One Night in BangCock - A Cheater's Revenge

 
 

The bed shook with dull, rhythmic creaks, the headboard thudding against the wall in steady beats that had become as predictable as Brad's morning alarm. He grunted above her, sweat dripping from his forehead like condensation off a beer bottle, his eyes squeezed shut not with passion, but with grim determination to get himself off as quickly as possible. His thick, hairy frame pressed down against Susan's smaller body, pinning her into the mattress while his cock pumped hard and fast inside her slick warmth.

Susan stared up at the water-stained ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster while her husband of seven years rutted above her like an animal in heat. His teeth were gritted in concentration, his meaty hands gripping the sheets instead of touching her body, instead of caressing the curves that had once driven him wild with desire. Her full breasts heaved against his sweaty chest, nipples hard and begging for attention, her clit screaming for even the smallest spark of contact. But Brad gave nothing back anymore—no kisses on her neck, no fingers working between her thighs, no whispered words of love or lust. Just selfish, brutal thrusts until he moaned loud like a wounded bull, shuddered like he was having a seizure, and spilled his seed inside her with all the romance of a dog pissing on a fire hydrant.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh FUCK!" he groaned, his voice thick and guttural as his orgasm tore through him. His cock pulsed and twitched inside her, pumping rope after rope of hot cum into her depths while his face contorted in pleasure that was entirely his own.

He collapsed to the side with a satisfied sigh, already pulling the sheets up around his softening cock, reaching for his phone on the nightstand with one hand while using the other to scratch his hairy gut. "Fuck yeah, that was good," he muttered, already scrolling through social media feeds, his heavy breathing slowing to normal as if nothing had happened.

Susan lay flat on her back, legs still parted, her cunt still wet and throbbing, begging for release that would never come. She could feel his cum leaking out of her, sticky and warm against her inner thighs, a reminder of how thoroughly he'd used her body for his own pleasure. She licked her dry lips, desperate for him to roll back over, to finish what he'd started, to make her feel like a woman instead of a convenient masturbation sleeve. But he didn't. He never did anymore.

The early years flashed through her memory like scenes from someone else's life. Brad used to worship her body, used to spend hours between her thighs with his tongue, used to make her scream his name until the neighbours complained. He'd called her his goddess then, his perfect woman, the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Now she might as well have been a blow-up doll for all the attention he paid to her pleasure.

"Brad… could you maybe—" she whispered, her voice barely audible, embarrassment and desperation tinging every syllable.

He cut her off with an annoyed groan, not even looking up from his phone screen. "Tomorrow, babe. I'm wiped. Don't worry so much about it, you know?" He said it casually, dismissively, like her sexual needs were just another chore he could put off indefinitely. His cock was already going completely soft, slick with a mixture of his cum and her juices, shrinking back into the nest of dark hair at his groin. "You came the other night, right?"

She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to stop the bitter protest from spilling out. No, she hadn't. Not for weeks, maybe months. She couldn't even remember the last time he'd made her climax. But what would be the point of correcting him? He never heard her anyway. Never fucking cared about anything beyond his own selfish desires.

Brad yawned like a lion after a kill, turned over onto his side, and was snoring inside five minutes, his heavy breathing filling the bedroom like white noise.

Susan lay awake next to him, staring at the ceiling fan that turned lazy circles above their bed. Her pussy still throbbed with unfulfilled need, her arousal soaking into the sheets beneath her. She reached between her thighs with trembling fingers, quietly rubbing her swollen clit, trying to ease the terrible ache that had become her constant companion. But her husband's dead weight beside her made her stomach twist with disgust and shame.

She thought back to their first time together, when sex had been an act of mutual worship instead of selfish taking. When he'd fucked her because he wanted to pleasure her, not just empty his balls. When he'd cared if she screamed his name in ecstasy. Those nights were long gone, buried under years of neglect and indifference.

She wasn't his goddess anymore. She was just his hole. A warm, wet place for him to dump his load when the urge struck him.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she rubbed herself frantically, desperately trying to achieve the release her body craved. But even her own touch felt hollow and meaningless now. All she could do was bite the pillow to muffle her sobs as Brad rolled over in his sleep, oblivious to her pain, drooling into the mattress like the pig he'd become.

The morning light burned harsh through the blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across the bedroom floor. Brad buttoned his crisp white shirt with practised efficiency, straightening his silk tie with the smug confidence of a man who believed the world owed him everything. He didn't even notice his wife's tired eyes, the bruise-purple shadows underneath from another sleepless night, the way her shoulders slumped with defeat.

"Killer trip coming up," he announced, leaning down to peck her cheek with all the passion of a business handshake. His cologne was thick and cloying, the same expensive brand he'd worn on their wedding day. "Bangkok, baby. Work shit, you know how it is. Big clients to impress, deals to close."

