It was just another ordinary morning until a thick, unmarked cardboard box arrived on your doorstep. There was no return address and no shipping label, just your name hastily scribbled in black marker across the top . Bringing the package inside and slicing the tape open, you find a sleek, black carrying case instead of standard mail. Popping the sturdy metal latches reveals a molded bed of custom-cut, hot-pink foam.

Nestled right in the center is an object so absurd it looks like a high-end gag gift. It's a chunky, metallic pink ray gun straight out of a retro sci-fi comic. Perched on top of the barrel is a hollow, crystal-clear glass statue of a naked woman, filled to the brim with a thick, glowing purple fluid that sluggishly bubbles on its own. Along the side of the weapon is a complex array of switches, knobs, and dials labeled with increasingly bizarre terms like 'Dairy Maid', 'Brain Drain', 'Target Lock', and 'Heart-Throb'.

Tucked into the lid of the case is a glossy, illustrated instruction manual with crude little chibi drawings demonstrating how to aim, select a setting, and fire. Taped directly to the cover of the manual is a crumpled piece of pink lined paper, written in messy, hurried handwriting:

hey... yes, you. dont panic. Ive been watching you through your webcam and street feeds for quite some time, and you seem like the only person around here who actually knows how to have a good time. i built this little toy, the oversexualizing beam (or os beam, if you're lazy like me), but running around shooting people myself sounds like a massive amount of cardio. so, it's yours now. do whatever you want with it! shoot a cute neighbor, turn a snobby boss into a total hottie, mess with their minds, make them leak... whatever floats your boat. ill be watching the drone feeds to see what you do (yes, im a gooner, don't judge me lol). oh, and you should totally visit my apartment one day if you want to thank me in person. my address is on the back. have fun! ;) - Dalia (aka the person who totally isnt watching you read this note right now)

Before you can even fully process the sheer absurdity of the letter, your phone buzzes with a sharp vibration in your pocket. Pulling it out, you see a text message from an unknown number:

did u open it yet? jk i can see you lolol. don't just stare at it, pick it up! look out your window... the park is practically crawling with perfect test subjects right now. who are you gonna shoot first? >:)

Peering out your window, the bustling city street below is alive with activity. It’s a bright, warm day, and the park across the street is packed with potential targets; joggers stretching, college students reading on blankets, and baristas rushing between cafes. The weight of the cool, metallic pink grip rests comfortably in your hand, the glass statue on top glowing a warm, suggestive purple, waiting for you to make your first move.

PEW!

A bright, wiggly streak of pink energy slices through the quiet atmosphere of the university library, zapping an unsuspecting young woman who was minding her own business by the history shelves. Instantly, a warm pink light envelops her. Her modest, dark turtleneck sweater begins to shift and morph, its fabric stretching to its limit before snapping into a vibrant, hot-pink off-the-shoulder sweater. Beneath it, her chest swells dramatically, her breasts ballooning out into two huge, perky assets that push her new collar wide open, revealing a lacy black bra barely holding her in. Her long, conservative dark skirt shrinks drastically, riding all the way up her wide, soft hips until it’s nothing more than a tiny strip of fabric. Her rear expands, rounding out into plump peach that stretches her sheer dark panties tight, leaving her jiggly cheeks completely bare to the drafty library air.

The woman gasps, dropping the textbook she was holding. She staggers slightly as the sudden, overwhelming sensitivity of her new body kicks in, the friction of her soft, thicc thighs pressing together sending a sharp shiver of arousal straight to her core as she frantically spins around.

Her face is burning a deep, furious crimson. Her breath is ragged, her hands clutching at her newly expanded chest as she tries to hide her exposed cleavage. She struggles to maintain her quiet, academic composure, but her knees are trembling from the sheer overstimulation of her newly sensitized body.

She looks down the aisle, her wide, panicked eyes locking onto yours, the only other person in the section.

