The loose cobblestones near the precinct's back alley clicked under Robbie's boots, sounding like misplaced piano keys. He'd been avoiding that shortcut all week.
"Ew, like, totally no way!" The shrill, nasal voice echoed off the brickwork just as he rounded the corner. There she was—the platinum blonde with neon-pink acrylic nails, crammed into a leopard-print micro-dress that strained against impossible curves. Her fishnet stockings snagged on a dumpster as she stumbled backward from some john who'd vanished. Before Robbie could unclip his taser, she lunged, raking those talons down his forearm. "Oopsie! My bad, papi!" she giggled, already wobbling away on glittery stilettos. He stared at the four parallel scratches bleeding through his uniform sleeve, thin and stinging like paper cuts.
Back at his desk, Robbie filed the assault report with robotic efficiency. *Suspect: Female Hispanic, approx. 5'2", bleached hair, heavy makeup... aliases: "Candi," "Bubbles."* His handwriting felt stiff and unfamiliar, like someone else was guiding his pen. An unsettling warmth spread from the scratches up his arm, pooling behind his eyes. He clocked out early, dismissing it as exhaustion—until he caught himself humming "Barbie Girl" under his breath and instantly scowled. The precinct door slammed behind him, sharp as a gunshot.
Hour One crept in like fog. Walking home past discount nail salons and pawn shops, Robbie's usual hypervigilance evaporated. He paused before a window displaying neon lace bras, blinking slowly. *Why do cop pants gotta be so... scratchy?* The thought floated through his mind, sugary and alien. A construction worker whistled—Robbie usually snapped back with "Eyes up, pal"—but now his pulse fluttered, and he inexplicably smoothed his uniform shirt over his flat stomach. Disgust coiled in his gut, but it felt distant, muffled under a strange, fizzy excitement.
By Hour Two, hunger twisted sharply—but not for his usual greasy pizza slice. He veered into a bakery, drawn by frosting swirls and rainbow sprinkles. "Uno... uh, one pink one?" Robbie mumbled, pointing at a frosted cupcake. His fingers trembled reaching for his wallet; badges and guns felt heavy, wrong. The first bite of vanilla sweetness made him moan softly. *Forget kale shakes—this is LIFE!* Images of patrol routes blurred, replaced by glittery heels and low-cut tops dancing behind his eyelids. He licked pink icing off his thumb, lingeringly.
Hour Three hit like spilled perfume. Stopping before a mirrored bus shelter, Robbie adjusted his belt—then froze. His stance had shifted: one hip cocked outward, shoulders loose, wrist bent limply. "Dios mío," he whispered, the Spanish smooth but his English thickening. "Why... why I walkin' like dis?" He tried to scowl, but his mouth formed a pout instead. When a cyclist shouted "Move, pig!", Robbie’s reply slipped out high-pitched and syrupy: "¡Ay, rude much!" He clamped a hand over his mouth, eyes widening.
Hour Four prickled across his skin. Fine blonde hairs sprouted along his jawline, soft as down. His Adam’s apple bobbed less prominently with each swallow. "Is hot today, sí?" Robbie mumbled to no one, tongue stumbling over simple words. He fanned himself with clumsy fingers, noticing his nails—once bitten short—now oddly tapered and faintly shiny. The scratches on his arm itched fiercely, glowing pink beneath his sleeve.
By Hour Five, his hips swayed with every step, forcing his gait into an awkward sashay. His waist nipped inward just slightly, unnaturally cinched beneath the utility belt digging into softer flesh. A headache pulsed behind his temples, thoughts blurring like smeared mascara. Passing a lingerie shop, he paused, mesmerized by a mannequin’s push-up bra. *Ooh, sparkly!* His thumb traced his own hardening nipple through the coarse uniform fabric. He gasped, shocked yet... intrigued.
Hour Six brought stabbing pains in his pelvis. Bones creaked and shifted as Robbie stumbled into an alley. His shoulders narrowed sharply while his buttocks plumped, straining against polyester pants until seams screamed. Sweat plastered fine blonde hair to his forehead—now wispy and long. He leaned trembling against graffiti-smeared brick, panting. Words tangled: "Feet... *pies*... hurt bad-o." The scratches radiated heat, sinking deep into muscle fiber.
