The rain falls like a hail of icy bullets, each drop a leathery splatter on the umbrella that’s the only thing sparing you from the deluge. The bare concrete beneath your feet is slick with water, the bottom hem of your pajamas damp from the splashing of rain on the sidewalk.

The skyline of the city extends to the horizon, grey and lifeless, blurring at the edges of your vision as if it isn’t truly there. The only splash of color in the monochrome world is the hot pink glow of the neon sign above the door—and its reflection from just about every rain-slicked surface in your vicinity.

It turns out the only thing you need to receive the Pink Fairy’s grace is a fantasy firmly rooted in the core of your being—and the balls to really, truly wish for it. But perhaps it would have been wiser to come better prepared. It’s not that the Sídhe despise fence-sitters, it’s just the equivalent of painting a target on your back.

Your breath hitches as you push open the door to the sex shop that shouldn’t exist. The bell jingles as you enter. Suddenly, your clothes are dry, your umbrella is gone, and the rain that should have been pounding on the windows is silent.

The shopkeeper looks up, the corner of his mouth curling in a little smirk. “Hello,” he says, patting the counter in front of him twice, sending faint sparks of shimmering magic spinning into the air with each tap.

Your feet bear you to the counter before you can make the conscious effort to do it yourself. “So… What are you having today?” says the shopkeeper as you’re brought to stand in front of him.

You think for a moment. It’s tough. Both choices have their pros and cons and you haven’t had nearly enough time to weigh one against the other. And yet, it seems you’re already out of time.

“Ah,” says the shopkeeper, “I see.” He cuts you off before you can speak. All you were going to ask for was more time, but he doesn’t seem interested in that.

The shopkeeper reaches across the counter and catches you by the chin. He looks you in the eye and you find it unsettling how his gaze seems to burn into your soul. You want to look away, but you can’t, every muscle in your body paralyzed as his gaze bores into the core of your very being.

You’re just as powerless when he comes around the side of the counter and places a hand on your shoulder. He walks you over to a stool in the corner of the shop. He sits you down and walks off, muttering under his breath about indecisive people. Somehow, you sense a hint of pity in his voice.

The shopkeeper returns with a snapback. He regards you with a cool, level look. “This is what the boss told me to use,” he says with a small smirk. So much for the pity you think you heard before.

“W-what’s the price?” you ask, stumbling over your words now that you have the chance to use them. “I heard there’s always a price.”

The shopkeeper laughs. “Don’t you worry about it,” he says, an almost sadistic glee in the way he says it. “By the time that I’m done with you, you won’t be able to worry about it anyway.”

Weird. Cryptic. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s not like you can ask. If anything, you’ll probably just end up more confused.

There’s a part of you that’s anxious about this whole thing. Maybe you’ve made a mistake coming here. Not that you remember making a conscious choice to seek this place out.

This place reeks of powers far beyond your ken. You know you’ve gotten involved with people you can’t even begin to comprehend. But if there’s one thing you know about the Pink Fairy, it’s that you’re guaranteed to come away satisfied.

You don’t fight when the shopkeeper comes up beside you and places the snapback on your head. It’s backward—of course. You wanted to be either a jock or a twunk, not a rich old man with nothing better to do than golf.

The moment the cap touches your head, you feel a wave of change wash over you. Your clothes are the first to go, practically sublimating off your skin, leaving you in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs that grow smaller, tighter, and if you’re being entirely honest, sexier.

The fabric makes your skin tingle as it retreats up your legs. The way it hugs your thighs makes your cock twitch. One moment you’re in standard briefs, then fashion briefs, then bikini briefs. By the end of it, you’re in a jock, your package cupped snugly by the pouch, your nonexistent ass framed by the straps, and your hole tickled by the cool air.

You’ve barely gotten used to your new underwear when you feel your body swell. Your muscles grow, bulging out with new mass. You can’t help but hold your arms up, your biceps now round and firm in a way they never were before.

