at random moments, as if my body knew something was coming. My dreams became soaked with her—flashes of thighs and tits and dripping pink flesh. Sometimes she’d fuck herself in the mirror while I watched from behind the glass. Sometimes she’d stare at me and whisper, “Let me out.”

One night I woke up grinding against my pillow, sweating through my sheets, moaning her name—my name—as if it was already mine.

And that was the moment I knew.

This wasn’t a fetish anymore.

This was possession.

I was being devoured from the inside out, consumed by the woman I wanted to be. Not just sexually. Existentially. She wasn’t a costume. She was a parasite. And I was begging her to take over.

The ritual became inevitable.

Like gravity.

Like drowning in pleasure.

And when I sat down that night—knees bare on the wooden floor, candles flickering, copper bowl in front of me, hand wrapped around my cock already slick with sweat and pre—I didn’t even hesitate.

Because even if it wasn’t real...

Even if nothing changed...

Even if I was left a sticky, broken mess in a circle of wax and shame…

It was worth it.

Because if it was real…

I’d never be him again.

To be continued...