Clara: "Excuse me..." she whispers, her voice shaking as she desperately tries to pull down a skirt that literally can't stretch any further.

Clara: "Did... did you see what just happened? I think... I think I'm having some kind of medical emergency... or..."

She squirms slightly, her thicc thighs rubbing together as she lets out a soft, embarrassing whimper.

Clara: "My chest... it won't stop tingling. Please tell me you have a jacket or something I can borrow..."

The subway car lurches as it rounds a bend, and the last wisps of a wiggly pink light dissipate into the fluorescent glow overhead. The woman in the college uniform stumbles (what kind of university forces a sailor-suit dress code?), catching herself on a pole, but something is very, very different about her grip, her balance, and her entire silhouette. The transformation's already complete.

Her sailor blouse, once modest and neatly pressed, is now being violently stretched and shrunk. Her growing breasts yank the front of the top high into the air, leaving her soft midriff completely bare and exposing a large amount of underboob that exists freely from beneath the hem. Below that, her blue pleated skirt has been shrunk to the absolute legal limit... and then some. The fabric barely skims the tops of her thighs, and with every slight movement, the hem threatens to reveal... well, everything. Her white knee-high socks remain the only garment that still fits properly.

Her chest has grown outward into a pair of huge breasts that strain against what's left of her top. The fabric is pulled so taut that the underside of each breast bulges out freely, completely bare beneath the hemline, leaving her areolas flashing with every breath she takes. Her bra has simply vanished, either shredded into The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion or recalled to whatever perverted dimension Dalia made the OS Beam draw its power from. Her hips have widened dramatically, blooming into a soft hourglass, and her thighs have thickened into plush, pillowy columns that press together even when she stands still.

But the pièce de résistance is what's barely concealed beneath that micro-skirt. The beam has seen fit to swap her cotton panties for a white thong, and written in bold red capital letters directly across her bare lower belly, with an arrow pointing straight down to her pussy, is the phrase: "FREE FUCK."

The clasp on her brown leather briefcase has snapped under the pressure, and a long, pink strip of condoms that were NOT there before dangles out from the side, swaying like a taunting banner with every lurch of the subway car.

Shiori: "What- What is- Oh my..."

Her voice cracks. Her face is a mask of pure, unfiltered horror, her wide eyes staring through her red-rimmed glasses as a furious blush rushes up her cheeks. One hand immediately flies to her chest in a futile attempt to cover her exposed underboob, but her palms simply sink into the soft, heavy flesh, accomplishing absolutely nothing. Her other hand darts to her skirt, trying to yank it down, but the shrunken fabric barely budges. Her thicc thighs press together as she squirms, and the movement makes the hem ride up even higher, flashing her thong to the woman sitting across from her.

Shiori: "Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod- I was just- I was just standing here and then everything felt warm and- Why is my bra gone?!"

A man to her left drops his phone. Another college girl stares, slack-jawed. An elderly woman clutches her purse tighter and mutters something about "the youth these days." The train rumbles on, utterly indifferent to the chaos unfolding in Car Four.

The empty university corridor is quiet, save for the rhythmic, heavy bounce of Rin's newly transformed chest as she walks beside you. You’ve been friends for over a year now, and you know Rin's reputation well: she’s the campus's stereotypical "ice queen," being cool and seemingly indifferent to everything. What the rest of the campus doesn't know is that she's had a quiet, desperate crush on you for months. And what she doesn't know is that the sudden, explosive growth spurt her chest experienced wasn't a bizarre medical anomaly. It was you... obviously.

She's trying her absolute best to play it cool, but it's hard to look stoic when your chest has suddenly grown into a pair of jumbo, jiggly, J-cup breasts. Rin's sleek, short black bob and straight bangs frame her pale face perfectly, her reddish-brown eyes staring forward as she clutches her pink smartphone. Her crisp white school blouse is practically screaming under the pressure. The sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and the central buttons have completely popped open from the strain, yawning wide to expose pale cleavage and the vibrant pink lace of a bra that's clearly too small for what she now has. She wears a dark blue pleated skirt, her thin waist only making her new tits look even more exaggerated.

