Pushover 3

As we walk away from Jitters, the aftertaste of the awkward encounter with Emily still lingers in the air. Arnold and Jerry are nursing their coffees, using them as props to exhibit their supposed nonchalance. Arnold turns to me with a shrug. "You know, Tammy, it's all about getting used to rejection. Popular guys like us, we hit on chicks all the time. It's a numbers game, really."

"Yeah," Jerry chimes in, his smirk revealing that he's not entirely convinced of his own logic. "All it takes is one yes."

I sigh, trailing behind them, the miniskirt hugging my hips a constant reminder of the role I've been forced to play in their misguided attempts at machismo.

Arnold takes a sip from his cup, his eyes dropping to my rear as we walk. "Maybe our luck's off 'cause we, you know, came... yesterday," he suggests, his voice filled with a mix of leering pride and self-pity.

I can feel my face flushing a deeper shade of red, not from the cool morning air but from their blatant objectification. "You're blaming me for last night?" I ask, incredulous, my voice squeaking slightly in a pitch I'm still not used to.

"Oh, come on, Tammy," Jerry says with an elbow nudge that's a little too close for comfort. "Gotta take some responsibility for deflating the magic balls, eh?"

The comment hits like a slap. This is so weird, a twisted inversion of our usual dynamic where I'm the easy target. Only now, I'm the target in a skirt, their leering gazes bouncing off me like I'm some kind of reflective armor against the harsh reality of their insecurities.

I clear my throat, trying to regain some semblance of control. "Hey, guys, that approach is not working," I say, trying to inject some sense into the conversation. "You gotta be more subtle."

"Subtle?" Jerry scoffs, shooting a doubtful glance at Arnold, as if the concept is alien to them both.

"Yes, subtle," I reply, exasperation bleeding through. "And Arnold, maybe don't talk about the seduction method, huh? And while you're at it, might as well throw that nonsense totally out the window."

Arnold snorts, rolling his eyes. "What do you suggest we do then, Tammy? Just stand around looking pretty?"

"I dunno, maybe let's just do something fun for a change. How about we hit up the arcade first?" I offer, trying to steer the trainwreck towards something resembling a normal social outing.

"The arcade?" Arnold repeats, sounding almost disappointed. "I was hoping we'd see Serra at the comic book store."

Jerry nods with enthusiastic agreement. "Yeah, Tammy, you and Serra could really hit it off."

I pause, unsure whether to laugh or scream. It's not even noon yet. "Guys, the comic book store doesn't open until twelve," I remind them, my patience wearing thin.

"Oh, right," Arnold mutters, downing the rest of his coffee and tossing the empty cup into a nearby bin. "Arcade it is, then."

As we make our way through the mall, Jerry and Arnold are back in familiar territory, their comments about my appearance a kind of twisted comfort food in the wake of their recent rejection. They find little ways to emasculate me, making snide remarks about the skirt length and my walk, using me as a flesh-and-blood shield against their bruised egos.

I can't believe I'm doing this—playing along with their ludicrous plan. But there's an undeniable, morbid fascination in watching their antics. The way they leer, the way they're almost using me as a crutch—it's a car crash in slow motion, and I'm both a horrified bystander and an unwitting passenger.

Their gazes linger on me longer than necessary, a reminder that perhaps being with someone as "hot" as Tammy—even if it's just pretend—is a reassurance they desperately need.

As we enter the arcade, the symphony of electronic beeps and upbeat chiptunes immediately surrounds us. Jerry and Arnold scout the area, their eyes wide with a mix of excitement and calculation. "New plan," Jerry declares with a grin that's a little too sharp to be innocent. "Tammy, you're up for some DDR doubles with that girl over there. Chat her up, then talk about your *cool* friends. Got it?"

Arnold chucks a cup full of tokens at me. "Here, make it rain on her," he says, his cackle undercut with anticipation.

I walk toward the DDR machine, nerves buzzing beneath my skin. The girl is entirely engrossed in her routine, her body moving with an unassuming grace that makes her impossible not to watch.

She's a cute Latina with pigtails that bob with each precise step, her feet tapping on the neon-lit pads in time with the music. The realization that she's out of my league hits differently this time around; it doesn't even matter, because she sees me as just another girl.

"Hi, I'm Tammy," I introduce myself with rehearsed cheerfulness, despite the awkwardness that clings to me like a second skin.

She turns toward me, a smile spreading across her face, "Hey, I'm Gabriela. Want to join in?"

I manage a nod, relieved at her friendly demeanor. "I'd love to. I've always wanted to try it."

As I step up beside her, I discreetly glance back at Jerry and Arnold, who are watching from the edge of the arcade, almost hidden, like creepers in their natural habitat. They give me a thumbs up and a couple of exaggerated winks that make me want to vanish into the ground.

Gabriela is already selecting a song, her energy infectious. "You're gonna love it. It's great exercise too," she informs me as she dances through the menu options.

I clumsily follow her lead, attempting to mirror her moves. The tokens clink in my hand as I slide them into the machine. "Here, I'll share some tokens if you can show me the ropes," I offer with a hopeful smile.

"Free tokens and a new friend? Sweet deal." Gabriela's eyes twinkle with amusement. "Just follow my lead!"

The music starts, and I try to keep up. Gabriela offers pointers, directing me where to place my feet and encouraging me to use the arrows as a home base. I find myself laughing, a genuine sound, as I hop from one arrow to the next, occasionally missing the beat but always finding my way back.

Gabriela's rhythm is impeccable, her movements a blur as she hits every mark with precision. And then there's me, bumbling along, my tits jiggling in a way that's both mortifying and oddly comical.

But it's the skirt that's the real traitor. Every enthusiastic step flips it upwards, revealing more of me than I ever planned to show in public. I catch Gabriela glancing over with a snicker. "Cute outfit, Tammy, but maybe not DDR appropriate."

I laugh, a little breathless from the exertion and the situation. "Yeah, learning that the hard way."

At one point, I misstep spectacularly, sending my skirt flaring. I barely catch it with a hasty hand.

"Didn't realize this was a peep show!" Gabriela teases, her laugh genuine but not unkind.

The song ends, and despite my many missteps, I feel a strange kinship with Gabriela. "You have potential, Tammy!" she exclaims, giving me an encouraging high-five. "Just wear shorts or leggings next time."

I'm about to suggest another round when Gabriela notices my friends waving from their spot. "Wait, do you know those guys?"

I nod, feeling a flush rise to my cheeks. I whisper. "Yeah, well, they're... they're actually giving out free tokens to anyone who will… uh, flirt with them," I whisper, leaning in to share the secret. "Super gullible."

Gabriela's eyes widen with mischief. "Really? Oh my god, sure! Free tokens are free tokens, right?"

As we walk over to where Jerry and Arnold are standing, I can see Gabriela assessing them, her playful grin never faltering. It's clear to me she's not taking any of this seriously, but I have no doubt my clueless friends will read way too much into it.

"Hey, guys," I call out, my newfound camaraderie with Gabriela giving me a boost of confidence. "This is Gabriela. She's an expert at DDR."

Jerry and Arnold try to lock down their expressions, but their eyes are glued to Gabriela with poorly concealed interest.

Arnold, in particular, bumbles out a greeting that's somewhere between a stammer and a croak. "Uh, hi. I'm Arnold. Nice to meet an expert."

