Mark clawed at the wooden stool beneath him as he sat in the backroom of Bangkok’s Kinnaree Parlor, knuckles whitening around his fourth beer bottle. His head lolled toward the bar owner’s lacquered nails, tapping a vial of glittering gold dust. “You said… said this is a quick side hustle,” he slurred, throat tight beneath his loosened tie. “Just moving packages, not working in your shitty bar.”

Maline smirked, her cropped silk blouse straining against curves that had bankrupted diplomats. “You think farang boys get pretty tips carrying drugs?” She unscrewed the vial, thumb brushing his slack lower lip. “Real product’s what you swallow.” Before he could react, she blew the powder across his face.

He gagged, swiping at his nose as glitter stuck to his stubble. “The fuck!” The room tilted. His tongue thickened, syllables melting. “I… I no feel…good. What thing you throw? Make head… spinny.”

“An investment.” Maline leaned back, observing. “And I’m sure you’ll be worth every spec of whore-gold.”

Mark’s hands flew to his chest as cotton strained. Buttons pinged against whiskey bottles, his pecs swelling. Hot, relentless flesh began to spill between his trembling fingers. “Ch-chii mai… why tits grow?!” His voice cracked upward, panic sharpening to a squeak. “You bitch, you…”

“Language.” Maline snapped her fingers as his budding breasts jiggled under the sweat-soaked fabric, nipples hardening. “Bar girls smile and beg. Say please when their new pussies drip.”

His shorts split audibly, cock shrinking into a flushed nub as something hotter and wetter bloomed beneath. “No, no, no!” He doubled over, suddenly smooth hands scrambling between thighs that now kissed mid-thigh. His skin deepened to a sun-kissed gold while his jawline softened.

“Stop! I smart! I man! I…”

“Man?” Maline laughed, low and honeyed. “Look down.”

Mark whimpered, fingers sinking into pillowy tits that spilled from the ruined remains of his clothes. His hips jutted beneath destroyed shorts that felt tight against inflated flesh. Every roll of his waist pulled a choked giggle from his now thick lips. “But… but I farang…”

“Not anymore.” Maline gripped his chin, forcing him to face a foggy mirror behind the bar. A Bangkok bar girl blinked back: plump mouth quivering, cheekbones kissed by sun and jet hair cascading over exposed brown shoulders. “Now you real Thai. Perfect for tourists who want… local taste.”

Mark moaned, back arching as his cunt clenched around nothing. “Why… why brain feel empty? Why only want… want cock?” His accent thickened, English crumbling beneath tonal vowels. “Why do this, na?”

“Better tips.” Maline palmed his breast, thumb circling a nipple until Mark moaned. “You’ll kneel in bathroom stalls. Ride farang drunks for pocket change. And every night…” She popped the vial’s cap, dust swirling. “… you’ll beg me for another hit. You see, you will always crave this feeling. There is no escape.”

Mark’s thighs glistened, his new body thrumming with need. He tried to protest, but the words dissolved into a moan as his fingers dipped between his legs. “Please…” He grabbed Maline’s wrist, guiding it to his soaked underwear. “Do me now, na ka. Need it bad.”

Maline tsked, withdrawing. “Earn it.” She tossed him a sequined dress and matching heels. “No need for underwear. Wear this and earn it with three customers before closing. Make them cum quick.”

Mark stumbled off the stool and put on the clothes. Was it the powder that made him so compliant? Made him so incredibly needy that he would do anything to cum? He teetered towards the curtain, his hips swaying as he blew a kiss over his shoulder. “Joo see… I sucky-sucky best, na ka.” The bar’s roar swallowed his giggles as he melted into the crowd, fingers trailing down a tourist’s chest. Maline pocketed the vial. By sunrise, her ledger would balance in her favor: one worthless farang against twelve prepaid bookings in her VIP rooms.