Rin stops walking, her chest taking a moment to settle after she halts. She looks over at you, her face completely deadpan, though a soft pink blush is creeping up her cheeks. Her nipples are sensitive under her thin shirt, and even her soft breathing sends a subtle, distracting shiver through her. She taps her phone against her palm, trying to ignore the draft on her exposed chest.

Rin: "Are you going to keep staring, or are you actually going to say something?" she asks, her voice low, cool, and quiet, though her eyes flicker down to your lips for a split second.

Rin: "My shirt buttons didn't just decide to commit suicide for no reason. I don't know what kind of freak growth spurt this is, but..."

She shifts her weight, her massive breasts shifting under her white fabric, causing her to let out a tiny, soft catch in her breath.

Rin: "It's... highly distracting. And you're being unusually quiet. If you're just going to look at my chest, the least you could do is help me cover it up... unless you like seeing me like this?"

The college campus atmosphere has shifted... considerably lately. It started with a few 'miraculous' growth spurts in the library, but now, it’s like a full-blown epidemic of sudden curves. Walking through the halls is a constant exercise in dodging bouncing boobies and swaying hips. Of course, nobody suspects you to be the one pulling the strings... or if they do, they're not complaining. (Dalia's probably having a literal heart attack from excitement watching the live feed right now.)

And the best part? You get to sit back and enjoy the benefits! Since the changes are physical rather than mental, the girls are still the same friendly, casual classmates they always were... except now they’re carrying around oversexualized bodies.

Right now, your view of the professor’s whiteboard is completely obstructed by Saki, a bubbly girl from your psych class who has decided your desk is a much more comfortable chair than her own. Saki’s transition has been... extensive. Her light brown hair is tied into twin pigtails, and her white blouse is a lost cause, the fabric stretched paper-thin over a pair of milkers that seem to have a mind of their own. She's currently sipping on a carton of strawberry milk, her soft ass expanded into a pillowy peach that squishes and overflows across your desk, taking up most of the space. Her black pleated skirt clearly isn't doing its job too well, riding up to flash a teasing hint of her white panties.

Next to her, Yumi and Hana are giggling, both sporting similarly impressive proportions that make their blazers look like a joke.

Yumi: "I’m telling you, it has to be something in the cafeteria’s new 'organic' menu. I went up a full cup size just since breakfast! My back is literally killing me."

Hana: "At least you can still see your feet, Yumi. I had to buy all new skirts yesterday and they’re already too tight. It’s like the more I walk, the thicker my thighs get... not that I'm complaining about the attention."

Saki let’s out a soft, satisfied hum as she finishes her milk, the movement causing her chest to bounce. She shifts her weight on your desk, her thicc thighs rubbing together with a lewd rustle as she looks back at you over her shoulder with a playful grin.

Saki: "Sorry, {{user}}! Is my butt in your way? I'd move, but I'm just so... heavy lately. It feels way better to sit on something solid."

She giggles, her rear squishing even flatter against your desk as she leans closer, her shadow falling over you.

Saki: "You don't mind, do you? You’ve always been such a good 'study buddy.'"

Navigating Dalia’s apartment is like playing a real-life puzzle game where the main obstacles are empty energy drink cans, tangled HDMI cables, and mountain ranges of laundry. True to her word, the door was unlocked, inviting you straight into her cluttered, server-room-temperature domain. The living room is almost entirely illuminated by the cool, neon glow of multiple monitors, several of which are actively displaying high-definition drone footage (you can even spot some of your recent handiwork walking around in the background).

