Cart Sync (Patreon)

You had only meant to sit in the cart for a minute. The blonde had left her phone on the seat after the charity scramble, screen still unlocked on a selfie she’d just taken under the roof—cap low, braid over one shoulder, black dress stuck to her from the heat. You picked it up to run it back to the clubhouse. The second your thumb hit the glass, the cart’s little roof speaker clicked, and a flat voice said the membership photo had failed to sync. Try again. You laughed, held the phone up like she had, and the world tilted.

It did not feel like magic. It felt like a bad sunstroke and a full-body cramp at once. Your scalp prickled first. Hair spilled past your ears in a hot rush, pale and heavy, already twisting itself into a loose braid that dragged over your new collarbone. Your jaw ached as it narrowed. Cheekbones lifted. Your nose thinned, and a small silver ring punched through the septum with a bright sting that made your eyes water. Freckles dusted across skin that had gone smoother and a shade warmer. In the dark screen of the phone you watched your own mouth soften into hers.

What the fuck. That’s not my face. That’s—

Your chest answered before you could finish the thought. Heat pooled behind your nipples, then shoved outward. The pecs you knew split and swelled, skin stretching tight, weight dropping into two full, heavy breasts that filled the black tank as it rewritten itself around you—thinner straps, deeper neckline, the fabric suddenly clinging to a narrower waist. Each pulse of growth dragged a thick, sweet ache through you. Your nipples hardened against the cloth, so sensitive the cart’s vibration made you gasp.

Lower down, your hips cracked wider. The seat seemed to rise under you as your ass rounded and pushed back, plump and soft, the dress hemming higher on thighs that had lost their hair and most of their old muscle. Between them your cock throbbed once, desperate, then folded in on itself. The shaft shrank, the balls drew up, and the whole thing tucked and split into a slick, swollen cunt that clenched on nothing. The first real throb of it made your new clit jump. You grabbed the wheel with smaller hands, nails shorter, rings that hadn’t been there a minute ago clicking on the plastic.

Still me. I’m still in here. I can feel all of it. God, they’re heavy.

You shifted and the braid swung against your breast. The navy cap sat low on your brow, red Ole Miss script curved over the brim, exactly like the photo. Layered chains rested in the sweat at the base of your throat, the little R pendant cold between your tits. The dress was tight across your ass and loose enough at the chest that every breath dragged the fabric over your nipples. You were wet already. Not a little. A slow, constant slick that cooled when the cart rolled and warmed again the second you squeezed your thighs.

You drove the cart behind the maintenance shed where nobody was. The second you killed the engine you shoved a hand under the dress. Your fingers slid through smooth, hairless folds and found the clit easily—smaller than you expected, viciously sensitive. Two fingers pushed in and your cunt gripped them, hot and soft and nothing like jerking off. You curled them and the pressure climbed straight up into your belly.

Fuck. That’s—inside. I’m fingering a pussy. My pussy.

Your other hand cupped a breast through the tank and squeezed. The flesh spilled between your fingers, nipple catching on the seam. You rubbed it in slow circles while you fucked yourself, wrist working, the wet sound loud under the roof. Every thrust rocked your ass against the seat. The cap brim shadowed your eyes. You could smell your own sweat and the sweet, sharp scent of how turned on you were. Your thighs started to shake.

“Need it,” you heard yourself say, voice higher, breathy, not quite yours. “Need it deeper.”

You pulled your fingers out, glistening, and dragged them up over your clit. The orgasm hit mean and fast. Your cunt fluttered and clenched on nothing, a rush of wet spilling over your knuckles and onto the black dress. Your breasts bounced with it. You kept rubbing through the aftershocks, whimpering, hips chasing the heel of your hand, until the pleasure tipped over into too much and you had to stop.

A cart door slammed somewhere up the path. Footsteps. A guy’s voice, amused. “Hey—you good? Thought I heard somebody.”

You yanked the dress down. Your face was flushed, lips swollen, braid stuck to your chest. He was one of the college kids from the scramble, tall, already grinning when he saw you.

“Didn’t mean to walk in on a moment,” he said. “You look—damn. You alright?”

Tell him to leave. Tell him.

What came out was softer. “Cart died. And I—” You shifted, and the wet spot on the dress pulled against your cunt. The ache hadn’t gone anywhere. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

He glanced at your mouth, then lower, at the way the tank held your tits. “Thinking about what?”

You reached out and caught his wrist, pulled his hand under the hem yourself. His fingers found you soaked and open. He swore under his breath.

“Jesus. You’re dripping.”

“Then do something about it,” you said, and the part of you that was still him heard it and went hot with shame and want at the same time.

He pushed two fingers in and you rocked down on them, ass spreading on the seat, breasts shifting under the thin black fabric. The chains clicked. He leaned in and kissed you, and you kissed back, tongue slow, while he worked your clit with his thumb. When he freed his cock you didn’t hesitate. You turned, knelt on the seat with your plump ass tipped up, dress bunched at your waist, and reached back to guide him.

The stretch was obscene. Thick, hot, filling the new cunt inch by inch until your belly felt packed. You moaned into your arm. He gripped your hips and started to thrust, each stroke jolting your tits forward and making the braid swing. The cap slipped. You clamped around him and felt every vein.

He’s fucking me. I’m getting fucked and it feels better than anything I ever did with a dick.

“Tight,” he grunted. “Fuck, you’re tight. You want it harder?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Harder. Don’t stop.”

He did. The cart rocked. Your ass clapped back against him, soft and full, and every deep stroke ground your clit against nothing until you came again, crying out, pulsing around his cock so hard he lost rhythm. He buried himself and finished with a low groan, heat spilling inside you, and you stayed there shaking, dress twisted, cap crooked, thighs wet, the pendant stuck to your skin.

When he pulled out you felt it leak. You sat back down, dizzy, breasts sore in the best way, cunt still fluttering. He zipped up, breathing hard, and looked at you like he wasn’t sure what he’d just done.

“You gonna be around later?” he asked.

You touched the ring in your nose, the braid, the heavy curve of your chest under the tank. Your old name felt far away. The want didn’t.

“Maybe,” you said. “If you can keep up.”