My Dad the Influencer Chick

— Hey everyone! It’s Mark... Marsha Blendor! Missed me? — she said in a cheerful, mischievous voice, leaning in a bit closer to the screen to fit perfectly into the frame. Her dark hair, tied in a ponytail, gently fell over her shoulder, and her big DD-sized tits were tightly pressed against the fabric of her tight black sports tank top. She sat in the driver’s seat, leaning forward slightly — just enough to show the slight post-run blush and the flawless boob cut. Marsha had really gained popularity over the past few months, ever since she started her social media hustle.

— Daddy! Please stop, it’s not funny anymore! — the girl in short shorts that showed off her knees, and a T-shirt with a smiling avocado print, puffed up her cheeks and slapped the seat with childlike bluntness. She suddenly popped into the frame from the backseat, like out of nowhere, her hair tied in two sticking-up pigtails, and even her eyebrows were comically furrowed, truly like a little kid.

— You promised! It was just a project! — she frowned, her voice a mix of indignation and worry. — I don’t want to get teased at school because my dad turned into... an influencer chick!

Mark, a 45-year-old regular family man, quickly shut off the livestream, hoping his daughter hadn’t blurted out too much to the audience of three and a half thousand followers. He let out a shaky breath, dropped the phone onto the dash, and sank back into the driver’s seat.

— Sweetie, I asked you... — Mark began, holding back his irritation, — not to interrupt when I’m... working.

He turned to her, never letting the turned-off phone out of sight. Her cheeks were puffed out like an offended hamster, but her eyes had a spark — way too grown-up for her nine years.

— That’s not work, Dad, that’s stupid! — She poked his shoulder with her finger. — You’re pretending to be a woman and everybody believes it! But you’re not her!

But she was right. Mark hadn’t even noticed how deep this project had pulled him in. It all started as a joke. AI, generated appearance, a hyper-realistic filter that didn’t just draw “Marsha,” but corrected movement, expressions, even voice. The first streams were just for laughs — no one knew it was actually a tired 45-year-old dad trying to cope with loneliness, debt, and a daughter who was growing up way too fast.

He looked at the screen again. The livestream had ended, but the comments were still pouring in. The phone was acting weird — like the app hadn’t fully shut down. Mark swiped his finger — and from the top, a new comment slid down:

"Aren’t you fake? Why did she call you dad..."

"Marsha, remember when you talked about running in the park? What brand were your leggings? I want those!"

"Wow, Marsha, is that your daughter? You’re such a cute mommy! By the way, are you back with your ex? Or is that a new daddy?"

"Marsha, tits — 🔥. Be honest, silicone?"

"Mom of the year!"

"I’d love to have a woman like you in my car..."

Mark swallowed, trying to figure out what to do, highlighting the comments that weren’t supposed to pop up, but people had already started asking the wrong questions. His finger was trembling like the phone had gotten hotter. He quickly swiped the screen to shut it down, but the app wouldn’t close. A pop-up window appeared:

"Looks like Marsha needs help?"

He blinked.

'What the fuck is this bullshit?'

He tried to tap the X, but suddenly noticed his nails had grown much longer and were pressing against the screen. Long, curved, with a pearly shine—just like Marsha’s in the filter.

— Dad?.. — his daughter’s voice got quieter, like she sensed something was off. — What’s wrong? Why are you... frozen like that?

Mark wanted to reply, but felt a sharp shiver in his chest, like something had kicked his ribs from the inside, and they started to shift. He inhaled, but it was no longer his usual chest breath. Everything in the clothes started getting tighter by the second. He looked down — and within a second, his old gray T-shirt stretched around him, darkened, and began to morph. Underneath, round shapes began to press outward in the chest area, and at some point, it was already obvious. Boobs — real, heavy, female boobs. The feeling of fabric rubbing on his sensitive nipples instantly sent a burning signal to his brain. He let out a scream... in a high-pitched voice.

— Dad?!

— I... I’m not... — Mark tried to say something, anything, but his tongue wasn’t cooperating. He didn’t recognize his own voice — high, almost melodic, with a light rasp, like after a jog. Marsha’s voice.

He tried to turn his head to look at his daughter, but as soon as he tensed his neck, dark strands slipped forward and smacked him in the cheek. He jerked a hand up to brush the hair away, and in the rearview mirror, out of the corner of his eye, he caught his reflection — a narrow female face with full lips, smooth skin, and beads of sweat on the forehead after a run.