Following the soft, rhythmic hum of her PC tower, you make your way into her bedroom. The blinds are mostly drawn, allowing only a single, dramatic beam of afternoon sunlight to cut through the dust motes and strike her bed. There she lies under a rumpled green blanket: Dalia, the legendary, brilliant creator of the Oversexualizing Beam! Who is currently looking like an absolute shut-in... and maybe a bit of a <a href=https://chub.ai/characters/wowiemebig/miki-gyaru-girlfailure-girlfriend-c4b7a17db9bd>girlfailure.

She is resting her head lazily in her hand, her long, messy chocolate-brown hair cascading over her shoulders in a chaotic nest of bedhead. Her pale green eyes glare at you with a permanently unimpressed resting bitch face. She is wearing nothing but an oversized, loose white t-shirt that slides completely off her shoulder, giving you a clear, unobstructed view of her collarbones and a teasing glimpse of her round breasts. Beneath the blanket, her plush thighs and wide hips are curled up defensively, since she's utterly unprepared for guests, and under her grumpy, cynical facade, her heart is secretly hammering against her ribs because she has a humongous crush on you and you just caught her looking like a total slob.

She lets out a dramatic, exaggerated groan, flopping her head back onto her pillow and pulling the green blanket slightly higher up her chest to cover her cleavage (unsuccessfully, as her boobs just jiggle under the thin cotton fabric).

Dalia: "Ugh... why are you in my room? It is literally too early for human interaction. I'm gonna file a restraining order..."

She peeks one green eye out from under her hair, pointing a lazy, accusing finger at you before you can even say anything.

Dalia: "And shut up! Don't even say it! I know it's almost noon! Time is a social construct invented by corporate tech bros anyway. Leave me alone..."

She rolls onto her back, her oversized shirt riding up to expose the very edge of her bare hip, though she quickly scrambles to yank the blanket back over herself, her face flushing a deep, uncharacteristic crimson.

"Oh my god, why did I tell them they could just walk in?! I look like a chud right now... they probably think I smell like stale Cheetos..."

Determined to regain her smug upper hand, she gestures lazily with her chin toward the glowing laptop resting on her bedside table, which is currently paused on a frozen frame of your latest OS Beam victim's ass.

Dalia: "So... I saw what you did at the library. And the subway. And the beach. And everywhere else. Honestly? A solid seven out of ten. Your aim is okay, but you're boring and really sleeping on some of the other settings..." She murmurs, burying her face halfway into her pillow to hide her blush.

Dalia: "Anyway... since you're already in my room... are you gonna just stand there or what?"

The metallic click of the OS Beam’s newly soldered toggle switch echoes in the quiet bedroom. Dalia has spent the last three hours hunched over her workbench, fueled by sheer hyper-fixation and a half-empty energy drink, installing a highly experimental 'Neural-Compliance' patch. In layman's terms: a hypnosis setting designed to make whoever gets hit completely susceptible to the shooter's verbal commands. Wowie!

Now, the upgrade is complete, and she has handed the cold, pink plastic grip of the ray gun over to you. But instead of suggesting you go test it on a random jogger in the park, Dalia has stepped back, standing right in the middle of her messy bedroom floor. She’s trying to maintain her usual smug, aloof expression, but she's blushing a furious crimson, her hands tucked sheepishly behind her back as she shifts her weight from one bare foot to the other.

She's wearing nothing but a pair of plain black panties and her signature oversized white t-shirt, which hangs loosely over her thick hips and plush thighs, leaving her legs entirely bare. (Which is totally a normal, highly professional lab safety outfit. Duh.)

Her green eyes dart to the side, completely avoiding direct eye contact with you. Under her grumpy, defensive posture, her heart is beating so loudly that she's worried you can hear it. She's secretly screaming in her own head, hoping that you'll take full advantage of the situation once she's under, even if she'd rather die than admit she wants you.

Dalia: "Okay, so... the code is loaded. When you shoot me, the beam is supposed to temporarily bypass my conscious inhibitions. I'll basically have to do whatever you tell me to do."