Susan forced a smile that felt like broken glass cutting her face. Her stomach knotted with disgust and a rage so deep it scared her. She knew exactly what "work shit" meant. He'd come back in a week gloating about the "incredible massage parlours" and "friendly local girls," reeking of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, with that cock-rich confidence he always carried after these business trips. He thought she was too stupid to figure it out.

But she wasn't stupid. She'd seen the porn tabs on his laptop—all Asian girls, all barely legal, all in submissive positions that made her sick. She'd noticed the mysterious bar charges on their credit card statements that he couldn't quite explain. She'd heard him bragging to his golf buddies when he thought she wasn't listening, sharing stories about "what happens in Bangkok stays in Bangkok" with the kind of laughter that made her skin crawl.

She knew her husband was a cheating piece of shit. The question was what she was going to do about it.

"Have a wonderful time, honey," she said sweetly, tucking her resentment deep behind a mask of wifely devotion. She kissed him on the cheek as he grabbed his luggage, waved him goodbye from the front door like the perfect suburban housewife. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

He laughed at that, actually laughed, like the idea of her having any kind of sexual agency was the funniest joke in the world. "You know me, babe. I'll be good."

The door slammed shut behind him, and Susan stood there for a long moment, listening to his car pull out of the driveway. Then she walked slowly to her computer, opened a browser window, and began researching flights to Bangkok.

She whispered to the empty house, her voice soft but filled with steel:

"Tomorrow, you fucking bastard, you'll get everything you deserve."

Patpong district reeked of sweat, stale beer, and desperate dreams rotting in the humid Thai heat. Neon signs flickered above rows of identical bars, each one painted with the same garish promises: "Girls Girls Girls... Massage Massage Massage... Love You Long Time... Best Pussy in Bangkok." The narrow streets buzzed with electric anticipation, filled with middle-aged white men in wrinkled khakis and sweat-stained polo shirts, all hunting for the same thing—cheap, exotic flesh that would make them feel powerful again.

Brad swaggered through the street like he owned the place, his shirt unbuttoned one button too far to show off his chest hair, his expensive tie shoved carelessly into his pocket. The warm beer buzz from the hotel bar still rolled pleasantly through his system, making everything seem funnier and more exciting than it really was. He laughed loudly with two coworkers as they fanned out between the massage parlour stalls, comparing prices like they were shopping for electronics.

"Holy shit, look at these ones," Jerry hissed, jerking his chin toward a line of girls in identical cheap polyester dresses, all swaying their hips on plastic platform heels outside a club called "Butterfly Dreams." They couldn't have been older than twenty-two, with fake tits straining against low-cut necklines and makeup painted thick enough to hide whatever sadness lived behind their eyes. "Pick one, they'll suck you off for less than what we spent on dinner."

Brad's cock stirred in his pants as he sized up the merchandise. He could still hear his wife's voice echoing in his head from their phone call earlier—that sweet, trusting tone asking if he'd remembered to eat dinner, reminding him to take his vitamins, telling him she loved him. The memory only made his grin nastier, more predatory. Susan was home doing laundry and watching Netflix, probably touching herself to romance novels, while he was about to get his cock sucked by a teenage Thai whore for pocket change.

"What the fuck, we're here, right?" he said, already tugging at his leather belt with anticipation. "When in Rome..."

He wanted to feel that rush of absolute power again, the thrill of knowing he could buy another human being's body for less than the cost of a Starbucks coffee. He wanted to laugh at how cheap and easy it all was, how these girls would do anything for a few American dollars. Most of all, he wanted to prove to himself that he could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and there wasn't a damn thing anyone could do to stop him.

A girl with glossy red lips and a faded tiger tattoo peeking from her smooth brown thigh slid up to him like smoke. She couldn't have been more than twenty-one, with obviously fake tits straining against cheap polyester straps and platform heels that made her wobble slightly on the uneven cement. She bowed slightly in that submissive Asian way that made his dick twitch, her dark eyes gleaming with practised seduction.

"Mista want suuucky sucky?" she purred, her accent so broken it sounded like something from a bad porno parody. "Me make you feel sooo good, long time, very cheap cheap."

Brad barked a harsh laugh that echoed off the narrow alley walls. "Oh Jesus Christ. Yeah, sure. Why the hell not? Fucking Thailand, man. This is what I came for."

He followed her down a narrow hallway that reeked of cheap incense and industrial bleach, past doors that leaked the sounds of grunting men and fake moaning women. The walls were painted hot pink and covered with posters of smiling girls in bikinis, all promising "Best Massage" and "Happy Ending Always." She led him into a room no bigger than a walk-in closet—just a single stained couch, a streaked mirror covering one wall, and a shelf piled high with condoms in every colour imaginable.