As we move toward the skee ball lanes, Jerry's already puffing out his chest like a rooster leading his brood. He saunters over to Gabriela, the tokens jingling in his palm like he's a kid showing off his lunch money.

"Here you go, my fair damsel," he says, pouring on what I can only assume is his idea of charm. His grin is wide, his brows waggle as if they're doing a little dance on his forehead.

Arnold, not to be outdone, sidles up beside her, affecting a stance that's half James Bond, half idiot. "You ever play with the masters of the skee?" he asks, his voice an octave too deep.

Gabriela, bless her, throws them a smile that's polite but tinged with a very tangible fakeness. "Nope, but I'm always up for a challenge. Especially if there are tickets involved! Saving up for a Snickers bar."

They all toss their tokens into the machine, the tiny metallic discs clinking as they drop. The guys step up to their lanes with a bravado that's meant to be impressive but borders on the comedic.

As they play, Gabriela leans in toward me, her voice barely audible. "Your friends are... a little intense, huh?"

I nod. "You have no idea. They're like this all the time."

Jerry manages to score a couple of decent shots, but his tendency to gloat with each success grates on the nerves. Arnold's style is more aggressive, his throws like he's trying to punish the skee balls for existing.

Gabriela steps up to her lane, the tokens I handed her clattering down. Her first few shots are perfect, and the guys' faces twist as she racks up tickets with an ease that makes their earlier bravado look pitiful.

"Alright, I think you need a bit of this winning scent to help with your game," Arnold says, leaning over Gabriela to give her a whiff of his cologne, but she recoils, chuckling nervously.

Jerry, not wanting to be left out, puffs up and interjects, "Hey, be sure to take care of those tickets; they're basically nuggets of gold in this place."

Gabriela laughs. "Don't worry, I intend to spend every last one," she says, her eyes darting my way.

Arnold tries to coach Gabriela on her skee ball technique, but her score already dwarfs his. "You gotta put more spin on it, like this," he insists, taking a ball and demonstrating a throw that results in a pitifully low score.

Jerry interjects with a grunt. "Please, the key is in the wrist, watch the master." His next throw isn't much better, bouncing off the rim and earning him a single point.

In the midst of the game, I can't help but feel a sense of both camaraderie and sheer embarrassment. Gabriela, for all her playful engagement, is worlds apart from these two. She's taking it all in stride, occasionally tossing flirtatious smiles that the guys lap up like parched dogs.

The skee ball match turns into a bizarre ritual of dominance, with Jerry and Arnold trying to one-up each other, each convincing themselves they're winning Gabriela's favor, yet it's clear they're just amplifying their desperation.

At one point, as I retrieve a stray ball, Jerry places a possessive hand on my shoulder, his fingers digging in a little too hard as he waves at Gabriela. "Don't mind Tammy here, she's just shy."

Gabriela rolls her eyes at me, and I shrug apologetically. It's clear from her expression that she's starting to lump me in with them—a crony in their poorly executed plan to impress.

As the skee ball match continues, Gabriela's effortless skill sends ticket after ticket streaming into her hands. Her playful jabs at the guys' failed attempts are lighthearted, but with each passing moment, I can feel her looking at me differently.

I roll one more ball, striving for the hundred-point slot, when Jerry, thinking it will impress Gabriela, whacks my ass with an open palm. The smack resonates through the arcade, my skirt fluttering up momentarily, and the jiggle of my ass is embarrassingly noticeable.

I freeze, the sting radiating across my skin, the sound echoing in my ears. I glance at Gabriela, whose initial shock gives way to something like contempt.

"Hey!" she finally bursts out, stepping in front of me. "You really shouldn't do that kind of thing," she scolds Jerry, her voice sharp and protective.

Jerry grins, undeterred, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's cool, she's cool with it. Tammy's just like one of the guys," he argues, glancing at me for backup.

Arnold nods along, laughing. "Yeah, she can take a little spank. Right, Tammy?"

But Gabriela isn't buying any of it. Her expression hardens as she looks at me, her eyes not angry but disappointed. There's a sadness there that cuts deeper than any of their comments. It's clear in that moment that she loses whatever respect she tried to muster for me.

I just stand there, the heat on my face possibly surpassing the warmth on my stinging ass. I can't find the words, feeling smaller than I ever have before.

"Thanks for the tickets," Gabriela says, her voice cold now as she gathers her winnings. "But this is too much. Too weird for me." She turns to leave, her departure swift and decisive.

The finality in her steps is like a verdict on the entire scenario. A possible friendship, a sliver of understanding—gone. Just like that.

I watch her walking away, feeling an unexpected sense of loss. Gabriela could have been a friend, a real one. Not like Jerry and Arnold, who now seem more alien to me than ever.

Jerry scoffs once she's out of earshot. "Her loss, right?"

Arnold claps me on the back, a hollow gesture meant to offer solace. "Don't sweat it, Tammy. It's not like you're gonna be a girl much longer."

I barely register his words, my mind caught in a loop of what-ifs. Would Gabriela have been interested in Timmy? Was there a chance for a genuine connection?

"Yeah," Jerry says with a shake of his head, as if reading my thoughts. "And she'd never go for Timmy. No way. Latinas like big guys like me!"

I whirl on Jerry and Arnold, my frustration boiling over. "The problem isn't me, or Gabriela, or any of the girls here—it's you guys! Maybe if you stopped acting like such weird, leering creeps, you might actually stand a chance of getting a girl!"

"What, you grow a pair of tits for 24 hours, and suddenly you're on THEIR side!?" Jerry fires back, his tone dripping with disbelief and a sharp edge of betrayal.

"Yes, because for once, I'm seeing things from their perspective! And let me tell you, it's not flattering from the other side!" My voice raises with each word, the agitation making my hands shake. The arcade blurs around me, the fluorescent lighting casting strange shadows across their stunned, sheepish faces.

Arnold takes a step back, his usual facade of bravado nowhere in sight. "Tammy, calm down, we were just—"

"Just what? Being yourselves? That's exactly the problem! You don't treat them like normal human beings. And unless you learn to do that, you'll never connect with anyone, let alone a girl!"

Jerry and Arnold both flinch under the weight of my words, their expressions sullen and resigned. It's as though a veil has been lifted, and they're finally seeing the reflection of their attitudes in the mirror of my anger.

They exchange a glance, realizing they've crossed a line. "Alright, we get it," Arnold concedes, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Let's try something different then."

"Yeah, how about we play the new Polybius scenario?" Jerry suggests, attempting to salvage the day. "There's one set in Ancient Rome that takes two guys, one girl. Could be fun."

I look between them, my pulse still racing, but my anger subsiding into weary resignation. "Fine, but you guys are paying for it," I say, crossing my arms. The Polybius is super cool, but super expensive. So it's the perfect opportunity to guilt trip them into paying for it!

They nod, almost eagerly, keen to move past the confrontation and onto anything that might distract us from the tension that's now palpable between us.

We approach the Polybius VR machines, a trio of high-tech contraptions that look like they've been plucked straight from the set of a science fiction movie. They're hulking, retro-futuristic in design with sleek lines and a soft glow emanating from within.

The attendant at the Polybius section of the arcade explains the latest upgrades for this iteration—how it's fully immersive, with touch, sound, taste, everything. Some of the scenarios require specific genders to play them, which makes sense for a believable roleplay experience.