Your chest swells into a respectable pair of pecs, with the faint hint of a ridge right down the middle. Your nipples tingle in the air, the hard nubs growing stiff as you squeeze your newfound biceps.

Your lats expand, your obliques ripple, and right in the middle, your abs grow in for the first time in your life, a tightly packed set of granite blocks that could grind a rock to dust if you tensed them.

A delicious set of Adonis lines draw the gaze lower, the waistband of your jock now pulled tight against the contours of your now-honed musculature. Those cum gutters point straight at your bulge, which only seems to grow larger with every twitch, filling the pouch of your jock near to bursting.

Rock-hard thighs push that juicy bulge up—at least until you ease your legs apart and push your hips out. A nearby mirror lets you see what you’ve become and you can’t help but suck a breath in through gritted teeth.

You look hot. Filthy hot. You don’t have the physique of a Greek god, but you look incredible all the same. You’re more defined than ever before, and not for lack of trying. Going to the gym is an ordeal, and sticking to a diet is torture.

Now, it looks like you’ve spent every day of your life worshiping at the altar of pumping iron and eating for your body. You adjust your cap and suddenly pain lances through your skull. Suddenly, the idea that you constantly cheat on your diet plans and miss days at the gym seems a laughable, outlandish idea. You’ve lived healthy all your life, focusing each and every day on building the body of your dreams.

You rub your package through the pouch of your jock and groan as a fog descends over your mind. Your brain struggles to catch up, your thoughts getting snagged in the pleasant haze, slowed to a crawl.

The harder it gets to think, the less inclined you are to think. In the back of your mind, you try to tell yourself that it shouldn’t be this way, but it doesn’t take long for that voice to dwindle.

You chuckle dumbly to yourself as your thoughts scatter into static, memories and knowledge flitting away and forever out of reach. Your brain empties of any semblance of intelligence and instead of being alarmed, you feel indescribably aroused.

“Good boy,” says the shopkeeper, patting you on top of the head as you stare off blankly into the distance. Your eyes glaze over. Your body burns up with arousal. Your shoulders slouch forward, your body hunching over at the waist. A low groan spills from your lips as your cock throbs, barely contained in the pouch of your jock.

Drool trickles from the corner of your mouth and you lose your balance, pitching forward off the stool. You awaken with a jolt and a moment of clarity just long enough for you to comprehend what you’ve done—what has happened.

And then, the magic catches up to you. Your body explodes into the perfect twunk form you achieved during your dream, and the shockwave that follows washes over your room, altering the very fabric of reality itself.

You moan quietly to yourself as you fall to your hands and knees on the floor. You reach around behind you, plunging fingers into your hungry hole as new memories slam into your head, pushing out the old.

Your memories of hours spent at work become memories of workouts at the gym and hours in front of the camera, showing off your body for the rest of the world to see. Memories of pining after guys way out of your league turn into memories of being fucked in every conceivable position, on every conceivable surface, in every conceivable location.

You moan again, this time loudly as your fingers graze your prostate. This time, someone answers your wanton call. A man walks in, chuckling as he grins down at you and calls you a good little bitch.

You can’t care less how he calls you, or how demeaning his tone is. The only thing that draws your attention is the huge dick swinging between his legs. You want it. You need it. You crave it.

You crawl over to the man. You don’t even know his name. But it doesn’t matter. You present your ass, arching your spine to push your hips into the air. As enticing as your body is now, it doesn’t take long for him to indulge your hungry hole.

As his cock slides into your eager entrance, you realize that you might not know his name, but you most certainly know his cock. And as he slams his pelvis into yours, crushing your prostate with every brutal thrust of his cock, he fucks the very last dregs of your old life, and what little intelligence remains in your empty head, into oblivion.

Not that you mind. You are in ecstasy as his big, fat cock sweeps you away in a current of overwhelming, mind-numbing bliss.