From Vince to Farrah Fuxx The Remote of Transformation chapter 4 by deleted_user

Vince’s meaty thumb hovered over the big red ACTIVATE button like it owed him money. “Fuck it,” he grunted, eyes flicking up to the wall where Farrah Fuxx—blonde centerfold legend with tits like beach balls, waist you could span with two hands, and an ass that defied several laws of physics—smiled down in glossy perfection. “Let’s see what this piece of shit actually—”

Click.

The remote didn’t beep. It didn’t flash. It just hummed once, low and dirty, like a vibrator on its last battery.

Then Vince’s entire 320-pound frame lit up from the inside like cheap fireworks. In under four seconds, the obese class-clown was gone.

In his place stood Farrah Fuxx’s exact duplicate: 5’4” of pure, walking wet-dream. A tiny pink crop top barely contained those massive tits. Micro denim shorts rode so high they showed the bottom curve of each ass cheek. The body was porn-perfect—tiny waist, flared hips, legs for days, skin sun-kissed and flawless.

Vince blinked. Once. Twice. Then looked down.

His new manicured hands shot up and grabbed two overflowing handfuls of titflesh, squeezing experimentally. The weight, the jiggle, the immediate nipple-hardening sensitivity made his new thighs clench.

“What the actual motherFUCK?!” Vince’s voice came out as a husky, breathy moan that even he didn’t expect. He stumbled back, ass bumping the wall. “I’m… I’m a fuckin’ centerfold! Look at these tits, bro! They’re huge! And my ass—Jesus Christ, I could crack walnuts with this thing!”

He spun toward the mirror. No dick. Just a smooth, sensitive slit that was already getting a little… interested. Vince’s face flushed crimson.

“I was just thinking about Farrah for half a second! This thing reads your goddamn mind?!” He glared at the remote now lying innocently on the coffee table, then poked one heavy breast again, watching it bounce. “Okay… okay this feels kinda… weirdly good. Fuck. I’m getting wet. That’s so gross. And hot. Mostly gross. A little hot.”

Paul sat frozen, highlighter snapped in half, mouth hanging open like a broken drawer.

Brandon, on the other hand, clapped both hands to his cheeks in pure theatrical delight, eyes sparkling. “Oh my God. Honey. Yes. The hair! The proportions! That waist-to-hip ratio is criminal. You look expensive.” He circled Vince slowly, admiring like a new pair of Louboutins. “We are burning every scrap of your old wardrobe. Immediately—” He wrinkled his nose as Vince absentmindedly rubbed his thighs together again, letting out a tiny involuntary whimper. “—if you start fingering yourself on my couch I’m charging rent for the wet spot, you absolute horndog.”

Vince shot him a glare that somehow looked adorable on Farrah’s face. “Fuck you, I’m processing! My balls are gone and I’ve got a fucking clit now. It’s tingling. Sue me if I’m a little curious.” He squeezed his tits again, harder this time, and bit his plump lower lip. “Shit… they’re sensitive…”

Paul finally found his voice, squeaking, “Vince—uh—dude? You okay? We can reverse it, right?”

Vince turned, blonde hair whipping dramatically, massive chest bouncing with the motion. He caught his reflection in the TV screen and stared, equal parts furious, disoriented, and shamefully turned on. One hand kept absentmindedly fondling a boob.