Jerry places a crumpled twenty and a five on the counter, and Arnold fishes out some cash from his pocket as well. "We'll take the Ancient Rome experience," Jerry announces with a swagger, as if booking a five-star hotel suite rather than a VR game slot.

The attendant nods, taking their money and motioning toward the machines. "Step right this way."

I slide the headset over my eyes, and it clamps down with a slight pressure, feeling like a helmet locking into place. Jerry and Arnold do the same, and we all select the scenario. The screen blurs to a disclaimer page, detailing the realism of the experience and the intensity of the sensations. Without reading the fine print, we collectively hit the agree button—possibly a mistake, but the guys are too pumped to care.

Suddenly, I'm falling through a whirl of colors and sounds, a virtual tunnel that ends with a thud as I land in the middle of a Roman colosseum. The scent of dust and sweat fills my nostrils, and distant cheers of an unseen crowd buzz in my ears.

The simulation helpfully explains, "Bene in amphitheatrum Romae advenisti, ubi ludus gladiatorius est!"

I blink as the Latin is instantly translated in my mind to, "Welcome to the Roman amphitheater, home of the gladiator games!" The Polybius machine can feed information and false memories directly to your mind, and now, it is giving me information about my garb and my surroundings.

I look down and find myself clothed in a stola, the fabric heavy and embellished with jewelry that clinks softly with every tentative movement I make. My status as the Matrona is clear, but the power comes with a bizarre responsibility I hadn't anticipated.

In the arena below, Jerry and Arnold, now bulked up by the simulation's generous interpretation of gladiators, are mock-fighting each other, their weapons clashing in play as they wait for the real challenge.

A Roman attendant, garbed in a crisp tunic, approaches and bows slightly. "Matrona, quos adversarios eliges pro gladiatoribus?" This time, I don't need the translation. His question is clear. And instinctively, I know the options.

Smirking, I reply, "Duo leones, si placet." Two lions, please. The attendant nods appreciatively, repeating my choice aloud for the simulation to process and put into effect.

A servant boy sidles up to my decorated chair, offering a bunch of grapes which I unthinkingly accept, enjoying the plump juiciness as it bursts on my tongue. The simulation's attention to detail is astonishing; the taste is so vivid, it's hard to remember it's not real.

As I settle back into my seat, I can't help but relish the thought that Jerry and Arnold are about to come face to face with the king of the jungle—twice. The simulation, though vivid, only causes temporary pain, but the prospect of my friends enduring even that has me feeling a sweet sense of retribution for their boorish behavior.

Down in the arena, the simulation continues. A pair of regal-looking lions are released, their roars thunderous as they prowl on the sand. Jerry and Arnold both freeze, their previous antics evaporating in the face of the very real (albeit virtual) danger.

"Succurrite!" Jerry yells, comically fumbling with his net which he's managed to entangle around his legs.

"Adiuvate me!" Arnold echoes, tripping over his own feet in his haste to avoid the oncoming lions.

The absurdity of the situation, paired with my friends' panic, has me bursting into laughter. This is the catharsis I didn't know I needed.

The lions advance, and the simulation sizzles with tension. Jerry and Arnold's earlier bravado has vanished, replaced with awkward yelps and desperate attempts to escape the beasts they chose as opponents—ironically, upon my suggestion.

The fight is far from the glorious spectacle you'd expect of a Roman gladiator match. Instead, my friends stumble and bumble their way around the arena, providing a slapstick show of hilarity. They are clearly out of their element, even in a simulated world where they were supposed to have the upper hand.

It's a foolish spectacle, and as I sit there, draped in virtual finery and munching on simulated grapes, I'm struck by a strange mix of amusement, pity, and a newfound sense of superiority. For once, I have the power, and they are at my mercy, even within the fabricated confines of Polybius' ancient Rome.

***

I recline in my seat, a newfound sense of authority settling over me like a finely woven cloak. Below in the arena, Jerry and Arnold are putting on an unintentionally comedic performance as they flail and scramble to evade the lions that I unleashed upon them. Their shouts echo off the coliseum walls, filled with panic and ineptitude that's too rich to ignore.

"Hey! What's a lion's weak spot anyway?" Jerry hollers up at me, his voice cracking in desperation as he dodges a swipe from one of the majestic beasts.

"Maybe try using some of your cologne! It seems to repel everyone else!" I call back, thoroughly enjoying the role reversal.

Down in the arena, Arnold pivots, nearly tripping over his own feet. "This was your great plan, Tammy? Lions?!"

Their armor clanks as they cluster back to back, swords out, trying to present a united front. The sight is so out of place, two modern-day incels transported into ancient gladiators' bodies, that I start giggling uncontrollably.

As I look down at myself, the stola draping my body confirms I'm still very much Tammy, just costumed in Roman garb. Sexist simulation - not giving me buffed up muscles too! Servants approach me with the next course, a dish I'm unfamiliar with. I raise an eyebrow, "Quid hoc est?" I ask, nodding toward the plate.

"Gliria," the attendant responds proudly, gesturing to the doormice as if presenting a king's ransom.

I cringe slightly at the prospect. "I think I'll stick with the grapes," I say, taking a tentative sip of the Falernian wine. It's delicious, the ancient flavor rich on my virtual tongue.

The attendant leans in, observing the mayhem below. "What do you think of our gladiators?" he inquires.

I consider the question, watching as Jerry accidentally bonks Arnold on the head with his shield. "Let's just say, they are more suited for clown shows than gladiatorial combat," I reply in Latin, the words flowing with ease.

The attendant seems taken aback by my candor, his eyes flicking between me and the arena. "Well, then, Matrona, I trust you will take appropriate measures should they prove victorious."

His cryptic remark leaves a flutter of unease in my stomach. Victorious? Appropriate measures? I frown, my mind racing with potential interpretations, but before I can ask for clarification, he's gone.

I turn my attention back to the games, where Jerry and Arnold have managed, by sheer dumb luck, to establish a rhythm. A clumsy one, sure, but it keeps the lions at bay—for now. Their shouts fill the air, a chaotic symphony of "Stop pushing me!" and "Use your net, dumbass!"

Despite their growing coordination, their bumbling antics are still on full display. With a glass of wine in hand and a platter of grapes by my side, I settle in to watch the spectacle, feeling a mixture of schadenfreude and relief that, for once, I'm not the one in the line of fire.

The arena's atmosphere is electric with anticipation, the Roman crowd buzzing with a mix of bloodlust and spectacle. Jerry and Arnold, looking like something out of a Monty Python sketch in their ill-fitting armor, manage to corner one of the lions.

In a series of bewildering events that scream 'simulation pity', Arnold trips over his own gladiator sandals, toppling onto the lion, who inexplicably rolls over with a confused growl. Jerry, seeing an opportunity, leaps onto the lion's back, and the arena's collective breath catches.

With the awkward grace of a newborn giraffe, Jerry raises his gladius high, yells something that sounds a lot like "For the Reddit gold!", and plunges it down. The blade somehow finds its mark, and the lion beneath him slumps, defeated.

I pound my fist against the armrest, spilling some of my wine in the process. This has to be some virtual deus ex machina; there's no way these two just took down a Roman lion.

The second lion, seemingly incensed by the fall of its counterpart, lunges with a roar. It sinks its teeth into Arnold's virtual flesh, locking onto his leg. His scream is ear-piercing, a high note of agony and surprise that echoes off the coliseum walls. Jerry swings his weapon in a frantic arc, connecting with a solid thwack on the lion's head.

