Transformations by Ross

Tommy was a 29-year-old nobody, a lanky gas station clerk with a patchy beard and a life as exciting as day-old coffee. He lived in a shitty apartment in a nowhere town, jerking off to X porn and dreaming of pussy he’d never touch. But one night, after a double shift smelling like diesel and regret, everything changed. Stumbling home through an alley, he tripped over a gnarled wooden box half-buried in the dirt. It pulsed with a faint, violet glow, and when he pried it open, a voice like molten sin whispered in his head: “Take the gift, mortal. Your cock is now the sceptre of desire.”   Tommy laughed it off—probably just high on energy drinks—but when he got home and unzipped to piss, his dick was... different. Once a modest five-inches, it was now a thick, veiny beast, nine inches of glistening perfection, pulsing with that same violet glow. His balls hung heavy, tingling like they were charged with electricity. “What the fuck?” he muttered, gripping it. The second he touched it...

The Curse of the Crimson Lipstick Sandra was a 52-year-old divorcee, rocking that tired mom bod—saggy tits, stretch marks from two kids, and a face creased with laugh lines that hadn’t seen much action since her ex bailed. She wasn’t ugly, just... faded, like a Polaroid left in the sun too long. Living in a sleepy suburban cul-de-sac, her days were spent sipping cheap wine, scrolling X for spicy gossip, and dodging her nosy neighbor Karen’s book club invites. But one humid summer night, everything changed. Rummaging through a dusty thrift store for something to wear to Karen’s inevitable “wine and whine” night, Sandra found it: a tube of crimson lipstick, glossy and unopened, tucked inside a cracked velvet case. The shop clerk, a wiry old creep with eyes like oil slicks, grinned as she bought it. “Careful, doll,” he rasped, breath like stale cigarettes. “That shade’s got a hunger.” Sandra laughed it off—fuckin’ weirdo—but when she got home, curiosity got the better of her. Stand...