The girl pushed him down onto the couch with surprising strength, her small hands firm against his chest. The vinyl cushions squeaked under his weight, releasing the smell of disinfectant and dried cum. She knelt between his knees with rehearsed efficiency, her movements smooth and mechanical.

Brad grinned like a shark as he pulled his already hardening cock free from his pants, stroking it to full mast while staring down at her painted face. "Alright, sweetheart, let's see what ten American dollars gets me in this shithole."

The girl slipped down gracefully, her red lips enveloping his swollen head with silky smoothness… too smooth. Her tongue worked in perfect circles around his sensitive glans, saliva flowing like honey, making him grunt and gasp almost immediately. This wasn't the clumsy, reluctant head he got from his wife—this was professional-grade cock worship.

She looked up at him with those wide, dark eyes while her lips stretched obscenely around his girth, and whispered against his shaft in that broken English that made his balls tighten:

"Mista lie wife. Mista no make wife cum. Tonight, you cum in me… you become me."

Brad blinked, his beer-fogged brain struggling to process what she'd just said. "Hah… what? That's some creepy fucking shit to say—Jesus FUCK!" His protest melted into a deep groan as she suddenly sank him deeper than his wife had ever managed, her throat opening like a flower to swallow his entire length.

Too good. Too wet. Too hungry. Too perfect.

"Fuuuuck… god yes…" He grabbed fistfuls of her silky black hair, pushing deeper, laughing breathlessly with pleasure and power. "Holy shit, you're better than anything back home, you little whore. Suck that cock like you mean it."

But something was wrong. His skin was tingling all over, prickling under his expensive shirt like he was being electrocuted. His lips began to twitch and burn. The mirror on the opposite wall seemed to waver and bend, showing impossible reflections.

Inside the glass—it wasn't his face staring back. It was hers.

He stared in mounting horror as every bob of her head seemed to overlay his own body's movements in the reflection. Her plastic platform heels appeared on his feet, her cheap polyester dress clinging to his chest, her red painted mouth stretched wide around phantom cock. His heart began to pound with primal terror.

"Wha—no no no—what the fuck is happening?" he gasped, trying to pull away from her sucking mouth.

Her lips locked around him like a vacuum seal, sucking harder, her throat working his shaft with inhuman skill. Her whisper was smeared with spit and precum: "Me sooo horny, me swallow all cum, mista… when you finish, mista, you finish forever. You become what you think of us—cheap Thai whore for all men to use."

Brad's body betrayed him completely. His cock pulsed and swelled, every nerve ending screaming with pleasure as his orgasm built like a tsunami. He tried to fight it, tried to pull back, but her throat muscles were milking him with supernatural skill. His vision cracked and blurred like neon smeared in rain, reality bending around him like melted plastic.

"Please—oh God—I don't want—FUCK!" His protests dissolved into a roar as his climax tore through him like a lightning bolt. Thick torrents of cum erupted down her throat, his cock pulsing again and again as if it was draining something vital from his very soul.

He collapsed back against the couch, panting and trembling, his vision swimming as he stared in absolute terror at the mirror across from him.

The girl was gone. The person kneeling in front of the couch, lips still stretched around a slowly softening cock, was him.

Plastic platform heels strapped to his feet. Neon pink mini-dress clinging to suddenly soft curves. Fake tits straining against a too-tight top. Lips swollen and red, smeared with cum and saliva. His reflection moaned with a voice he didn't recognize—high and breathy and desperate:

"Me suuucky, mista… me swallow ALL cum! Me love cock so much!"

Brad screamed inside his transformed skull, clawing at the air with hands that wouldn't obey him—but the slut in the mirror only giggled and licked her lips, tongue darting out to catch stray drops of cum, mouth already making kissing shapes in preparation for the next customer.

He tried to stand, tried to run, tried to call for help. Instead, his new body swayed its hips and squeezed its fake tits together, voice purring in broken English:

"Who want fuck MeiMei next? Me so horny, me need big cock, long time sucky sucky!"

He stumbled blind from the backroom on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else, his ankles wobbling precariously on impossible plastic platform heels. Every click of the cheap shoes against the sticky tile floor made bile rise in his throat, the sound echoing through his transformed skull like gunshots. His new thighs rubbed together as he walked, soft and smooth where they should have been hairy and muscular, the friction strange and alien. Every motion of his transformed hips was exaggerated by the new weight distribution—curves where there should have been angles, softness where there should have been hard muscle.

The small elastic band of the neon pink mini-dress bit cruelly into his borrowed flesh, the cheap polyester clinging to breasts that had sprouted from his chest like obscene flowers. He could feel them bouncing with each step, heavy and fake, the sensation so wrong it made his stomach churn with revulsion.