What unfolds is strangely brutal and completely farcical. They stumble and bicker, weapons flailing wildly, yet against all odds, they fend off the beast. With a combination of luck, frenetic energy, and perhaps a touch of AI sympathy, they manage to subdue the second lion.

As it collapses, the crowd erupts into frenzied cheers, their roars rivaling those of the fallen beasts. I watch, aghast, as Jerry and Arnold stand panting and victorious. They embrace each other, then point up to me, their patroness, with triumphant grins.

My heart sinks. What did I just commit to?

Before I can protest, attendants bustle around, murmuring about my duty to commend the victors. "Wait, what are you talking about?" I try to argue, but they're not listening.

A chalice is thrust into my hands. "Bibe hoc," one insists, and I take a hesitant sip. The liquid is sweet and thick, sending a flush of warmth through my body.

"Your duty, Matrona, is to honor those who have braved death for the glory of Rome," another attendant says reverently, speaking of a reward that goes unspoken, but the implication hangs heavy in the air.

I feel a sudden weight upon me, an expectation to uphold a role I never agreed to. Panic claws at my throat. "I didn't sign up for this," I murmur, but the simulation, it seems, is unsympathetic to such pleas.

Jerry and Arnold, unaware of my inner turmoil, are basking in the adulation from the crowd, their earlier idiocy now transformed into tales of bravery. I slump in my seat, trapped in a virtual scenario that's become all too real, dreading what comes next in the coliseum's twisted tale of victory and reward.

The simulation transitions smoothly, the coliseum fading away to be replaced by a room that is decadently opulent. I am led into an exquisite private bath chamber within what I can only assume is my Roman villa. My protests are meek as I am gently guided by the attendants, their tones soothing even though their words are lost on me.

The room is steamy, warm scents of lavender and chamomile filling the air. Mosaics and murals depicting scenes of Roman leisure and abundance cover the walls, and the sense of luxury is overwhelming. A part of me knows this is all a simulation, but the sensations are so vivid, it's easy to forget.

"Quid hoc est?" I question, but they only smile, continuing their preparations as if I hadn't spoken.

The initial cleansing is an oddly intimate process. Warm oil is spread over my skin, and a strigil glides along my arms, legs, and back, peeling away the grime and stress of the arena. Then comes the warm rinse, soft sponges soaked with water delicately wiping the oil away. It's so lifelike, it sends shivers down my spine, and I find myself relaxing despite my resistance.

I am then directed toward the large marble tub filled with perfumed water. The steam rises in gentle curls, and as I sink into the tub, the heat envelopes me, coaxing my muscles into a state of relaxation I hadn't realized I needed. The attendants work quietly, attentively, pouring water over my shoulders and back in a ritualistic cadence.

The sheer gown they later drape over me scarcely conceals anything. It's made of the finest silk, so sheer it might as well be a second skin. Every detail of my female body is on display, from the puckering of my nipples to the curve of my hips. I feel a blush spread across my cheeks as I'm adorned with a delicate necklace and bracelets, the cool touch of the metal a stark contrast against my warm skin.

The makeup they apply is light, but enough to accentuate my features—my eyes seem brighter, my lips fuller. They style my hair into an elaborate updo, pinning it with ornate combs that glimmer in the soft light of the oil lamps.

Throughout the bath, the drink I consumed earlier makes its impact known through a growing warmth that suffuses my body. It's teasing, building, a heat that starts at my core and slowly radiates outward. I'm breathing heavily, my skin sensitive to each brush of the attendants' hands. My pulse quickens, and I can feel a definite arousal stirring within me—a combination of the drink and the symphony of sensations the simulation is feeding me.

I realize, the Polybius machine is DEVIOUS. It knows exactly how to primp and pamper, to put someone into the right physical and emotional state. I know deep down that these are all fake sensations, fake luxuries.

As I'm led to the adjoining chamber, the reality of what's expected becomes painfully clear. The attendants' eyes are careful not to linger too long, their touches professional but unquestionably intimate. The simulation has stripped me of control, and in this Roman guise, I am to serve as the prize for Jerry and Arnold's victory.

Yuck!

The room I'm guided into is the epitome of Roman luxury, a space that commands both awe and tranquility. Frescoes of pastoral scenes and gods in repose grace the walls, while the floor is a mosaic masterpiece underfoot. The atmosphere is thick with opulence and the quiet hum of a world far removed from the chaos of everyday life.

Dominating the room is an extravagantly large bed, its ornate frame featuring carved scenes that could be straight from Ovid's "Metamorphoses." Lush pillows and sumptuous covers in deep purples and blues are strewn across the bed, invoking a sense of regality and decadence.

Each step I take is met with the soft jingle of the bangles adorning my wrists, the sound almost melodic but growing increasingly frantic as panic sets in. I try to protest, to refuse the role the simulation has thrust upon me, but my objections are drowned out by the attendants' calming platitudes.

"No, no. This isn't what I want," I insist, my voice shaking as I glance at the bed with a mix of horror and unwilling fascination. The sensation from the drink I had earlier continues to smolder within me, spreading an unwanted warmth and arousal that cloud my thoughts and quicken my breath.

I stumble toward the exit, my silk-draped form whispering against the air, but the attendants are quick to intercept. Their hands are gentle yet firm, guiding me back toward the center of the room, back toward the bed that feels more like an altar with each passing second.

"Please, I don't want to do this," I plead, struggling weakly as they offer me another chalice of the heady drink. My resistance is ebbing away, swallowed by the intoxicating scents and the soft caress of silk against my skin.

The attendants smile, their manner professional but unyielding. "It is your duty, Matrona. Your commendation awaits." They pour the liquid down my throat, and I can feel my body grow hotter, more pliant under their ministrations.

Bangles jingle louder, echoing my distress, as I'm settled upon the bed. The mattress sinks under my weight, the bedding enveloping me in its heavy embrace. The luxury of my surroundings only serves to amplify the dread pooling in my stomach.

From down the hall, the raucous laughter of Jerry and Arnold grows closer, their voices laced with excited vulgarity. I press a hand to my forehead, cursing my impulsiveness for not reading the fine print of the simulation. What have I gotten myself into?

Lying on the bed, awaiting my "commendation," the sick anticipation of their arrival is nearly too much to bear. My body betrays me, responding to the drink and the sensuous environment despite my inner turmoil. It's a grotesque parody of eroticism, one I'm powerless to stop as I hear their footsteps at the door.

"Ready or not, here come the victors," Jerry's voice booms, followed by Arnold's eager agreement.

The room reverberates with their laughter as Jerry and Arnold make their entrance. Their bodies, artificially beefed up by the simulation, are a stark contrast to their real-life selves. Arnold's once wiry frame is now built like a Roman statue—broad shoulders, a tight waist, and muscled arms and legs. Jerry, already a large man, is even bigger here—his stocky build transformed into the hard lines and powerful muscles of a seasoned gladiator.

They leer at me, their eyes taking in the silken gown that barely hides anything. "Well, look at you," Arnold smirks, flexing his new muscles in a display of smug self-satisfaction. "They really spruced you up, didn't they?"

A feeling of dread settles in my stomach as I watch them approach, my heart pounding in my chest with every step.

"Yeah, a real Roman goddess," Jerry adds, winking at me with a sly grin.