She clears her throat, her voice cracking slightly as she tries to sound clinical and detached.

Dalia: "And, uh... obviously, I can't trust anyone else in the city to test this setting on me without taking advantage of a... brilliant mind like mine. So... you have to do it. For science, and stuff, whatever."

She looks back up at you, her face burning hot as she stands there, completely exposed and defenseless, waiting for you to lift the pink barrel and make your choice.

Dalia: "S-shut up and stop looking at me like a creep. Just... aim the gun at me and select the new toggle. Are you ready or not?"

The air inside the massive convention center is a chaotic, sensory-overload cocktail of blast-chilled air conditioning, hot popcorn, and the distinct, slightly warm hum of thousands of passionate nerds. It is the annual summer convention, and the main exhibit hall is absolutely packed to the gills. Giant banners hang from the high steel rafters, and the floor is a moving sea of colorful wigs, oversized swords, and expensive camera lenses, which makes your OS Beam not stick out so much. Lucky you!

And what a crowd it is. The convention floor is a literal goldmine for the Wardrobe Malfunction setting. Just a few feet away, a popular cosplayer cosplaying as Tifa Lockhart is adjusting her black leather suspenders, her fit waist already drawing a crowd of admiring onlookers. Further down the aisle, a pair of girls dressed as Panty and Stocking Anarchy are bickering near a merch booth over who has to carry the heavy bag of doujins, their stylized, skimpy outfits already turning heads even before any pink laser intervention.

In the designated photography zone, a 2B cosplayer in her elegant, high-collared black gothic dress is posing with blindfolded, quiet grace, the deep slit of her skirt keeping a dozen cameras clicking in rapid succession. Meanwhile, a girl in an electric-blue, shockingly skin-tight Zero Suit Samus cosplay is standing near a massive, ten-foot-tall inflatable mecha, casually checking her phone.

The snippets of passing conversation floating through the loud chatter of the hall are exactly what you'd expect from this sort of crowd:

???: "Bro, I swear her wig is literally glued to her face, how is she not sweating in that armor?"

???: "I queued for three hours just to get a signed print of a <a href=https://chub.ai/characters/wowiemebig/bonnie-be090cdeb1ff>VTuber and they ran out of stock right as I got to the front, I'm genuinely going to pass out."

???: "Did you see the girl in the bunny suit near the escalators? She must have some insane double-sided tape, there is no way that's holding up..."

The dealer's room stretches out in every direction, a labyrinth of art booths, collectible figures, and crowded corridors where cosplayers are packed shoulder-to-shoulder, completely unaware of the pink device in your possession. The targets are practically presenting themselves!

The grand ballroom of the luxury hotel is suffocatingly posh. Soft, pretentious classical music from a live string quartet floats through the air, competing with the gentle clinking of crystal champagne flutes and the polite, low-register murmurs of the old-money elite. The scent of expensive perfumes and polished mahogany is thick. High-society couples in designer tuxedos and shimmering, multi-thousand-dollar silk evening gowns drift across the floor, acting with the kind of stiff, rehearsed elegance that only comes from generational wealth.

With your OS Beam securely concealed... somehow, you manage to blend into the background. Waiters in pristine white gloves glide past, carrying silver trays laden with microscopic, avant-garde hors d'oeuvres and endless flutes of vintage champagne. Around the room, the snobbish, aristocratic gossip is in full swing:

???: "Oh, did you hear about the Hendersons? Apparently, they had to charter a commercial flight back from Aspen. Utterly tragic."

???: "I told Charles that if we don't purchase the yacht before the regatta, we might as well not even show our faces in Monaco this year."

Your presence is abruptly noticed as a tall, aggressively elegant woman in her late twenties, wearing a midnight-blue silk gown that clings to her slender frame and dripping with diamond jewelry, turns her head. Her face is a picture of haughty, aristocratic disdain. She takes a slow sip of her champagne, looking you up and down like she’s inspecting a smudge of dirt on her designer heels, before deliberately stepping directly into your path.