Hour Seven shattered coherence. Robbie giggled uncontrollably, slapping a manicured hand over his mouth—*when did these nails get so long and pink?* His vision swam with glitter spots. Thoughts melted into liquid syrup: *Mmm... that hotdog vendor smells YUM-O! Wish I had cash for snacks...* Uniform buttons strained against ballooning breasts. He tried reciting his badge number—"F-four... cinco... no, *ay*!"—but Spanish flowed perfecto: *"¡Mi cerebro es algodón de azúcar!"*
Hour Eight ripped reality. A dizzy wave dropped Robbie against a flickering streetlamp. His jaw softened, lips puffing plumper. Dark roots vanished under platinum bursting from his scalp—hair cascading past new, delicate shoulders. Hips flared violently, pants splitting at the seams to reveal surgically round buttocks beneath torn polyester. "¡Ay carajo!" she shrieked, voice now high and fluty. Her fingers brushed aching nipples, electricity shooting straight to her throbbing clit. *Need dick... NOW...*
Hour Nine mocked modesty. Shivering in tattered cop fabric, she spotted glitter inside a dumpster. "Ooh! Shiny-shiny!" She giggled, wriggling free until nude beneath buzzing neon lights. Her new curves gleamed—impossibly cinched waist, hips swaying hypnotically. She squeezed into a discarded sequined tube top stretched painfully tight over massive fake tits, and leopard-print booty shorts biting into surgically plump cheeks. Each touch sparked wet heat between her legs. "Sooo... cute!"
Hour Ten crystallized her soul. As dawn bled pink over the city, Robyn—no, *Robbie* felt alien—stood transformed: Valentina "Tina" Suárez. Spanish flowed effortless: *"¡Dios mío, estoy tan caliente!"* But English? Thick accent mangled simple words: "Ugh... like, where... *baño*? I need pee-pee bad-o!" She stumbled, dizzy from heel height and constant arousal. Her mind swam with vapid cravings—sugar, attention, cock. The scratches? Gone, leaving smooth skin smelling of cheap coconut perfume.
Tina spotted a reeking dumpster alley. *"¡Perfecto!"* Her leopard-print shorts peeled down surgically plumped thighs with a sticky *schlick*. Squatting fast, she giggled at her reflection in a puddle—platinum waves, cartoonish curves, vacant eyes. Relief hissed hot onto concrete. *Mmm... feels kinda... nice?* Then panic: "¡Ay! No *papel*!" She sniffled, using glittery nails to... adjust.
Hips swaying wildly, Tina stumbled toward flashing neon—"GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS." Red stilettos bit her swollen feet. A bouncer leered; she flashed cleavage. "Me... work?" she slurred, accent thick as body glitter. "Habla... uh... big tip? Sí?" Words melted like cotton candy. He laughed, shoving her inside. Bass thumped against her ribs. *Dios*, the smell—stale beer, cigars, desperate perfume. Her nipples tightened painfully.
Onstage, fake-titted dancers writhed under dollar bills. Tina clawed at her tube top. *Too tight! Too hot!* She hopped up, booty shorts shredding at the seam. Men roared. Fluorescent lights burned her vision pink. Someone tossed coins. She bent forward clumsily, ass jiggling unnaturally round. *Not dinero!* She pouted. A silver pole brushed her thigh—cold, hard. *Oohhh...* With a wet gasp, she straddled it sideways. Sequins scratched her clit through thin fabric. "¡Ay sí sí!" Her hips jerked uncontrollably.
Backstage smelled like old fries and desperation. Tina giggled at a spilled Mountain Dew bottle. *Shiny!* She shoved the sticky plastic tip inside her leopard shorts. The neck bumped her swollen clit. "¡Más rápido!" She hissed, grinding against it mindlessly. Cold soda dribbled down her thighs. A manager yanked her hair. "Time to earn, *puta*." Tina blinked vacantly. "¿Qué?" He spat English too fast. She only caught "street" and "corner."
Outside, neon signs bled pink onto wet pavement. Tina wobbled toward flickering "XXX" lights. A trucker leaned out his window. "How much, baby?" Tina grinned, thrusting her hips. "Cincuenta... uh... fifty... *dólares*?" Her accent mangled the numbers. He laughed, grabbing her sequined ass. "Twenty." Tina pouted. "*¡Ay*, cheap-o!" But her body moved anyway, climbing into the smoky cab. The vinyl seat burned her bare thighs. *Mmm, warm.*
The trucker unzipped his jeans. Tina giggled, reaching over—then paused. *No condom? Pfft, boring!* Her eyes scanned the dashboard. Ooh, shiny! She snatched his coffee thermos, still half-full. Hot liquid sloshed onto her wrist. "*¡Caliente!*" she squealed, delightedly plunging the cold metal base between her legs. The ridged bottom ground against her clit. "*Sí sí! Más!*" She rode it frantically, tube top slipping down, oblivious to the man gawking.
Outside, rain slicked the streets. Tina stumbled from the cab, thermos clutched to her chest like a trophy. Her hips felt wider, buttocks jiggling heavier with each wobbling step in broken stilettos. "*Ay, mucho frío...* cold-o!" She spotted a discarded pool noodle in a puddle—neon pink! *Perfecto!* Grinning, she shoved one end into her booty shorts. The foam squelched, conforming wetly. "*¡Dios!*" She gasped, grinding against its spongy length, back arching as her breasts strained against sequins. A passing cop car slowed; Tina blew kisses, lost in sensation.