"Come on, guys," I protest, my voice weak. But it's useless. My body betrays me, a flush creeping up my neck at their lewd comments. The previously consumed potion is making me hot, my body growing increasingly sensitive. I feel a tightness between my legs, my pussy clenching involuntarily.

Jerry, ever the brash brute, comments, "Shame the simulation didn't give you bigger tits."

Their laughter, crude and loud, fills the room as they discard their sandals and launch themselves onto the bed. The soft material dips beneath their weight, creaking with their movements. Their hands, calloused from the virtual gladiator training, begin to roam over my body.

"Hey! Don't touch—" But my protest is cut off by a sharp gasp as Arnold's hand lands on my ass with a harsh smack.

I'm flipped onto my stomach, my jingling bangles adding a surreal soundtrack to the scene. My bare ass is high in the air, the flimsy silk providing no shield against their eager fingers. The spanks continue, each one making me mewl and whimper. My arms reach out to fight them off, but resistance seems pointless.

"Don't worry, it's just a simulation!" Arnold chuckles, his hand landing another slap onto my perky ass.

I squirm under their hands, my body responding in ways I can't control. A rush of heat travels through me, pooling between my legs. I can feel the moisture, my pussy aching in a fascinating mix of pleasure and apprehension.

The room is heavy with a silence broken only by the harsh THWAKS of Arnold and Jerry's hands against my exposed backside. Each smack sends a shocking jolt through me, making my legs clench together reflexively, as if trying to protect my throbbing clit and soaking wet pussy from their proximity.

"Come on, Matrona, you know you deserve this," Jerry teases, his tone dark with a feigned solemnity as his hand collides with my skin again.

Arnold stands over me, showing off his bandaged leg, boasting about its authenticity. "Look at this, Tammy. This hurt like hell! And you're the one who threw us to the lions!"

They take turns emphasizing their points with more spanks, the stings becoming a base rhythm to their verbal assault. The servants and attendants look on, their faces betraying no emotion, but their eyes cannot conceal the shock of seeing their once-regal Matrona treated with such brusque familiarity.

"You really hurt our feelings, Tammy," Arnold continues, punctuating his sentence with a particularly vigorous slap. "And then you tried to get us killed! Not a bro move, not at all."

The slaps continue, loud and resonating, each one sending waves of pain and unwanted pleasure through my body. My anatomy, so new and sensitive, responds despite my repulsion, my nipples hardening, my pussy growing wetter with each passing second. I grind into the silk sheets, trying to mitigate the sensations that threaten to spill over.

Jerry leans in closer, his breath hot on my ear as he whispers, "So, how do you feel now? Still think we're pathetic, that we don't know how to act around women? Look at you, all messed up and mewling."

Arnold scoffs, joining in the derision. "Yeah, who's the pathetic one now? We may not be smooth with the ladies, but we sure as hell know how to handle a Matrona."

My hair is disheveled, the intricate braids and twists coming undone with each jerk and jerk. My jewelry jingles mockingly, a soundtrack to my degradation. The silky tunic hangs off my body in disarray, leaving me bare and exposed.

Amid the lewdness, their hands groping and spanking to reinforce their dominance, I reach a breaking point. They believe they're proving something to me, that their virtual conquest displays a superiority I refused to acknowledge. But all I feel is a suffocating shame, a sense of betrayal that's become all too familiar.

"Enough!" I squeal, the word barely a gasp as the simulation continues to play out around me. "End simulation!"

It's a command uttered in desperation, my voice rising above Arnold and Jerry's boorish dialogue and jeers, the simulated world fading as the Polybius machine finally obeys. The virtual realm collapses, the coliseum, the bed, and the opulence dissipating into nothingness as I'm pulled back to reality, away from their grasp and the overwhelming simulation.

I tug off the headset, my heart still racing, the faded echoes of the simulation bleeding into the real world. Jerry and Arnold look at me, their faces screwed up in a mix of confusion and annoyance.

"Come on, Tammy! That was seventy-five bucks each we just dropped on that game," Jerry protests, his broad shoulders tensing with frustration.

"Yeah, you totally overreacted. It's just a game," Arnold adds, his voice holding a whiny edge that grates on my nerves.

I'm sitting there on the arcade chair, feeling the dampness in my sister's panties and the residual heat that seems to cling to every inch of my skin. The arousal from the game hasn't dissipated—far from it, the emptiness inside of me is almost aching, a physical reminder of the fantasy I was forced into.

As we head toward the food court, Jerry and Arnold don't let up. Their sulking turns into a verbal assault, each blaming me for ruining their fun.

"Seriously, Tammy, you need to chill out," Jerry scolds, shaking his head with disappointment.

Arnold mirrors his sentiment. "Yeah, you got so worked up. It's not real! We were just getting into it!"

Their words hang heavily in the air, making me second-guess my decision. Did I make too much of it? I'm trying to be the reasonable one here, to maintain some sense of control, but their guilt-tripping is relentless.

I feel pressure building behind my eyes, the onset of a headache. Regret for agreeing to this whole farce, for letting myself be drawn into their delusions of grandeur.

"We're here to pick up real girls, remember?" I interject, trying to steer the conversation back to the day's original purpose. "Let's focus on Serra at the comic book store. We can come up with a game plan."

But the guys aren't having any of it. Their mood is soured, the salty tang of defeat clouding their judgment. They lounge in the food court chairs, slumped and defeated, their food barely touched.

Arnold picks at his fries, throwing me accusatory glances between bites. "You ruined our streak," he mumbles, making me feel like a villain in their nonsensical narrative. "We were gonna win so many tickets for killing those lions!"

Jerry is no better, turning plaintive eyes my way. "We were gonna be Polybius legends, Tammy. You robbed us of the leaderboard," he laments, acting as though I've committed some great betrayal.

The guilt they heap upon me is almost tangible, and despite knowing better, I can't help but feel a tinge of sympathy. These are my friends, in some twisted sense, and their disappointment feels like a weight upon my shoulders.

I lean forward, the glossy food court table cold under my hands. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? But enough of feeling sorry for yourselves. You're gonna get a date with Serra, and I'll help you," I say, more to convince myself than them.

Their heads lift, and for a moment, I see a glimmer of hope in their eyes—hope that's quickly snuffed out by a return to their sullen attitudes. But I'm committed now, drawing on reserves of energy I didn't know I had.

"We'll go check out the comic book store, play it cool with Serra. I got this," I assure them, mustering an enthusiasm that feels oddly hollow given the outfit I'm wearing—crop top and miniskirt, my sister's sneakers slightly too big on my feet.

***

We approach the comic book store, and there she is—Serra, in all her cosplaying glory, decked out as Tifa Lockhart. Her white crop top struggles against her ample chest, black pleated mini-skirt and suspenders completing the fantasy-inducing ensemble. The thigh-highs caress her legs, drawing eyes like magnets.

"Holy shit, holy shit," Arnold murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, Jerry nodding along, both of their eyes practically bulging out of their skulls at the sight of Serra's bounteous, jiggling assets—assets that completely dwarf my own.

I clear my throat, trying to herd the chaos of hormones that is Jerry and Arnold, and step forward. "Hey, Serra. Let me introduce you to my friends. These guys are—"

But before I can continue, she cuts in with a laugh that rings through the store, clear and sharp. "Oh, I know Arnold and Jerry." Her eyes sparkle with a mix of humor and pity. "I may be into cosplay, but that doesn't mean I date nerds."