— What the... — Mark’s gaze dropped and froze. Now he was wearing that exact same black tank top, under which a large, heavy, and very much alive pair of tits was clearly pushing out, framed by the deep neckline. The fabric was tight against his breasts — there was no denying their presence anymore. With every breath, they rose slightly, giving a springy jiggle.

And fuck! The way that fabric felt on his nipples — it was like his whole body had condensed into those two spots!

He drew his legs in — and suddenly felt something was wrong down there. His usual anatomy between the legs... was gone. Just gone. No weight, no pressure, nothing in between. There was emptiness. No — not emptiness — it was different. Everything had pulled in, tightened, become sensitive, unfamiliar. He tried to shift in his seat, but was immediately met with a new fabric hugging his thighs: stretchy, slippery, clinging tightly to his skin. Leggings. Just like the ones they’d asked about in the comments. He hadn’t felt them go on — they were just... there.

— Dad... you... — his daughter didn’t finish the sentence, but her face went from confused to shocked. — You’re her now... completely...

— No, no, this is a dream... it’s just the filter, it’s just...

He grabbed the phone, which now sat strangely in his—no, her—new hand. The nails were long, neatly filed, pearly. Touching the screen felt way too... sensual. The phone was still on, but the message was gone.

— Are you... are you Mom now? — his daughter’s voice sounded completely different, quiet, like she was scared to hear the answer.

To Mark—or now Marsha—it felt like the air had become too thick around her.

She swallowed.

Inside was panic, mixed with something new, terrifying, almost offensive... and humiliatingly feminine.

— No... I’m not... — Marsha tried to laugh, but it came out as a pitiful rasp. She opened her mouth, and again that high, female voice with the signature soft rasp came out. Marsha’s voice.

She lowered her gaze to her chest — the size, weight, and realism of it sent her into shock. Real. These were real female breasts, and they lived by their own rules. The sensation was like heavy, slightly damp cotton, with a sensitive core that reacted to every damn touch.

— How did this happen? — her daughter leaned forward again, brushing her shoulder — and her fingers dug into the tight, stretched tank top. Marsha flinched and was stunned at how calmly her daughter spoke, as if she’d already decided for herself that kids take the impossible in stride while adults lose their shit over it.

— It just… I don’t know how… — she turned her head, locking eyes with her daughter, but at that moment, the phone buzzed to life in her hand again. Comments kept pouring in:

"Marsha, were you just chatting with your daughter? Such a cute family!"

"Seriously, I didn’t know you had a kid… You’re a mom too?!"

"Wow, you’re the perfect MILF!"

"Is this not fake?!"

"Marsha, you’re turning me on. Show that cleavage up close."

Marsha felt sick. These comments were about her now. About her body. About how they were looking at her. About her tits. About her cleavage. She instinctively tried to cover herself, but her hands — so feminine, so slender — only pulled the fabric tighter. And her nipples screamed their sensitivity all over again.

— Don’t read that, — she muttered, shoving the phone away from her daughter.

— But you… you’re not Dad anymore? — her daughter’s voice grew insistent, unnervingly mature. — You’re like her… you look like her now… and the voice…

Marsha bit her lip. What the hell could she say? How do you explain when you don’t even get it yourself? She felt the leggings pressing into her thighs, how everything down between her legs was different. Empty. And fucking hypersensitive. Every move triggered a faint inner gasp. She shifted — and her whole body responded: her breasts lurched forward, nipples rubbing against the tank top, and down below… it was like everything was pulsing.

— Listen, Da… Mommy… — her daughter suddenly switched tones, tossing it out with such fake ease that Marsha jolted. — Maybe this isn’t so bad after all.

— What? — she looked up, nearly sobbing at the absurdity: her lashes were thick and long, her eyes practically wet — fuck, she looked like some Instagram "mommy."

— Well… you’re pretty now. Everyone’s watching you, writing to you. Maybe you’re okay with this? — She leaned back in the seat and added — And I can finally tell everyone at school about you!

Marsha froze, more and more stunned by her daughter’s calm.

— I… I… — she whispered, pulling out documents and seeing that even they now showed a new name and photo under "Marsha Blendor."

Marsha closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, unable to fathom what to do next, feeling shame wash over her at the thought that, if nothing changed, their only income would be her body. Her real body, which she’d have to sell on social media.