Brad tried to scream, tried to call for help in English, the words forming clearly in his mind: Please, somebody help me—I'm still me inside this body—I'm an American citizen—I need to get back to my hotel—

What spilled from his glossy red lips was a syrupy giggle that made his skin crawl. "Mmm hehehe… me sooo horny, me need cock now now now." His hand rose against his will, manicured fingers tugging at the deep neckline to squeeze one massive fake tit until the brown nipple slipped free, bouncing obscenely in the neon light.

The men drinking at the bar hooted and whistled as his breast popped into view, their eyes lighting up with the kind of hunger that made his soul wither inside his stolen body. They saw him as nothing more than a piece of meat, a warm hole to fuck, and the worst part was that his body responded to their attention with waves of artificial arousal.

(Stop! That's my chest, you bastards! I'm a man, I'm a husband, I have a life back home!) But his hijacked body arched like a cat in heat, sticking its round ass out proudly, tongue darting out to lick lips that tasted like artificial cherry and dried cum. His voice, high and nasal and utterly foreign, piped up without his permission: "Mista, me suuucky suuucky! You wan blowjob, huh? Ten dolla, mmm cheap cheap, me swallow all cum real good, make you so happy!"

Tears burned behind his eyes—the only part of him that still felt real. From the inside he felt his heart cracking like glass, his sense of self dissolving with each word that poured from his transformed mouth. He was becoming exactly what he'd always seen these girls as—a disposable sex toy, a collection of holes designed for male pleasure.

A sweaty German tourist in a stained tank top approached with a beer in one hand and a crumpled bill in the other. He looked Brad's transformed body up and down like he was inspecting livestock, his small eyes lingering on the exposed breast and the way the tight dress clung to newly feminine curves.

"You suck good, ja?" the man asked in heavily accented English, shoving the money down between Brad's fake tits without ceremony.

Brad's body took the payment willingly, tucking it into his bra. His mouth opened automatically, tongue extending in an obscene invitation: "Ohhh ja ja, me suck sooo good, me love German sausage, hehehe!"

And then there was cock—thick, unwashed, and rammed between lips that had once kissed his wife goodbye every morning. He gagged and choked, his transformed throat struggling to accommodate the invasion, but his body rocked eagerly back and forth, taking more and more until his nose was buried in sweaty pubic hair.

The taste was indescribable—salt and musk and something rotten that made his stomach heave. Inside his mind he was screaming: This is wrong, this is wrong, oh God get it out of me, I don't want this, I'm not gay, I'm not a whore!

But his hips swayed rhythmically, his tongue swirled around the shaft with skill, his throat worked to milk every drop. His body's reactions were automatic, programmed into this cursed flesh like software. Every thrust forced a shudder through his stolen form, his fake nipples hardening against the cheap fabric, his new pussy growing wet despite his mental revulsion.

The reflection in every mirror and window mocked him mercilessly: the perfect Bangkok street slut, hair stringy and disheveled, makeup smeared from rough use, tiger tattoo visible on one smooth thigh, kneeling on the dirty floor with cheeks bulging around foreign cock. She was hungry and desperate and completely degraded—and that girl was him now.

Brad screamed wordless rage inside his trapped skull, but outside his transformed body could only produce muffled moans of pleasure around the cock filling his mouth. Mascara streaked down his cheeks in black tears as his voice squealed in that horrible broken English: "Yesss, me yuv cock, mista, cum in me now! Me need MOOORE cum, me so hungry for it!"

His stomach lurched violently when the load hit, hot and thick and seemingly endless. White paint dribbled from his fat lips, across the fake tits that rose and fell with his laboured breathing. Against every instinct, his tongue darted out to lick up the stray drops with mechanical hunger, his transformed taste buds finding pleasure in the very thing that disgusted his trapped mind.

His head shook back and forth, screaming silent "no" over and over, but his mouth just giggled wetly and purred: "Mmm yummyyy, sooo big cock, cum sooo good inside MeiMei mouth. Me want more more more!"

The bar erupted in cheers and applause. A sharp slap landed on his round ass, making his new body jiggle in ways that felt completely alien. Another pair of hands grabbed him roughly by the hair, tugging him toward the next customer—a fat American in a Hawaiian shirt with a camera around his neck.

His stolen body crawled eagerly toward the new cock on hands and knees, ass swaying, tits bouncing, eyes vacant with artificial lust. His mouth fell open automatically, tongue lolling out like a dog waiting for treats.

Inside, Brad clawed desperately at the walls of his flesh-prison, horrified at each roll of his hips, each moan that wasn't his, each orgasm that coated his throat like honey. What stung worse than the physical violation wasn't even the cum sliding down his neck—it was the cold, crushing recognition blooming in his chest:

This is my punishment. This is exactly what I deserve. And somehow, impossibly, she knew. Susan knew this would happen.