She's cool without trying, like someone who walks through life on a breeze. She's hot—not just in looks, but in presence—and she knows it. And as she stands there, laughing at Jerry and Arnold's stuttered attempts at conversation, it's clear she's on a completely different level.

"Look," she says, flipping her dark hair over one shoulder, "I have a boyfriend. He drives a Ferrari. Has biceps." She eyes Jerry and Arnold's nerd physiques and chuckles.

The rejection is palpable, more brutal than anything we've faced today. More than just 'no,' it's a 'no' wrapped in laughter and mockery.

We retreat from the comic book store, moving through the mall like a funeral procession for our egos. The buzzing giddiness that carried us here has been entirely zapped away, leaving behind nothing but a void of disappointment.

Jerry and Arnold begin the blame game almost immediately, their voices tinged with despair.

"This is all your fault, Tammy," Arnold groans, his incel credentials shining through the gloom.

"Yeah," Jerry piles on, deflated. "We actually can't get girls. We have no hope."

The ride back is steeped in a heavy silence, the weight of today's failures pressing down upon us. Jerry drives mechanically, his usual bravado reduced to nothing more than an occasional, despondent sigh. Arnold, slumped in the passenger seat, stares emptily out of the window, his dreams of grandeur cruelly squashed under Serra's stiletto heel.

Feeling the burden of their dejection, I scour my brain for something—anything—to lift their spirits. "Guys, listen. You both have… uh, good qualities," I start, my voice hesitant, searching for words that won't sound hollow or forced.

"Yeah?" Arnold says without conviction, his voice flat.

"Of course," I say with a bit more confidence. "Jerry, you're... you're outgoing. You have a kind of... natural charm when you're not trying too hard."

Jerry snorts, a bitter sound. "Right. 'Natural charm'. If you say so."

"And Arnold," I continue, feeling like I'm grasping at straws, "you're intelligent. You've got a good head on your shoulders when it comes to stuff like tech and games. And I'm still gonna hold you to helping me with my Comp Sci cert."

Arnold sighs deeply, the sound heavy with self-pity. "Probably the only girl I'll ever have was that one time with you," he murmurs, and I feel my cheeks burn with a vivid blush.

"Come on, that's not true. You guys just have to work on yourselves," I insist, my heart aching to help them see their potential. "We'll make it a pact, okay? Three guys, working together to become better."

They remain sullen, their wounded pride a palpable presence in the car. I find myself slipping into the role of therapist, doling out affirmations and encouragement like band-aids on their bruised egos.

Jerry finally speaks up, his voice slow and filled with a hint of something dangerous. "Or... one of us just takes one for the team," he suggests, the implication hanging in the air like a noxious cloud.

An icy shiver runs down my spine, the silence following his statement loud and accusing. The unsaid offer stains the atmosphere, and suddenly, I feel more exposed than I did in the simulation, more vulnerable than when I was their wingwoman.

Their eyes are on me, and in them, I see a glimmer of hope—that misplaced, desperate hope that I might cave under the weight of their expectation. That I might step up, put on the pink pill once more, and provide them with the solace they've convinced themselves only I can give.

The tension in the car intensifies as Jerry and Arnold lay out their argument, pleas drenched in desperation and a misguided sense of companionship. Jerry, ever the vocal one, slaps the steering wheel with emphasis.

"It's perfect, right? One of us just takes the pill, and serves the other two! We're all in sync, man. The girls out there—they just don't understand us!" he says, conviction lacing his words, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to catch glimpses of me.

Arnold nods vigorously, his gaze lingering on me a little too long. "Exactly, we've got a good thing going here. Tammy's been just the thing we all needed, haven't you noticed?"

My cheeks blaze with mortification, a heat I can physically feel as they scrutinize me, as if I'm on display for their next pitch. I cross my arms, a feeble barrier against their leering stares, and clench my thighs together tightly, trying to ignore the way their words twist inside my head.

"Tammy, you've done so well," Arnold continues, leaning over the console with a sickening earnestness. "It feels even more natural with you being the girl in the group, right? Didn't you have fun today, even just a little bit?"

I swallow hard, my throat dry. "Well, uh..." My voice is meek, the sound barely rising above the hum of the car engine.

The car bounces down the gravel road, the jostling motion amplifying every jiggle of my body. Jerry catches my eye in the mirror again, his smirk widening. "Being Tammy isn't really so terrible, is it? So much cooler than Timmy!"

Arnold joins in, piling on the pressure. "Think about it. None of us would be losers anymore! It doesn't matter if other girls don't want us because we've got you—Tammy!"

Their dialogue is relentless—lewd, over the top, dripping with incel logic. They weave fantasies out loud, elaborating on a world where they imply I remain Tammy for them, permanently sidelining Timmy from reality.

I groan internally, squirming as I try to settle against the car seat, the skirt riding up with every bump in the road. My mind reels from their words, from their gazes that flit back and forth between my nervous face and my bouncing tits.

"Is being Tammy really so bad? Come on, admit it," Jerry presses, his voice verging on pleading.

Arnold chimes in, "Tammy is... she's special. You feel it, right? We all do. Like how you were getting along with that girl. Didn't that feel cool? You'll make so many new friends."

Their eyes are on me, awaiting my capitulation, as if it's a foregone conclusion that I'll cave to their twisted proposal. The dangerous consideration worms its way in, the idea that perhaps, just perhaps, they could be onto something.

I groan, hating myself for even contemplating it. "You're such a pushover," I scold myself internally.

The car comes to a stop, the dust from the gravel settling around us. I'm trapped in a deadlock of my own making, teetering on the edge of an unfathomable decision.

"Well..." My voice trails off, the indecision thick in the air. They lean in closer, the scent of their cologne—a reminder of earlier—at odds with my spiraling thoughts. Their expectant faces make my heart hammer a rhythm of both dread and a strange, twisted yearning.

I lick my lips nervously, aware of the precipice I'm inching toward, the push becoming a pull as I waver under their beseeching stares. The sensation of the plush car seat against my barely-covered ass is a stark contrast to the hardness of my resolve, which threatens to crumble any second now.

"Well..." I start again, my voice barely above a whisper. My heart pounds against my ribcage, a trapped bird desperate for escape, yet inexplicably drawn to the open cage door beckoning just ahead.

—

The car vibrates with the intensity of the act, the squelching, wet sounds of our bodies slapping together filling its small space. I'm sandwiched between Arnold and Jerry, their panting breaths hot on my skin as they use my petite body for their own needs. The absence of my own cock only amplifies the sensation of Jerry's bigger one pounding into my pussy, the brutal rhythm matching the slap slap slapping sound resonating in the confined space.

"Oh God, this is… fucking hell it's tight," Jerry groans from behind me, his hands gripping the softness of my hips tightly. The obscene sounds of my body being used echo off the foggy windows, magnifying the carnal noises in the cramped space. "Fuck Tammy, your pussy is...ah, so good."

"Mmmph," I whimper, my mouth full of Arnold's smaller but thick cock. It's not as large as Jerry's, but that doesn't make the task any less demeaning. Every thrust of his hips has me choking and sputtering, tears welling in my eyes as I struggle to breathe.

The rancid smell of sweat and musk pervades the interior of the car, the mingled scents of my friends suddenly overpowering. It's a nauseating combination of desperation and arousal, a smell that will forever be etched in my memory.

