Goth Girly TG

Jason Cole had always been the kind of guy who lived for cheap laughs, no matter who the joke was at the expense of. He’d heckled strangers, mocked his teachers, and roasted his own friends. But his favorite targets were the “weird kids” — anyone who dressed outside what he thought was normal.

So when he and his friends ended up outside the little dive venue downtown, waiting for their favorite local punk band to start, Jason’s radar immediately locked onto a group of goth girls standing together under the flickering glow of a streetlamp.

They were a vision in black — floor-length coats, corsets laced tightly over mesh, lace gloves, silver chains clinking in the breeze. Even their parasols were black. They stood in a perfect little cluster, sipping energy drinks and laughing softly amongst themselves.

Jason elbowed his buddy. “Look at this,” he snickered. “It’s like Halloween came early. Wonder if they burst into flames if the sun hits them.”

One of the goth girls, the tallest with sharp black bangs and three silver piercings in one eyebrow, turned her head slightly. Her gaze locked onto him, unreadable.

Jason, instead of shutting up, got louder. “Hey! Which one of you’s Dracula? Or is it a group rate?”

His friends chuckled nervously. The goth girls turned as one, now all watching him. Their leader’s mouth curved into a slow, deliberate smile.

“Oh, you think you’re funny,” she said, her voice smooth as glass. “Let’s see how funny you are in our style.”

Jason smirked. “Yeah, right. You’re gonna… what, curse me? Please.”

Her smile widened. “You have no idea.”

Before Jason could react, they moved in. It was like they’d rehearsed it. Two girls stepped behind him, one in front, the other two flanking his sides. A faint scent of clove cigarettes and incense surrounded him.

The one directly in front produced a small vial of shimmering black powder. She popped the lid with her thumb, and the glittering dust seemed to swirl of its own accord. “Don’t blink,” she murmured.

A pinch of it floated forward and hit his face like a puff of warm air. The world lurched. His knees wobbled.

He reached up instinctively — and froze. His hair was growing. He could feel it sliding past his ears, his shoulders, his back. It kept going, heavier and heavier, until thick, silky locks brushed against the backs of his calves and pooled against the pavement.

“What the—?”

The two girls behind him yanked off his hoodie and t-shirt in one swift motion. His chest felt lighter — and then heavier again, but in a very different way.

“Strip him down,” the leader said simply.

Jason struggled, but they were oddly strong, and somehow his limbs didn’t want to cooperate. His jeans followed the hoodie, pooling at his ankles before they were kicked aside. Now he stood in his boxers and sneakers, the night air cold against his skin.

They dusted him head to toe with the shimmering powder. It clung, turning his skin a flawless porcelain white, pale as moonlight. Then came the makeup:

• Thick, inky-black eyeshadow that smoked outward from his lids.

• Eyeliner drawn into razor-sharp wings that nearly touched his temples.

• High-contrast blush that gave his new cheekbones an ethereal sharpness.

• Finally, a slick, perfect coat of black lipstick that gleamed under the streetlamp.

Jason’s reflection in a nearby shop window made him jolt. His jaw was narrower, lips fuller, his eyes framed by lashes so long they brushed his cheeks.

“Time for your new body,” one girl whispered, holding up what looked like a folded latex garment.

It was a full female bodysuit, soft and smooth on the outside, but heavy. Before Jason could process, they tugged it up his legs. The inside was cool, almost damp, clinging to his skin like a second layer. His thighs thickened, curving into wide hips. His waist narrowed dramatically, and the chest swelled into two high, firm breasts.

When they zipped the back, it was seamless — like the suit was his skin. Every movement made his new curves sway and shift as if they were real.

His long, ankle-length hair swayed like a black waterfall as the girls stepped back to look at him.

The outfit was last — if it could even be called that. One girl unrolled a tiny white bikini.

“That’s not even clothes!” Jason protested.

“It’s all you’re getting,” the leader said.

They tied the thin strings behind his neck and back, the triangles of fabric barely covering his bodysuit’s generous bust. The bottoms were even smaller, sitting high on his hips, a bright contrast against the powdery pale skin.

Jason looked like a ghostly swimsuit model who’d wandered out of some dark fantasy.

The humiliation hit immediately. His friends were gone. The goth girls circled him like a prize they’d just claimed. Every step he took, the bikini shifted. His hair swished against his thighs.

“Here’s how this works,” the leader said as they began herding him toward the venue doors. “You’re ours tonight. No covering yourself. No hiding in corners. Everyone gets a good look.”

Jason tried to pull his hair forward to cover his chest. A girl slapped his hands away. “Nope. You’re a display piece.”

Inside the venue, the lighting was dim, but that didn’t help. If anything, the stage lights made him glow even more, pale skin and white bikini practically luminous against the dark crowd. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. People stared openly.

The goth girls moved as a unit, guiding him through the room. At every pause, one would position him — hips cocked, chin tilted down, hair pushed back — like they were styling a mannequin.

They introduced him to strangers as their “new pet.” Some people asked for pictures. The girls happily obliged, posing him in ways that made his pale curves stand out, even bending him forward slightly so the bikini bottom stretched dangerously.

Every time he tried to speak up, someone would gently press a black-lacquered finger to his lips and hush him.

By the time the first band took the stage, Jason was standing near the bar, hemmed in by the goth girls and the crowd. The music was loud, but every few minutes someone would approach, asking, “Can I get a pic with the goth angel?”

The girls always said yes. They’d drape him over a barstool, sit him in someone’s lap, or have him lean dramatically against the wall. His hair pooled like dark silk at his feet. The black lipstick never smudged.

At one point, the leader leaned close to his ear and said, “Insulting us was the best mistake you ever made. You’re beautiful now. You’re ours. And everyone here is going to remember you like this.”

Jason flushed so hard beneath the powder that his cheeks actually warmed. The humiliation was complete — and the night was only getting started.