I was just screwing around.
That’s the thing I always come back to when I think about how this all started. I didn’t make a deal with the devil. I didn’t get cursed by a witch. I wasn’t even drunk.
I was just… bored. Curious. Procrastinating my life like usual.
That’s when I found MorphX.
An unassuming little app with a pixelated logo, buried five pages deep in the app store under filters, body mods, and AI-generated avatars. The tagline?
“See the real you.”
I rolled my eyes, downloaded it anyway, and forgot about it for a week—until I was lying in bed, half-naked and eating cereal straight from the box. That’s when I snapped a selfie and opened the app.
It was honestly kind of fun. You upload your photo, then get sliders for everything—jawline, boobs, waist, hips, hair length, voice pitch, even stuff like fertility level (whatever that meant). It had all these pre-made presets labeled "College Girl," "Hot Mom," "CEO Baddie."
Naturally, I maxed out the boob slider first. Because of course I did.
Then I narrowed my waist, added some curves, changed the hair to a sleek blonde ponytail, adjusted skin tone, eyebrows, eyelashes... Until, after about twenty minutes of fiddling, the reflection on the screen wasn’t me anymore. It was some gorgeous, smirking, lightly flushed woman with full lips and a mischievous glint in her eyes.
She looked like someone you’d flirt with at a bar—and wake up next to the next morning, still tasting her on your lips.
I laughed, hit “Save,” and said out loud:
“Damn, she’s kinda hot.”
That’s when my phone glitched.
Like hard. It vibrated, buzzed, then made this deep, unnatural humming noise that I felt in my bones. My screen pulsed white, and suddenly I wasn’t holding the phone anymore.
I was holding myself.
But not myself as in me—I was holding my chest. My new, very real, very bouncy boobs.
“What the fuu—ooooh my god—” I gasped, stumbling backwards.
Everything felt wrong. Or rather, different. My center of gravity had shifted. My clothes hung awkwardly on my new frame. I had hips. I had butt. I had a voice that came out like a breathy whisper: high-pitched, startled, girly.
I ran to the mirror. Stared.
She stared back.
Same smirking expression. Same full lips. Same sleek ponytail.
Only now she was real. And she was me.
I tried everything to reverse it.
I reopened the app. No “Undo.” No “Revert.” Just a notification:
“Profile Saved Permanently. Welcome, Cassie.”
I hadn’t even named her Cassie. The app just did. Like it knew.
“Okay,” I breathed. “Okay okay okay. It’s fine. I just need to chill. I’m not stuck. This is temporary. Totally temporary. Right?”
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.
A week passed.
Then a month.
Eventually… I gave up. I bought clothes that fit. Got used to tampons (ugh). Figured out how to do makeup from YouTube. Learned how to walk without my boobs bouncing like crazy.
I started saying my name was Cassie. I even started to like it.
I had curves. A swaying, hourglass figure that turned heads in yoga pants. And god help me, the attention was addictive.
Guys held doors open. Girls complimented my hair. Even the barista gave me free coffee.
“Being a woman is wild,” I muttered one day while looking at my reflection. “I’ve got big ol’ milk machines for boobs and a metabolism that hates me… and I still look hot.”
About six months in, I ran into Nathan.
As in my old best friend. The guy I used to play co-op with until 4 a.m., who knew every dumb thing I’d ever said, who once saw me eat an entire pizza in one sitting.
He didn’t recognize me.
Why would he?
To him, I was just some cute blonde who looked vaguely familiar. He bought me a drink. We started talking. I laughed at his jokes.
And for reasons I still can’t explain… I didn’t tell him.
We hit it off.
One drink turned into dinner. Then coffee. Then hanging out at his place. Then, finally, the moment I realized I was fully, completely, and catastrophically screwed:
He kissed me.
And I liked it.
The first time we had sex, I thought I was going to explode.
I was straddling him, fingers digging into his shoulders as I eased down slowly—so slowly—onto him.
My mouth fell open.
“Ohhh—fuck—Nathan…”
He filled me in a way nothing ever had before. Deep and thick and stretching me just right. My breasts bounced with every motion, my nipples hard and aching as I rode him harder, faster, moaning louder than I meant to.
“Yes—yes—don’t stop—ohhh god—!”
My whole body trembled, sweat dripping between my breasts, waves of pleasure crashing over me like a storm. When I came, I screamed. Thighs shaking, hands tangled in his hair, every nerve ending on fire.
“So that’s what it feels like,” I gasped afterward, lying against his chest. “I’ve been living a lie.”
After that… I was hooked.
I wanted it again. And again. And again.
I started hooking up with random guys. Just to feel it. Just to be filled, stretched, pinned down and kissed like I was needed. I even joked once in the mirror:
“Cassie, you used to be a dude with commitment issues. Now you’re a girl with a vibrator and three unread DMs.”
But none of them were Nathan.
With him, it felt real.
We became friends-with-benefits. Regularly. Passionately. Secretly. One night I moaned his name so loud I swear the neighbors clapped.
And then came that night.
I was riding him again, back arched, hands gripping his knees.
He was deeper than ever, hitting that spot that made my eyes roll back.
I bounced faster, my thighs burning, my breasts bouncing wildly with every thrust.
“Mmmmh—Nathan—yes—don’t stop—right there—ohhh fuck—!”
He groaned, holding my waist, pumping into me hard as I gasped and came again—shuddering, soaked, mouth open in a silent scream.
But then—
“Oh shit—Cass— I think—"
Warmth.
Deep. Sudden. Real.
My eyes flew open.
“…Nathan,” I whispered, panting. “Did you just—?”
“The condom,” he said breathlessly. “It… broke.”
We both stared at each other.
Then I looked down at my soaked thighs, the wet heat still spreading inside me.
“…Well,” I muttered. “Guess someone just installed baby-making DLC.”
Two weeks later. Two pink lines.
Pregnant.
I sat on the toilet, holding the test, mouth hanging open.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s review.”
“I downloaded a funny app. I slid some sliders. I turned into a hot girl. I banged my best friend—a lot. And now… I’m pregnant.”
I touched my flat belly and laughed softly.
“You know, I really just wanted to mess with a funny app…”
And then I grinned.
“…But now I’ve got a baby in my belly, big ol’ milk machines for boobs, and a boyfriend who accidentally knocked up his best friend.”
“Plot twist of the year.”
30 weeks later…
That’s the photo Nathan took of me—standing barefoot in the hallway, belly huge under my striped maternity dress, smiling like I don’t have a care in the world.
Except… I do.
I’ve got his baby inside me.
He still doesn’t know who I used to be.
And honestly? I don’t even know if I am that person anymore.
I’m Cassie. I’m pregnant. I’m in love.
And every time this baby kicks, I whisper the same thing:
“It started as a joke.
Now it’s the best accident I ever had.”
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