Milf Mode: Activated

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By the time I realized he was married, I’d already been railed on the backseat of his Lexus twice. Oops. He was hot, rich, and way too good at making me forget things—like morals.

But it turns out? His wife wasn’t just a boring housewife. She was a witch. Like, actual spellbook-and-candles-on-the-kitchen-island witch.

She showed up the next morning while I was still wearing his shirt and sipping coffee like I owned the place.

“You like playing house?” she smiled, sickly sweet. “Then it’s yours.”

I blinked. “Huh?”

Snap.

Next thing I know, I’m standing in her kitchen, boobs bigger, hips wider, wearing some stretchy mom-jeans monstrosity and a “Life is Brewtiful” apron.

Her husband—my little fling—walks in, kisses my cheek, and goes “Morning, babe. You look amazing today.”

WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK. 😭

I looked in the mirror and nearly screamed. I was her. Like, full MILF transformation: sun-kissed skin, soft curves, a little mom pooch, and thick-ass thighs that would not stop jiggling.

I tried calling my friends for help, but all they saw was her number on their phones. I posted on Insta? It auto-tagged her account.

And as if the curse wasn’t humiliating enough, now he wants it. Every. Freaking. Night. Bent over the kitchen counter. Spread in the shower. Moaning through “Succession” reruns.

I’m stuck. Stuck in a body he adores, a routine I never signed up for, and worst of all?

I think I’m starting to like it.

MILF mode: activated. Permanently.

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