Bimbo curse

— Perfect, Craig, just perfect! — he hissed under his breath, barely keeping his composure.

The kitchen was filled with the rich aroma of fresh coffee, and sunlight streamed into the room. Craig sat at the table, his elbows resting on the lace-covered surface, nervously tapping his long, manicured, and gleaming pink nails — as if he'd just walked out of a high-end salon. He wore a pink corset with floral embroidery, barely containing his ample chest. Satin garters, attached to stockings, caressed his thighs with an unsettling gentleness. Worst of all, his feet rested in an invisible high-heel stance, even though the actual stiletto heels lay discarded somewhere under the table.

He hated this outfit, this whole situation, but there was no escaping it. Every attempt to change into something neutral ended the same way: the clothes instantly morphed into yet another seductive nightmare. Knit shorts? They turned so short they hid nothing. A sweater? It transformed into a tight top with a plunging neckline. Even old T-shirts became sheer. And any effort to remove the makeup was futile — it reappeared almost instantly, making "Craig's" face far too alluring for comfort.

He exhaled heavily, covering his face with his hands, but out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement outside the window.

— Oh, no, not this... — he muttered, snapping his head up.

His gaze landed on a figure passing by the house. Tall, with a casual swagger, the man carried something heavy — probably tools or wooden planks. A strange sensation gripped Craig, as if his heart skipped a beat, and his lips curled into a sweet, almost flirtatious smile on their own.

— Oh, what a hottie, — Craig purred, licking his lips.

The words came out on their own, soft and drawn out, as if he'd been practicing to sound as seductive as possible. His heart pounded wildly, as if for the first time in his life, he truly felt alive. "He's so strong, so manly... I wonder if he noticed me? Oh no, what if I don't look right? Should I fix my hair or wave to make him look again?"

These thoughts flooded his mind, pushing all else aside. Craig, who just yesterday had been a cocky and self-assured man, was now consumed with the idea of catching the stranger's attention. He didn’t even realize his lips were still smiling, nor that his tongue had involuntarily darted out to teasingly wet the corner of his mouth.

— He's so hot... mm, I would just... — his voice escaped again, but as soon as the man passed out of sight, everything changed. Craig snapped out of the trance. The smile still lingered on his face, his tongue still betraying him by trailing over his lips. Disgust overwhelmed him, crashing down like a wave. He clenched his fists tightly, then grabbed the nearest towel and scrubbed at his face as if trying to erase not just the makeup but the entire moment.

— ...so disgusting! — Craig spat through gritted teeth, hurling the towel into a corner.

He slammed his fist onto the table, only to regret it immediately: the ridiculously long nails bent painfully, though miraculously they didn’t break. Then again, breaking seemed impossible. Every time he’d tried to get rid of them, or anything else, they always came back.

...

It had all started two days ago. Craig vividly remembered sitting at a bar with his friends, laughing loudly, showing everyone who was in charge. Among his circles, he was known as "The King" — a man who kept small-time hustlers and even more serious players in line. He extorted money, exploited weaknesses, and sometimes even dealt with those who made too much noise. Women? He adored them — or more accurately, he adored sex.

It all began in the restroom of that very bar.

Craig had lazily stumbled to the bathroom door, swaying slightly from the drinks he'd had. The night promised to be long and profitable. A few deals were in progress, some small-time debtors were about to pay up, and another "catch" awaited — the pretty bartender, who, judging by her glances, wasn’t opposed to the "King’s" advances. Whistling softly to himself, Craig pushed open the creaky door and stepped inside.

The restroom was like most in places like this: grimy, with a flickering light and an unidentifiable smell you were better off ignoring. Craig approached the urinal, one hand unbuckling his belt, the other holding his phone to his ear — there was a matter he needed to sort out with one of his guys.

— Yeah, Bobby, I know! Just get it done and don’t call me until morning. Got it? — he barked impatiently before hanging up.

That’s when he felt it: something strange, like the air had thickened, charged with the oppressive stillness of a summer storm. The light flickered, brighter than before, then returned to its dim, uneven glow. Craig frowned, glancing around. He could’ve sworn he heard something... odd. A whisper, distant and eerie, like someone speaking in a foreign tongue.

— Hey, anyone here? — he called out, scanning the room. Nothing.

He sighed, chuckling at his own paranoia. "Had too much to drink, that’s all," he thought, finishing his business. But just as he fastened his belt, the space around him seemed to rupture. The air sparkled with strange sparks, and shadows danced violently across the restroom walls.

Craig didn’t even have time to be afraid.

An excruciating, searing pain shot through his body, dropping him to the floor as he clutched his chest, which felt like it was burning from the inside out.

— What... the hell... — he gasped, barely able to speak. His body convulsed, as if something unnatural was happening inside him.

His muscles twisted and pulled, shrinking as though an invisible force was reshaping him. Broad shoulders narrowed, his chest began to swell, rounding in ways that defied all logic. Then his hips... He watched in horror as they widened, while his waist slimmed. His clothes strained, seams tearing, until they barely held together.

— No... This is some kind of sick joke! — he shouted, grabbing his head.

His voice, deep and commanding, began to change, rapidly climbing in pitch to a sweet, husky alto. Craig gasped, his hands flying to his face, now devoid of his rough, angular features and stubborn stubble. In their place was soft skin and full, plump lips.

But the most shocking transformation was his outfit. His shirt tightened, turning into a scandalously revealing corset. His pants vanished, replaced by stockings and lace underwear. His leather shoes morphed into stiletto heels so high he doubted he could stand in them, let alone walk.

Craig stared in horror at the cracked mirror above the sink. A blonde bombshell with a voluptuous figure, heavy makeup, and outrageously seductive features stared back. She — no, he — looked like something out of a men’s magazine fantasy.

— What the hell is this... — he began, but the restroom door creaked open.

A tall man with a wide grin stood in the doorway.

Craig wanted to scream, demand an explanation, but instead, his lips curled into a coy, inviting smile. His body moved on its own, turning toward the stranger, and his new voice, sweet and husky, purred:

— Oh, hi there, handsome...