My moans, wet and muted, are swallowed by Arnold's hardness. I whimper around him, my attempts at protesting drowned out by the sounds of their enjoyment. The back-and-forth sway of the car mimics our movements, a crude parody of pleasure that sends a wave of humiliation washing over me.

God, how did I let it come to this? How did I let myself become their living, breathing sex toy? The cruel irony of it all is that they're doing exactly what they've always desired: to have a girl, any girl—even if she used to be their friend—to satisfy their frustrated lust.

The intense heat of their bodies pressed against me, the rough texture of the car seat against my bare ass, the cold metal of the seatbelt buckle digging into my thigh—everything is amplified tenfold. Each slap of Jerry's hips against my ass sends a jolt through me, amplifying the aching fullness of my pussy, stuffed full with cock.

Jerry's hand slaps down on my ass, the crude jiggling motion that follows sends a wave of humiliation coursing through me. Yet, the sensation stirs something foreign and exciting within me.

Arnold yanks my hair hard, causing me to gasp around his thick cock. "Mmmph, mmmph!" I protest, trying to adjust to the girth of him stretching my mouth wide. His taste is a mixture of sweat and something earthy, intoxicating in a way I never expected.

Jerry keeps pounding into my pussy, the squelching, wet noises of our bodies slapping together filling the car. The car bounces rhythmically, a lewd metronome to our desperate coupling. I feel so full, so taken—my senses are dominated by the sensation of having a cock inside me. The blunt hardness, the pulsating warmth—it's overwhelming, I feel so thoroughly owned.

"Fuck... fuck... so good!" Arnold groans, his hand tightening on my hair. I choke on his cock, the taste of him mingling with my spit. His hairy balls slap against my chin.

My arms are draped over the back seat, my body sandwiched between the two of them. The seat creaks under our combined weight, the candy wrappers beneath my arms crumple under the pressure. Each thrust pushes me further into the worn fabric, the sweat from our bodies beginning to soak into the seat.

"Tammy... fuck... you're so much better than Emily, and Serra, and Gabriela," Jerry grunts, his thrusts becoming more erratic. His hand slips from my hip to knead one of my tits, sending a jolt of pleasure through my body.

Arnold chuckles, the sound muffled by my overused mouth working on his cock. "We've got all we need right here. You're going to be our good girl from now on," he says, his words leaving a pit in my stomach.

Every clash of our bodies makes me cringe, the relentless rhythm of Jerry's thrusts a visceral reminder of how fucking low we've sunk, of how I've allowed myself to be used in this disgraceful manner. It's like they're trying to erase Timmy completely, using their fucked-up logic to manipulate me into this pathetic new existence. I can't help but feel sickened by it all.

But the worst part, the part that sends my mind spiraling into a pit of confusing self-loathing is the traitorous throb in my pussy. Every slap of Jerry's fat belly against my ass sends a shockwave of pleasure coiling at my core. Arnold's cock in my mouth, despite its repugnant taste, has me unintentionally sucking harder, my lips gliding along his shaft as I attempt to muffle my whimpers. It's as if my body has turned against me, every nerve ending responding with an arousal I wish I weren't feeling.

"Yeah, you like that, don't you Tammy?" Arnold chokes out, his hand pulling at my hair harder. "You lit—tle slut."

His words should be mortifying. I should be disgusted, repulsed, yet I can only squirm in response, the heady arousal fueling my compliance. Jerry's sweaty tummy keeps slapping against me, the constant motion causing my breasts to jiggle obscenely, my nipples rubbing against the rough fabric of my top in a maddening tease.

Arnold's stray, curly pubes tickle my face, a stark reminder of the twisted situation I find myself in. Jerry's firm grip on my tits has me whimpering, the pinching of my nipples sending jolts of pleasure straight to my already pulsing pussy.

I can taste Arnold on my tongue, the combination of my saliva and his pre-cum creating a coating I can't seem to get rid of. His balls slap against my chin with each thrust, the sound echoing in the confined space of the car.

My mind races, flitting between arousal and repulsion as each wave of pleasure builds within me. Self-consciousness and humiliation bubble to the surface, and with it, the remembrance of every whispered comment, every lecherous glance, every crude joke at my expense.

"Fuck, she's shaking," Jerry comments, his cock plunging into me faster. "You like this, don't you? Our little Tammy likes getting fucked." His words echo in the car, a stark confirmation of the line we've crossed.

"Yeah, shut up and suck with that mouth of yours!" Arnold grunts, his hips meeting my lips in a clumsy tempo that has me feeling even more debased, if that's even possible.

There's a sense of resignation rippling through me, the realization that Tammy might be a part of my life for real. It's a chilling thought, one that's at odds with the warmth spreading through my body. I've always been Timmy, the pushover, the butt of their jokes. Now, I'm Tammy, their female friend, their...

I'm gasping, shaking, the coil winding tighter and tighter as every swat against my ass brings me closer to that precipice. The pulsing between my thighs grows more insistent, every thrust, every stroke, kindling the fire within me. It's a tangible heat, spreading through me, tinting my vision white.

"No, no, no, no," I gag, the words barely audible around Arnold's heavy cock. The sensory overload is too much, the smells and tastes, the sights and sounds, the stark realization of what this means, too overwhelming for me to hold back any longer.

With a loud, whimpering moan, I cum, my vision blurring, the car spinning as pleasure wracks my body, my pussy gripping and clenching around Jerry's cock in an involuntary spasm. The laughter around me sounds far away, the slap of skin against skin a dull tattoo in the background, the musky scent of body sweat and sex filling my nostrils.

My orgasm rips through me, my body convulsing as waves of pleasure radiate from my pussy. The backseat of the car is filled with my gasps and whimpers, the lewd sounds of my climax echoing in the small space.

And in that moment of gut-wrenching, mind-numbing euphoria, there's a finality that settles in. There's a sense of acceptance, a sickening realization that this isn't just some joke anymore. This is my reality now. I'm no longer Timmy "the pushover" Johnson. I'm Tammy "the cumdump."

The knowledge sinks in, leaving a bitter aftertaste as my orgasm subsides, leaving me gasping and spent. Their laughter fills the car.

Yes, I just came in the back of a shitty car, sandwiched between two guys I've known for years. Yes, these men have used me for their pleasure. And yes, their convincing arguments and manipulation have eroded my resistance, pushing me closer to accepting this fucked up role they've crafted for me.

And then Jerry and Arnold cum.

Arnold's grip on my hair tightens, his breath hitching as he thrusts into my mouth, my lips wrapped around his cock. His hips jerk, his moans growing louder, "Oh fuck, oh fuck, Tammy…"

His cock twitches, and then I taste it — a thick, hot, salty gush of cum. It fills my mouth, sears down my throat, gooey and sticky, a potent symbol of Arnold's victory over me. His laughter, rough and triumphant, fills the car as he unloads himself.

"Take it… take it all," he groans, his hips still jerking erratically as rope after rope of warm, viscous cum fills my mouth. It's pungent, the bitterness coating my tongue, forcing me to swallow again and again.

Simultaneously, I feel Jerry's cock pulsate inside me. His cock throbs, his balls tightening against me. His body language screams his impending release. "Oh God, Tammy... so fucking good…" He grunts, and then he's pumping into me relentlessly, a rapid-fire series of thrusts that send me spiraling again into a whirlwind of sensation.