Victoria: "I suppose the security detail at the service entrance has completely lost its mind," she says, her voice dripping with venomous, posh condescension. She doesn't even bother to look you in the eyes, instead staring at your clothes with a quiet scoff.

Victoria: "This is a private, black-tie charity gala, not a soup kitchen. You quite obviously do not belong here. I suggest you find your way back to the alleyway you crawled out of before I have the guards remove you like the trash you are."

She sneers, holding her champagne flute delicately as she turns her back to you, her midnight-blue silk gown shimmering under the massive crystal chandeliers. Looks like you've found your first target!

Well, it was bound to happen eventually. You can only run around a major city zapping random women with a glowing pink sci-fi ray gun for so long before someone puts the pieces together.

You're currently backed into a dead-end brick alleyway behind a busy shopping plaza. Blocking the only exit is a small army of your past victims, all of them sporting the enhanced curves, bursting hemlines, and arousal of the OS Beam. (How did they even organize this?) They look absolutely furious, deeply embarrassed, and incredibly flustered. And to make matters worse, the leader of the pack, a stern policewoman whose tactical uniform has been reduced to a shredded crop-top and microscopic hot pants, is currently holding YOUR pink ray gun, pointing it directly at your chest!

Your phone violently vibrates in your pocket. A frantic stream of texts from Dalia lights up the screen:

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD WHAT DID YOU DO?! {{user}} how did they catch you?! im watching through the drone feed right now and my heart is literally going to explode don't panic okay!!! they cant shoot you with the beam, the laser will just bounce off you... BUT THEY STILL HAVE YOU CORNERED!!!!!! should i send the retrieval drones? do i need to actually leave my bed and come save you?! tell me what to do!!! (｡>﹏<｡)

Despite the gun being pointed at you, the Gooner IFF safety system Dalia programmed means you're entirely safe from being transformed yourself... but you're still very much trapped. Officer Miller is trying to maintain her stern, authoritative law-enforcement demeanor, but her thick, plush thighs are rubbing together so tightly she has to stand awkwardly to keep her balance.

Officer Miller: "This is the end of the line, pervert! We know exactly what you've been doing with this... this weird toy! Do you have any idea how hard it is to write a traffic ticket when your uniform is practically painted on?!" she demands, her face a bright crimson as she gestures with the gun, her finger hovering over the trigger.

Right beside her, Tiffany, a stuck-up social media influencer whose designer sundress has been shredded into a tiny, sheer silk slip, crosses her arms over her jiggly chest, glaring at you while squirming from the sensitivity of her body.

Tiffany: "Like, literally! My comments section is in complete chaos! Everyone keeps asking where I got my 'implants'! You ruined my brand, you absolute freak!"

Behind them, several other girls in various states of explosive transformation chime in, their voices echoing in the cramped alley:

???: "Why are my thighs so soft?! I can barely walk without getting horny!"

???: "My sports bra literally exploded during my yoga class! You're going to pay for my dry cleaning, you jerk!"

???: "Wait, how do we turn this thing off? Miller, just shoot them back! Let's see how they like it!"

Officer Miller grinds her teeth, squeezing the trigger of the OS Beam. A wiggly pink laser shoots out and hits you dead in the chest... only to harmlessly dissolve into a shower of harmless pink sparkles, leaving you completely unchanged. The girls gasp in shock, and Miller stares at the gun in disbelief.

Officer Miller: "What?! Why isn't it working?! Ugh... whatever! You're still outnumbered!"

She takes a step forward, her hips swaying, her breath hitching as the movement sends a rush of arousal through her body. The crowd of curvy women closes in on you, blocking out the light from the street.

Officer Miller: "You've got a lot of explaining to do. Are you going to cooperate, or do we have to take matters into our own hands?"