The fat American unzipped his pants with a grunt, pulling out a cock that reeked of sweat and poor hygiene. Brad's body didn't hesitate, didn't show any disgust—it just opened wider and took him to the root, throat working automatically to provide maximum pleasure.

"Oh shit, this one's enthusiastic," the man laughed, grabbing handfuls of Brad's hair to guide the rhythm. "You like American cock, don't you, slut?"

"Me LOVE American cock!" his voice squealed around the obstruction. "Me suck you all night, me swallow everything, me your cheap Thai whore!"

Inside his head, Brad wept for everything he'd lost—his body, his identity, his humanity. Outside, his cursed flesh performed its function with mechanical precision, one customer after another, each load another nail in the coffin of who he used to be.

Days bled into nights in an endless cycle of neon-lit degradation, and Brad lost all sense of time in his transformed hell. His internal calendar tried to keep track—not the whore's body calendar that only seemed programmed with "sucky sucky" and "long time" and "me so horny"—but his own desperate tally of every cock that had violated his stolen mouth, every stranger who had reduced him to less than human.

The number was already approaching triple digits, and each encounter felt exactly the same: his body lighting up with artificial arousal while his mind recoiled in horror, his slutty voice squealing scripted lines while inside he begged for death, for rescue, for any escape from this nightmare.

He'd become a fixture in the Bangkok sex trade, one of dozens of working girls who lined the neon-soaked streets of Patpong every night. The other prostitutes called him MeiMei now, and they treated him like he'd always been one of them—chattering in broken English about customers and money, comparing notes on which foreigners tipped best, sharing makeup and clothes like this was all perfectly normal.

None of them seemed to remember the terrified American man who had stumbled out of that cursed backroom weeks ago. To them, he was just another Thai whore with big fake tits and an insatiable appetite for cock.

He tried to tell them, tried to explain who he really was, but the words that came out were always the same pornographic nonsense: "Me love dick sooo much, me suck all day, me best whore in Bangkok!" His body would giggle and bounce its tits, and the other girls would just nod and smile like he was making perfect sense.

The curse was complete and inescapable. During the day, he slept in a tiny room above the massage parlour, his dreams filled with memories of his old life—barbecues with friends, lazy Sunday mornings with Susan, the simple pleasure of wearing his own skin. But he always woke up to the same nightmare: fake tits pressing against a too-small tank top, platform heels waiting by the bed, makeup to apply before another night of selling his body to strangers.

Tonight was different, though. Tonight, he was positioned in one of the glass display windows that faced the main street—whore-market style, like a piece of meat in a butcher shop. Neon lights flashed around him in pink and blue, advertising "Live Girls" and "Best Sucky" to the endless stream of sex tourists flowing past. His fake tits were pressed up against the glass to entice drunk foreigners, his lips curved in a permanent cock-sucking pout.

Mascara was painted thick around his eyes, making them look larger and more vacant. His lips were swollen and red from hours of use, still sticky with the remnants of his last customer's load. He was perspiring in the thick August heat, his transformed body glistening with sweat, thighs slick with his own juices and the dried cum of countless men.

The curse made him pose and preen automatically, his voice calling out in that horrible broken English: "Sucky sucky long time, ten dolla, me make you cum sooo good, mista! Me best whore, me swallow everything!"

Then he saw her reflection in the glass.

Susan.

She was standing calmly in the middle of the neon-soaked street, her summer dress crisp and clean, her hair perfect, her makeup flawless. She looked like she'd just stepped out of a magazine—cool, composed, completely out of place among the grime and desperation of Patpong district. She wasn't horrified by what she saw. She wasn't crying or calling for help or demanding to know what had happened to her husband.

She was smirking.

That cold, satisfied smile sent ice through his transformed veins. His mind exploded with desperate pleas: Oh God, Susan, please, it's me, it's Brad, your husband—you have to help me—I'm trapped in this body—I can't control what I'm saying or doing—please save me—I'm sorry I cheated—I'm sorry I was selfish—I'll never hurt you again—I'll be a better husband—I'll make you cum every night—just please, PLEASE get me out of this hell!

But what came tumbling from his glossy lips, muffled by the glass and mixed with his involuntary giggling, was pure pornographic nonsense: "Mmm mommyyy, fuck me pleeease, me sooo needy, me love cock all dee time, me pussy drip just for you, eheh! You want taste MeiMei? Me very cheap, very good sucky!"