Then, I feel it—the hot injection of his cum deep within my pussy, painting my insides with his sticky warmth. His grunts of satisfaction fill the car as he empties himself into me, claiming his victory in the wettest, most humiliating way possible.

My insides churn with his cum, a foreign, alien feeling, as I'm inseminated in my most intimate place. Jerry's possessive growl rings in my ears as his hips grind into me one last time before he pulls out, leaving me gaping and dripping with his spend.

"Fuck…fuck… look at that, Arnie," Jerry chuckles, his voice a hoarse whisper as he guides his softening cock out of me. A glut of his cum follows, spilling out of my pussy in a creeping, warm stream down my thigh.

Arnold pulls away finally, my mouth abruptly empty. I can still taste him, the lingering residue of his cum on my tongue. He laughs, a harsh, cruel sound that echoes through the car. "She loves it, Jerry… look at her, fucking look at her… She loves being our little slut."

The car is choked with the smell of sex, the windows fogged up from the heat we've generated. My pussy pulses, Jerry's cum seeping from me, coating my thighs and the car seat beneath me. My stomach churns with Arnold's deposited load, the thick, pungent fluid sitting heavily. I place a hand on my bare belly, below my stained white crop top.

I gasp for air, my body shaking from the intensity of my orgasm, the aftershocks making me twitch and squirm. I feel used, but there's also an odd satisfaction, an unexpected elation that sends a wave of warmth coursing through me.

Jerry and Arnold collapse in the back seat, sandwiching me between their still panting bodies. Their sweat-soaked shirts cling to their bodies, their foreheads beaded with perspiration. Their harsh, ragged breaths echo in the car, filling the silence that follows our frenzied coupling.

They're high-fiving over me, their sweaty palms slapping together, their faces awash with a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. "Fuck, that was the best," Jerry groans, his voice hoarse. Arnold laughs, a deep, rumbling belly laugh that vibrates against me.

I gulp, trying desperately to swallow the remnants of Arnold's cum. It slides down my throat, leaving a sickly-sweet taste in my mouth. A shudder runs through me, and leaves me feeling off balance.

A wave of self-realization washes over me, the enormity of what's just happened sinking in. I've just had willing sex with my two childhood friends - no bets involved this time. They've just used me, taken from me, filled me with their cum.

And god, I… enjoyed it. It was fucking amazing.

The powerful orgasm, the ripples of pleasure, the way my body responded… fuck.

The humiliation is intense, of course, the debasement so complete. But despite it, I find myself smiling, a small, shaky smile that feels out of place on my face. Maybe, I can live with that part.

I swallow the rest of Arnold's load down and say, "Okay, I...I'll be your slut."

The word 'slut' hangs heavily in the air, a stark reminder of the line we've crossed. Their eyes widen with surprise, their gazes locked on me.

I add hastily in an attempt to tame their rising enthusiasm, "At least for today."

They both break into grins, their laughter raucous and loud. Their hands clasp mine, their sweaty palms warm and sticky against my skin.

My heart flutters with a strange mix of apprehension and anticipation. All of a sudden, the entire ordeal doesn't seem as damning anymore. It feels liberating, even empowering in a twisted, perverse way. I've allowed them to control me, to push me past my boundaries, but in the end, I've made the choice, I've taken the reins. For once, I feel like I'm in control, even if it means being their 'slut.'

I try to convince myself that this newfound liberation is the reason behind my unexpected acquiescence. I teeter on the edge of this realization, my mind caught in the whirlwind of the intensity of my enjoyment. It's a slippery slope, a dangerous precipice that I've thrown myself off without a second thought. A flurry of conflicting emotions—shame, lust, submission, liberation—all intermingled and pulling me under.

"And tomorrow?" Jerry smirks, a knowing glint in his eyes. "And the day after?"

Arnold chuckles, his hand tugging at my hair. "Yeah, Tammy, are you our little slut forever?"

"Stop it!" I protest, blushing at their crude teasing. "Just for today, okay? Let's see how things go."

Their laughter fills the car again, their gleeful mirth a stark contrast to the turmoil swirling inside me. As they bask in their triumph, I find myself sinking further into this strange and enticing rabbit hole I've plunged headfirst into.

Amidst all the lewdness, the shame, and the satisfaction, I find myself on the cusp of an unexpected revelation. Love it or hate it, this slut roleplay has a twisted allure that I can't deny. The crude pleasure, the overpowering sensation of being taken, it's all so intoxicating, so sinfully appealing.

And in this moment, inside this hot, sweaty car, as the guys collapse around me, their spent cocks soft and sticky with the evidence of our debauchery, I realize, I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.

***

The following day, we're back to our old routine—three guys huddled around a table littered with Magic: The Gathering cards, the familiar smell of cardboard and pizza filling the air. The camaraderie is comfortable, a well-worn groove for us, but the stakes have returned. Once again, we're betting on who will be next to pop the pill, the pink X-Change capsule sitting innocently beside the pile of lands and creatures.

As we shuffle and deal our hands, I can't shake the feeling that the odds are already against me. I watch as Jerry draws what I assume is an impeccable hand, his sly grin peeking from behind his cards. Arnold seems equally lucky, each draw aligning perfectly with his strategy. I try to focus on my own cards, but it's a mess of mismatched spells and not enough mana, even after a mulligan.

The game goes suspiciously quickly, my defenses crumbling under their relentless assault. It's as if they know exactly what I'm holding, anticipating every move with an uncanny precision that borders on the supernatural—or maybe just the sneaky.

"Looks like you lose again!" Arnold announces triumphantly, laying down his final card.

Jerry chuckles, patting the pill with mock reverence. "Could've been any of us, man. Seriously."

I stare down at the little pink tablet, its innocent color mocking me. Resigned and pretty sure they cheated—somehow—I reach out and pick it up.

"And don't worry," Arnold says, already looking a little too excited, "we're using Jerry's bed. None of this car shit. We'll treat you nice!"

Jerry agrees, a leer spreading across his face. "Yeah, and after that, we can all chill and watch a movie or something. Tammy can even pick it out."

"Got some new stamina supplements, too," Arnold adds with a wink. "Bet she'll climax twice."

It's emasculating, humiliating, being discussed like I'm not even here. Being talked about like I'm just a piece of meat. But the most disturbing part is that deep down, beneath the shame and the desire to protest, I feel an eager anticipation.

A flurry of emotions courses through me—anger, indignation, excitement, arousal. I've been reduced to this new role in our friendship, and they revel in it. To them, I'm not really Timmy anymore. I'm just the shell that could house Tammy.

"Alright, let's do this," I hear myself say, a steely resolve in my voice that I don't recognize. "But remember, this is just for a little while. Next time, it will be one of you. Right?"

"Of course, Tammy," Jerry soothes, his voice oozing mock sincerity. "Just a little while."

I look at both of them, their eager faces framed with a mix of excitement and an unsettling surety. They know I'll cave. They always know.

The pill represents a transformation that goes deeper than just body and appearance—it's a shift of power, a realignment of identities.

The conclusion washes over me. I will more than likely mostly be Tammy from now on—and no longer their wingwoman, but their willing relief.

And they, mine.

I take a deep breath and take the pill.

The story of Timmy really ends, not with a physical transformation, but with the soft gulp as I swallow, the pill sliding down my throat, signifying the irrevocable change within.