Morning found her curled in a bus shelter, glitter crusting her eyelids. Her Spanish flowed crisp: "*Necesito tacos... y un vibrador bueno.*" But English? Impossible. A man in a suit paused, eyeing her unnatural curves. "You lost, sweetheart?" Tina blinked, lip quivering. "Uh... *sí*? Me... *dinero*? You... p-pay?" Her accent thickened, syllables collapsing. "*Cincuenta*... f-fifty?" He smirked, pulling cash. Her body moved before her mind—fingers fumbling at his belt, tongue already tracing air. *Mmm... smell like money!*
Later, leaning against a laundromat’s humming dryer, Tina giggled at a discarded plunger. *Ooh, rubbery!* Its red handle gleamed. "*¡Perfecto para mi coño!*" She hiked her shredded shorts, pressing the suction cup between slick thighs. Cold rubber kissed her clit. "*¡Ay sí!*" Her hips bucked, grinding against the vibrating machine. Each shuddering pulse deepened her valley-girl lisp. "*F-feels... sooo... g-goo-oood-o!*" Passersby stared; she blew bubbles with pink gum.
Her thoughts melted like ice cream. *Need... dinero... for... uhh... shiny-things?* A sweaty mechanic whistled—"Hey, mamacita!" Tina batted fake lashes. "*¿Cincuenta dólares?*" Her accent mangled the price. He snorted, "Thirty." She pouted, hips swaying forward. Her breasts strained harder against the sequined top, stretching tighter. "*¡T-tight!*" she whimpered, stumbling as her ass jiggled wider. He shoved cash down her shorts. Fingers fumbled clumsily at his zipper. *More bimbo... always more...*
A discarded bicycle pump lay by a dumpster. "*Ooh, long-o!*" Tina giggled, pumping the handle frantically. Cold metal slid inside her, stretching obscenely. "*¡Dios, sí!*" Each thrust thickened her accent. "*M-make me... dumber... good-o!*" Her waist cinched impossibly tighter, hips flaring wider. Words dissolved: "*I... uh... f-feel... boom-boom?*" She collapsed against brick, ass now cartoonishly round. Two teens filmed her. "*¡Ay, paparazzi!*" She blew kisses, mind blank as cotton candy.
The plunger suction-cupped against the laundromat dryer became Tina's throne. "*¡Ride-o time!*" She straddled it backwards, grinding her swollen clit against the vibrating metal base. "*Sí sí! C-cumming!*" A guttural moan ripped free—*¡AAAAY!*—as thick cream flooded rubber grooves. Invisible residue glistened, sinking into the pores. Later, a tired nurse leaned against that dryer, scratching her arm. Tingles spread. Suddenly, her scrubs felt *scratchy*. "*Mon dieu...*" she purred, French accent bubbling thickly. Back pain vanished; her hips popped outward with a wet *creak*.
Tina stumbled down Vine Street, booty shorts ripped to mere strings. A discarded Stop sign pole caught her eye—tall, cold, deliciously phallic. "*Ooh, big-o!*" Drool slicked her chin. She jammed it sideways into a sewer grate, hiking her leg over the metal shaft. "*¡Despacito!*" she slurred, bouncing wildly. Neon lights haloed her surgically plump ass as it slapped wetly. "*M-más... bimbo... mi... cabeza... empty...*" Each thrust deepened her accent’s mangled melody. English words crumbled: "*I... uh... w-want... dick-o?*" Passersby filmed her cartoonish gyrations.
Orgasm hit like a glitter bomb—violent, messy. "*¡AAAAY!*" Tina shrieked, cream gushing down the pole’s damp surface. An invisible slickness bloomed where it pooled. Minutes later, a stressed barista tripped, palm slamming the spot. "*Merda!*" Italian curse morphed into Valley-girl squeal. "*Ew, like... sticky?*" Her apron tightened; breasts ballooned beneath cheap polyester. Tina giggled, already eyeing a fire hydrant.