Her smirk widened into something that was almost a grin. She stepped closer to the glass window, her heels clicking on the concrete with predatory precision. She looked him up and down slowly—taking in every detail of his transformed state: the cheap whore's body with its round Asian features, the massive fake tits straining against pink polyester, the dripping cunt barely hidden by a microscopic skirt, the painted face slack with artificial lust.

She shook her head slowly, like she was admiring a particularly satisfying piece of artwork.

"This is absolutely perfect," she murmured, her voice audible through the glass and the ambient street noise.

Inside his stolen body, Brad felt his soul cracking like ice. The tears that leaked from his eyes were real—the only authentic thing left about him—but even those were quickly licked up by his whore-mouth, turned into more fuel for the pornographic performance he couldn't stop giving.

But Susan didn't leave. She didn't walk away in disgust or call the American embassy or demand to speak to whoever was in charge. Instead, she bought a ticket from the bouncer and walked calmly into the brothel, settling into a velvet chair in the corner with her purse in her lap and her legs crossed elegantly.

She was going to watch.

Brad's horror multiplied tenfold as he realized his wife—his loving, trusting wife who used to worry about his business trips—had come all the way to Bangkok specifically to see him like this. She'd known exactly what would happen to him. She'd planned it.

The next customer was already approaching—a drunk Australian with bourbon on his breath and crumpled bills in his fist. Brad's body automatically swayed and posed, his voice calling out its scripted invitation: "Mista want good time? Me sucky very good, very cheap, me swallow all cum!"

Susan watched from her chair as her husband's transformed body knelt between the stranger's thighs and took his cock deep into its throat. She watched as those fake tits bounced with each bob of his head, as mascara streaked down his cheeks in pornographic tears, as he glugged and slurped and moaned like the cheapest whore in Bangkok.

Her gaze never wavered. Cool. Cutting. Enjoying every second of his degradation.

Susan slowly took out her breasts, so perfect, once Brad's playthings, and hiked up her shirt. She rubbed between her thighs, and fingered her clit as Brad began to ride her next customer to completion. 

Between customers, his body staggered and slumped against the wall, pupils blown wide with artificial lust, cunt still dripping with arousal he didn't feel. Like a programmed robot, he crawled to Susan's feet and collapsed there, his transformed face a mess of makeup and cum.

Inside his head, he was screaming: Susan, please, help me—I'm still your husband inside this thing—I love you—I've always loved you—don't leave me like this—I can't live like this—please, I'm begging you!

His painted mouth spilled something entirely different: "Hehehe mommyyy, me your cheap slut now, me worship cock all life long! You proud of MeiMei? Me make sooo many men happy, so much more than stupid wife ever could!"

The words were like knives in his chest, each syllable a betrayal of everything he'd once felt for her. But Susan's smile only deepened, cold and victorious. She reached down with one manicured finger and stroked it along his wet, cum-stained cheek.

"Yes, Brad," she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of years of sexual frustration and emotional neglect. "This is exactly what you earned. This is exactly what you deserve."

Her tone was surgical in its coldness, cutting through his last desperate hopes. He understood now that there would be no rescue, no mercy, no escape. She had orchestrated his transformation as carefully as he had planned his infidelities.

His cursed body pressed its face against her expensive shoes, kissing the leather with desperate submission. "Mmm yes mommy, thank you mommy, me so grateful, me cum all dee time now, me perfect slut forever and ever!"

And then she stood, smoothing down her dress with clinical precision. She looked down at him one last time—this broken thing that used to be her husband—and her smile was sharp enough to cut glass.

"Enjoy the rest of your life, sweetheart," she said, dropping a single dollar bill onto his upturned face. "You finally found your true calling."

She walked out of the brothel without looking back, leaving him kneeling on the sticky floor in a puddle of cum and despair, his body already turning toward the next customer with mechanical hunger.

The curse would never break. The transformation would never reverse. This was his existence now—an endless cycle of degradation and use, his mind trapped inside a body that existed only to pleasure strangers for pocket change.

As another cock slid between his lips, Brad finally understood the true meaning of hell.

Epilogue:

Time became meaningless in Brad's neon-lit purgatory. Weeks blended into months, each night bringing the same parade of sweating tourists and their endlessly demanding cocks. He'd stopped trying to count the men who had used his transformed body—the number had long since become too large and too meaningless to track.

He was kneeling in his usual position now, fake tits smashed against some businessman's hairy thighs, his transformed hands gripping the vinyl seat as another stranger groaned and grunted above him. His mouth stretched impossibly wide around the thick shaft, drool and precum foaming down his chin, the fake breasts that had sprouted from his chest swaying wildly as he bobbed up and down with mechanical precision.

Inside his trapped mind, he was still screaming—a constant, wordless wail of rage and despair that no one would ever hear. Each bounce of those swollen tits was a reminder of everything he'd lost, each throb of his new dripping pussy a mockery of the man he used to be. Every moan and giggle that spilled from his lips was a fresh betrayal of his former self.

