This is a taster of the first story I'm posting on my SubscribeStar, titled Nashville Nights. Victor Steele is a reality changer who plans on transforming each member of a bachelorette party, one by one, by altering their pasts and watching as their present-day selves become increasingly sexualized versions of who they once were. Each woman will have three core memories altered, and Victor will, as he always does, save the bride for last*

To find out what happens next, have early access to work I publish elsewhere, and exclusive access to erotic stories and art I can't publish anywhere else, subscribe today!

The neon lights of Broadway pulse with energy as another Nashville night unfolds. You've walked these streets countless times, invisible among the crowds of tourists and locals alike. You are a reality changer — someone born with the extraordinary ability to rewrite the past and watch as the present morphs to accommodate new histories.

You've used this gift over the years, sometimes for profit, sometimes for revenge, and occasionally just for entertainment. Tonight, you're simply walking, observing the chaos of honky-tonk bars and bachelorette parties that flood the streets.

That's when you notice them: a group of seven women, clearly celebrating. They wear matching sashes and tiaras, laughing loudly as they stumble between bars. One of them, a tall brunette in designer jeans, makes eye contact with you and whispers something to her friend. They both laugh, and you catch the tail end of their comment: something about your appearance, dismissive and mocking.

You smile to yourself. They have no idea what they've just invited into their evening.

You've decided to engage. To teach them a lesson about judging strangers. Or perhaps just to entertain yourself by watching their pristine lives unravel into something far more...interesting.

You move through the crowd, your dazzling, confident smile already in place before you reach them. The two women who mocked you are still giggling together when you step into their circle, close enough that they have to acknowledge you.

The tall brunette in designer jeans stops mid-laugh, her eyes widening slightly as you address them directly. Up close, she's striking — maybe twenty-eight, with artfully highlighted chestnut hair that falls in beach waves past her shoulders, sharp hazel eyes, and the kind of bone structure that suggests money and good breeding. Her friend beside her is a redhead with pale skin dusted with freckles, wearing a sundress that shows off toned arms. Both of them exchange a glance.

"Ladies, good evening," you say, with a tone that could melt butter, or something far, far more precious. "My name is Victor Steele. I couldn't help but...overhear your conversation. Let me buy you a drink,"

"Oh," the brunette says, recovering quickly with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "That's...actually really nice of you. I'm Madison, and this is Harper." She gestures to the redhead, who offers a more genuine smile.

"We weren't —" Harper starts, but Madison cuts her off with a light touch to her arm.

"Let me find the bride," Madison says, turning to scan the group. "CLAIRE! Someone wants to buy you a drink!"

A blonde woman near the entrance of the bar turns at the sound of her name. She's radiant in the way brides often are on their special nights — mid-twenties, with honey-blonde hair styled in loose curls, bright blue eyes, and an infectious smile that transforms her pretty features into something luminous. She's wearing a white sash that reads 'BRIDE TO BE' and a small tiara sits atop her head. Her dress is tasteful but celebratory — a fitted cream-colored cocktail dress that hits mid-thigh.

"Someone's buying me drinks?" Claire navigates through her friends with practiced grace, a cosmopolitan already in hand. "Well, aren't you a gentleman! I'm Claire Whitmore — well, soon to be Claire Harrison." Her smile is warm, unsuspicious. "These are my girls. We're doing the whole Broadway experience tonight."

As she gestures to the group, you take stock of the others. There's a shorter woman with dark curly hair and olive skin wearing a black romper -- she's watching you with intelligent dark eyes, arms crossed but not hostile. Another blonde, taller and more athletic than Claire, stands beside her in jeans and a sequined top. Two more women round out the group: one with sleek black hair in a sharp bob, wearing what looks like expensive business casual, and another with wavy brown hair and glasses, dressed more conservatively in slacks and a blouse.

"So what brings a lone wolf to Broadway on a Friday night?" Claire asks, her tone friendly but with an edge of curiosity. Madison and Harper have moved closer, clearly still processing your unexpected approach.

------------

It's January 5th, 2026. Three days ago, your friend ChadPilled_Steve posted a particularly ridiculous piece of AI art in the Discord server — a gyaru so cartoonishly busty she could have her own gravitational field. Your other friend, who goes by 'DarkSoulsIsEasy' (it isn't), declared 2026 to be the 'Year of the Gyaru.' What followed was four hours of escalating insanity: gyaru edits, gyaru tier lists, gyaru lore debates, a fifteen-minute argument about whether a gyaru could beat Goku.

Then everyone moved on. Edmund McMillen announced something. Life continued.

Until this morning, when you found a small spray can on your desk labeled 'GYARU SPRAY.' You did what any reasonable person would do. You pointed it at your girlfriend Megan while she was making eggs and pushed down on the button.

The mist enveloped her completely, causing her to cough. Her transformation was instantaneous and thorough: enormous breasts straining against a suddenly-materialized cropped schoolgirl top, deep brown artificial tan, bottle-blonde hair in two high pigtails, platform boots, the works. Even her facial features shifted, as though someone had hit a slider labeled 'Japanese ancestry' about fifty percent to the right.

Megan stood in the kitchen, holding a spatula, staring down at herself. You were already taking pictures.

The photos are on Discord now. And X. But not Bluesky. Buncha scolds on Bluesky. Your notifications are going nuclear. ChadPilled_Steve has sent forty-seven messages in the last three minutes. DarkSoulsIsEasy simply typed 'YEAR OF THE GYARU IS REAL' in all caps, seventeen times.

Megan, meanwhile, is still standing in the kitchen. She hasn't said much yet. The eggs are charred beyond all recognition.

You lower your phone and meet Megan's eyes. She's staring back at you with an expression somewhere between concern and mild annoyance, the kind of look that says she's trying to figure out what weird thing is happening inside your head now.

"Babe, the eggs," she says, gesturing with the spatula. Her voice has the same slightly nasal quality it always had, maybe a touch breathier now. "You gonna help or just...stand there?"

She turns back to the stove, scraping the blackened eggs onto a plate with an efficiency that says she's done this before. The cropped schoolgirl top rides up as she reaches for the pan, exposing a strip of tanned midriff. Her movements are natural, unselfconscious. She's worn this outfit a thousand times before, in her mind.

"Seriously, what's up with you?" She glances over her shoulder, blonde pigtails swaying. "You're doing the staring thing again. It's creepy."

The apartment suddenly feels very small. Your phone is buzzing against the counter like an angry hornet. Through the window, you can see Mrs. Chen from 3B doing tai chi on her balcony. The coffee maker gurgles. Normal Monday morning sounds.

Megan dumps the ruined eggs in the trash and starts cracking new ones into the pan. "And why were you taking pictures? I told you I look like shit in the morning." She doesn't look like shit. She looks like a character creation screen where someone maxed out every slider and then added a few more sliders that probably shouldn't exist.

She pauses, wooden spoon halfway to the pan. "Wait, you posted something, didn't you? Derek." There's a warning in her voice now, the same tone she uses when you've done something technically allowed but spiritually questionable. "What did you post?"

Your phone buzzes again. And again. The Discord notification sound is going absolutely feral. From here, you can see the edge of the screen: 127 new messages in #general.

"Derek." She's fully turned around now, spatula pointed at you like a weapon. "Show me your phone."