Rain slicked Sunset Boulevard. Tina’s leopard-print thong dissolved to threads; she kicked it off. "*¡Free-booty!*" A discarded beer bottle glinted—green, thick glass. "*Ooh, chilly!*" She shoved it inside, grinding the neck against her clit. "*Sí sí... make Tina... dumber... good-o!*" Her English fractured further: "*I... uh... l-love... boo-boo bottle?*" Cum dripped onto wet concrete. A jogger slipped, hand smearing the puddle. "*Scheiße!*" German transformed—hips popped, blonde roots erupted platinum. "*Fuck, I sound... like... dumb bitch?*"
Hunched by a flickering "ATM" sign, Tina spotted a traffic cone—orange, hollow, perfect. "*¡Ay coño, big-o hole!*" She straddled it, plastic scraping her swollen labia. "*R-ride-o time!*" Each bounce stretched her accent thicker. "*M-make... uh... Tina... more... bimbo... slut-o!*" Breasts strained sequins tighter; asscheeks jiggled heavier. Orgasm hit—cream pooled inside the cone’s hollow base. A street sweeper grabbed it later. "*Putain de merde!*" French melted: "*Ew, sticky-wicky?*" Overnight, her hips flared Brazilian curves.
Behind a dumpster reeking of stale tequila, Tina tugged at a trucker’s belt. "*Rápido, papi,*" she slurred, tongue tracing wet circles on denim. "I... uh... suck-o... g-good?" Her English fractured—vowels collapsing. He groaned, thrusting fingers into her platinum hair. She sank down eagerly, lips wrapping warm flesh. "*Mmm... salty!*" Her mind fogged further. *Only think... cock... sugar...*
Blue lights sliced the alley. "*¡Alto!*" The cop barked, flashlight blinding Tina mid-suck. She blinked—drool slicking her chin—and giggled. "*¿Qué?* I... busy!" The trucker fled, zipper scraping her forehead. Tina wobbled up, sequined top askew over gravity-defying breasts. "*Ay, rude-o!*" She pouted, hips thrusting instinctively toward the officer’s badge.
Officer Danvers recoiled. "Public indecency, solicitation—" Tina lunged, glittery nails flashing. "*No touchy!*" she shrieked, raking deep furrows down his forearm. Blood welled, hot against his skin. "*See? Bad cop!*" Her Spanish flowed like honey: "*¡Pendejo, ni me toques!*" But her English fractured, thick and childish: "*You... uh... ouchie-o?*" She giggled again, twisting in his grip, surgically plump ass jiggling against his uniform.
Handcuffs clicked cold around Tina's wrists. "*¡Ay, muy frío!*" she whined, stumbling as Danvers shoved her toward the squad car. Her sequined top slid lower, exposing nipple piercings that glinted under flashing lights. Behind her, the dumpster alley pulsed with the smell of rotten avocados and spilled margarita mix. Tina sniffled, dropping into the backseat—leather squeaking against her wet crotch. Her mind fogged: *Police? Bad... like... uh... no fun-o?*
Danvers drove, knuckles white on the wheel. Tina stared at his bleeding forearm scratches—thin, pink lines mirroring her own vanished ones. A sugary giggle bubbled up. "*You... ouchie? Me... sorry-not-sorry.*" Her English dissolved into Spanglish mush: "*El raspón... make you... like... *caliente*? Sí?" She thrust her hips against the seatbelt strap, moaning softly. Danvers flinched, sweat beading above his lip.
The precinct booking area reeked of disinfectant and stale coffee. Tina squirmed in the plastic chair, booty shorts shredding further as she rubbed her thighs together. "*¿Baño?* I pee-pee... *mucho*!" she whined, Spanish crisp but English garbled. A weary desk sergeant tossed her a form. "Fill this out." Tina blinked at the English gibberish, lip trembling. "*No... uh... letters-o?*" A young cop leaned closer, smirking. "Need help, sweetheart?" His hand brushed her sequined shoulder. Tina giggled, leaning in. "*Sí, papi... help-o Tina...*"
Danvers slammed Tina’s intake folder down. "Focus, Suárez!" Tina’s vacant eyes snapped to his bleeding scratches—now pulsing faint pink. Her giggle turned breathy. "*Ooh... you... uh... *caliente* now? Soon-o you... like... *perra*?" She thrust her hips upward, grinding against the chair seam. The scent of coconut lotion thickened, mingling with the raw copper smell of his wound. The desk sergeant gagged, waving a hand. "Get her processed, Danvers. Cell 3’s free." Tina’s sequined top slipped entirely off one breast as she wobbled up, nipple piercing catching fluorescent light. "*Sí sí! Private time-o?*"
Epilogue by Officer Danvers: *"Suspect refused processing protocols. Recommend psychiatric evaluation pending CDC consultation."* The folder smacked the intake desk, stirring stale air thick with fingerprint ink and Tina’s cloying coconut perfume. Restraints dug into her wrists as Danvers hauled her toward Cell 3—a concrete closet reeking of vomit and despair. Tina giggled, hips grinding against his thigh. "*Ooh... strong cop!*" Her English fractured further: "*You... uh... squeeze-o Tina?*" Bleach-blonde hair snagged on his badge, leaving glitter trails.
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