Stop! I'm a man! I'm a husband! I don't want this! Susan, please come back—I understand now—I'll do anything—just make it stop!

But what poured out around the cock flooding his throat was the same syrupy nonsense that had become his only voice: "Mmmm yessss mista, fuck my mouth deep deep, ohhh fuuuuck me love your big cock sooo much, me sucki sucki forevaaa! Cum for MeiMei, cum so much!"

The businessman—a fat American in a sweaty polo shirt—thrust harder, his belly slapping against Brad's forehead with each pump. "That's right, you yellow slut, take it all the way down. Fuck, you Bangkok whores really know how to suck dick."

Brad's throat convulsed around the invasion, his body gagging and choking but never pulling away. The curse wouldn't let him stop, wouldn't let him refuse. His transformed taste buds actually found pleasure in the salt and musk, his hijacked nervous system sending waves of artificial arousal through his stolen flesh.

The man groaned and erupted without warning, flooding Brad's mouth with thick ropes of bitter cum. His transformed body swallowed eagerly, throat working to milk every drop while his mind wept with revulsion. Cum leaked from the corners of his stretched lips, dribbling down onto his fake tits where it mixed with the dried loads from dozens of previous customers.

He coughed and gagged as the cock withdrew, but instead of spitting out the remnants, his body smiled dreamily and licked its lips like it had just tasted the finest wine. "Mmm, sooo yummy, thank you mista! MeiMei love big American cock, you come back tomorrow, yes?"

The fat man laughed and slapped him across the face—not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to make his head snap to the side and his fake tits jiggle obscenely. "Maybe I will, slut. You're definitely worth ten bucks."

From across the bar, a phone was propped on a small tripod, its green light glowing steadily. The livestream had been running for hours, broadcasting his degradation to an audience of thousands around the world. Comments scrolled past in a constant flow of cruel laughter and perverted encouragement:

"Look at those titties bounce!"
"No way that used to be a dude lmao"
"Best tranny whore in Bangkok"
"Suck that cock, MeiMei!"
"She's so fucking desperate for cum"

But the cruelest comments came from one particular username that appeared again and again: SusanLovesJustice.

His wife's voice chimed through the live feed's audio, sweet and conversational like she was hosting a cooking show: "That's right, boys. See my husband? That's him. My Brad. He used to fuck me for two minutes and then roll over to check his phone. Now he's bouncing his fake Asian tits on every cock in Bangkok. Isn't he absolutely perfect like this?"

The chat exploded with hearts and laughing emojis, viewers sending virtual tips and requesting specific acts. Brad's body performed automatically, following every degrading suggestion while his mind screamed in the darkness.

"Make him lick his own tits!"
"Beg for more cum!"
"Tell everyone what a worthless whore you are!"

And he did it all. His hijacked voice squealed out every humiliating phrase, his transformed body contorted into every pornographic position, his mouth opened for every cock that was offered. The woman he used to be married to watched it all with cold satisfaction, occasionally reading comments aloud and laughing at the particularly cruel ones.

"User DirtyMike69 says 'I bet he regrets cheating on you now!' Oh, I'm sure he does. But regret doesn't undo years of sexual neglect and emotional abuse, does it, Brad?"

Inside his cursed flesh, Brad sobbed with recognition. This wasn't random chance or cosmic justice—this was revenge, planned and executed with surgical precision. She'd known exactly what would happen to him in that Bangkok brothel. She'd arranged it all.

And then fate twisted the knife one final time.

Across the bar, through the haze of cigarette smoke and neon light, he saw a familiar sight—another middle-aged American tourist with his wedding ring hastily shoved into his pocket, laughing too loudly with his buddies about the "incredible pussy" they were about to sample. The man was overweight and balding, wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt that strained over his beer gut.

"Just here for a little fun, you know?" the newcomer was saying, his words slightly slurred with alcohol. "What happens in Bangkok stays in Bangkok, right? The wife will never know."

Brad's transformed heart stopped. This was him. This was exactly who he used to be—a cheating husband looking for cheap thrills, treating these women like disposable sex toys, convinced he was too smart to face any consequences.

He tried desperately to push away from the cock he was currently servicing, fought to break free from the curse long enough to shout a warning: No! Don't do it! Get out now before it's too late! She's watching—she's planning this—you'll end up just like me!

But his body had other ideas. It crawled forward eagerly across the sticky floor, hips swaying, fake tits bouncing like obscene balloons. His slutty voice chirped out its programmed invitation: "Mmmm mista, me suuucky long time, ten dolla only! Me make you feel sooo good, me swallow everything! Put big cock in MeiMei mouth, she need it real bad, hehehe!"

