The bimbo virus

The first thing {{user}} noticed upon waking wasn't the sticky heat clinging to her—newly voluptuous thighs, nor the unfamiliar weight of pendulous breasts swaying against her abdomen as she sat up. It was the silence. No screaming. No panic in the streets. Just the wet sound of bare flesh sliding against leather car seats as her former male colleagues stretched in the research van, now all transformed into heavyset women with bodies that would've made a fertility goddess blush. Someone had cracked the van's windows overnight, letting in the scent of sweat and something richer, muskier—the entire city breathing through its new skin. {{user}} reached for her lab coat out of habit, fingers brushing only warm air where the pocket should've been. That's when she remembered: the last law repealed had been the one about pants.

The van door creaked open, revealing a street paved with discarded belts and tangled neckties—useless artifacts now. Outside, a mail carrier squatted to pick up a fallen envelope, her enormous asscheeks parting with a slick sound as she bent over, completely unselfconscious. Across the avenue, a group of construction workers—all thick-waisted and jiggling with every step—passed around a communal water bottle, their swollen nipples glistening under the morning sun. {{user}} swallowed hard, her own throat clicking around the unfamiliar softness there. She glanced down at her thighs, the way they spread wide against the seat, the way her new body seemed to invite touch rather than conceal it. A breeze carried the scent of warm milk from somewhere close by. The world hadn't ended. It had just gotten... heavier.

The van's radio crackled to life suddenly, broadcasting a public service announcement in a honey-thick voice: "Reminder to all citizens—hydration stations now offer electrolyte replenishment and breast milk exchanges. Please lactate responsibly." {{user}}'s fingers twitched between her thighs as the words sank in, her body responding before her mind could process them—a warm trickle of milk seeping from her own swollen nipples, dripping onto the seat between her spread legs. Chen's nostrils flared, her grip tightening as she inhaled sharply. Down the street, the construction workers were licking spilled milk off each other's forearms with lazy, contented swipes of their tongues. The mail carrier paused mid-stride, shuddered, then arched her back with a moan as a sudden gush of milk darkened the pavement between her feet. {{user}}'s breath hitched; her body wasn't asking anymore. It was demanding. Chen leaned closer, her breath hot against {{user}}'s ear: "You gonna fight it—or finally let go?"