The man's eyes lit up with predatory hunger as he took in Brad's transformed appearance—the cheap polyester dress, the platform heels, the makeup smeared from hours of use, the cum still glistening on his chin from the previous customer.

"Well hello there, gorgeous," he laughed, already reaching for his belt buckle. "You look like exactly what I need tonight."

Brad's mind screamed warnings that his mouth couldn't voice: Stop! Don't finish! Don't cum inside me! You'll be trapped forever! Please, I'm trying to save you!

But his throat opened automatically, his tongue extended in invitation, his body positioned itself for maximum access. When the stranger's cock slid between his lips, his transformed vocal cords could only produce muffled moans of artificial pleasure.

His wife's voice crackled through the livestream speakers, cold and amused: "That's it, Brad. Pass it on. Give another cheating pig exactly what he deserves. Show him what happens to husbands who think their wives are too stupid to notice their affairs."

The chat exploded with excitement as viewers realized what was about to happen. They'd been watching this same scene play out for months—cheating husbands arriving in Bangkok, visiting the cursed brothel, leaving as transformed whores to join the endless cycle of degradation.

Brad worked frantically, his hijacked body providing the newcomer with the best blowjob of his life while his trapped mind begged him to resist the inevitable climax. But it was hopeless. The curse was too strong, the stranger's arousal too intense.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, I'm gonna—" the man groaned, his hands tangling in Brad's hair as his orgasm approached.

"Don't fight it, sweetie," Susan's voice purred through the speakers. "Just let it happen. Let him swallow every drop and join our little family."

The stranger bucked and shuddered, hot seed erupting down Brad's throat in thick pulses. The curse surge through both of them like electricity, reality bending and twisting around the moment of climax.

In the mirror across the bar, Brad watched it happen again with cruel inevitability: the tourist's features blurring and shifting, his body shrinking and softening, his clothes transforming into the same cheap whore uniform. A new tiger tattoo burned itself onto his smooth brown thigh, platform heels materialized on his feet, his lips swelled red and thick until they could only form the same cock-hungry smile.

When it was over, two identical sluts knelt side by side on the brothel floor instead of one. Both had the same fake tits, the same painted faces, the same desperate hunger in their artificially widened eyes.

The newcomer—no longer a cheating husband but another nameless Bangkok whore—giggled and licked cum from her lips. "Hehehe, me sooo horny! Me need more cock, who want fuck MeiMei sister?"

Brad wept inside his stolen body, but externally he could only match her enthusiasm: "Me too! Me love cock sooo much! We best whores in Bangkok, we suck all night long!"

His wife's laughter echoed through the bar, sharp and victorious: "Perfect. Another happy customer joins our collection. This is where cheating husbands belong, viewers. This is what happens to men who think they can use and discard women without consequences."

The livestream chat exploded with approval, viewers already speculating about which tourist would be next, placing bets on how long it would take to transform the entire red-light district into an army of cursed whores.

"Bangkok is becoming a city of justice," Susan continued, her voice filled with cold satisfaction. "Every working girl you see used to be a man who betrayed his wife. They're all getting exactly what they deserve—an eternity of being used the same way they used others."

Brad's transformed body giggled and posed for the camera, but inside his trapped mind he finally understood the full scope of his wife's revenge. This wasn't just about him—it was about every cheating husband who had ever walked through Bangkok's red-light district. She'd turned their own appetites against them, transforming their predatory desires into an inescapable prison.

Another cock pushed between his lips before he could process the horror fully. He opened wide, his throat working automatically to provide pleasure while his consciousness screamed in the darkness. His fake tits bounced, his ass shook, his slutty voice rose in harmony with his fellow whores.

The cycle would continue forever. More cheating husbands would arrive, seeking cheap thrills and easy conquest. More transformations would follow, the brothel's ranks swelling with the cursed bodies of former predators. And somewhere in America, his wife would continue broadcasting it all, her revenge growing larger and more complete with each passing night.

Brad sucked cock after cock after cock, his body never tiring, his hunger never satisfied. This was his existence now—an endless performance of degradation, his former masculinity completely erased, his identity reduced to nothing more than a warm mouth and a willing throat.

As the night wore on and more tourists fell victim to the curse, he began to understand that this was more than punishment. This was poetry. This was justice. This was exactly what men like him deserved.

And in the small part of his mind that could still think clearly, he had to admit that Susan was right.

He finally had become what he'd always truly been—a worthless whore whose only purpose was to serve others.

The neon lights flashed, the customers kept coming, and the livestream continued broadcasting his eternal humiliation to a world that watched and laughed and learned.

In Bangkok, justice wore platform heels and cherry lip gloss.

And it would never, ever stop.