Professional
An office employee catches the bimboification bug, turning him into an ideal secretary for his boss. Explicit.
With a pile of forms in hand to take back to Legal, Tristan stepped into the hall and nearly bumped right into a woman tearing down toward the elevators as fast as her towering high heels could carry her. He staggered back against the wall as she gasped out "Sorry!" over her shoulder.
Tristan stared after her as she clicked down the hall. Her garishly bright purple leopard-print dress barely restrained her overtly sexual figure. Tristan didn't want to be rude, but at the very least, that outfit was unbelievably unprofessional. What did she think she was doing, coming into an office building looking like that?
He shook his head and followed the hall down to the elevators. By the time he reached them, the woman was gone and the elevator was ticking down toward the lower floors. He leaned in close and hit the up button.
Tristan watched his own reflection in the mirrored elevator doors. He had a short-trimmed head of dark hair, a boyish look, and a polite, almost apologetic smile. He sagged underneath the weight of the stack of papers as he shifted them from one arm to another. He worked in Legal, but he wasn't a lawyer, not even a paralegal. Just a clerk, which meant he took care of all the menial tasks that the people with law degrees were too busy to do.
The elevator doors rolled open and Tristan stepped inside, hitting the button for the nineteenth floor. As the doors slid shut, he wiggled his fingers and brushed them together. The woman in the ridiculous outfit had grazed them as she ran by. Sliding the forms over to his other arm, he was able to let go of the stack and hold his hand up in front of him.
Somehow, two of his nails—pointer and middle finger—had grown. A pair of smooth, white slivers stuck out beyond his fingertips, shaped and rounded as if they'd been manicured. Had he somehow...forgotten to cut two of his fingernails? He would have noticed at some point, surely.
The elevator chimed: nineteenth floor. The doors rolled open and Tristan balanced the papers between his arms again as he set out toward his cubicle.
After setting the forms down for a moment, Tristan pulled open his desk drawer and grabbed out a pair of nail clippers. He spun around to face his trash can, then paused. Fingers splayed, he looked down at five neatly manicured nails, all polished and filed.
"What the...?" he murmured. He glanced up, looking around. Was this some kind of prank someone was trying to pull? He took his right hand, the one with the new nails, and laid it on top of his left hand. Were his fingers on his right hand smaller?
Blushing faintly, he pulled his hands apart and looked around again. The other cubicles were all quiet with the buzz of work, faint sounds of typing or papers shuffling. Maybe this was in his head, he told himself. Maybe he was just stressed. Clearing his throat and straightening his slim slacks, he grabbed the stack of papers and carried them to the printer to scan.
As he tapped in the settings for the scan job, his nails clicked with every touch. He pulled his right hand away, balled it up into a fist, and used his left instead. But as he typed, he heard that same clack of nail against touchscreen. Uh-oh. He looked down at his left hand, now sporting a matching manicure. He curled his fingers over, pressing them against his palm. His fingers themselves looked thinner and more delicate.
Something tickled the back of Tristan's calves. He glanced over his shoulder, down at his pants. His pant legs had risen up a few inches, showing off his ankles and a small bit of leg, as if they were cut like capris. He grabbed the seat of his pants and tried to tug the waistband down, but he could only push it so far. His lower calves were left bare.
Tristan's nails clacked at the screen as he finished typing in his email. He shuffled his feet. His pants rose up higher, until they reached down only to his knees. The stitches along the inside of his legs prickled. They opened up, then merged with the seams on the opposite sides. His hand darted down to grab the hem of his pants; what he found wasn't slacks, but a skirt. Still knee-length, same gray cotton as his slacks, but a skirt.
Tristan heard footsteps behind him. He stiffened as one of his co-workers passed by behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he stole a glance over his shoulder, seeing how low his coworker's gaze had dropped. Blushing more profusely, he reached back and gave his rear an experimental squeeze. It was soft and snug in the skirt, stretching it taut with its supple curves. The realization dawned on him that he had just been checked out.
He shuddered and tore his hands away to tap the start button. The printer began sucking the forms in and scanning them one by one. Tristan walked briskly back to his desk, eager to sit down and get his newly-enhanced ass out of sight. He couldn't take strides as long as he was used to without making his skirt ride up. With shorter, faster steps, he hurried back into his cubicle and plopped into his chair.
His thighs rubbed together. Something was off: his skin was too smooth. Leaning forward, he put his hands on his knees and slid them down his legs, feeling nothing but soft, hairless skin all the way down to his socks. A little tremble rose into his chest and he let out a sigh. His silky skin felt extra-sensitive to the touch.
Tristan sat back in his chair, his weight settling onto his softer ass like he had a plush cushion tucked underneath him. He had to think. What could have caused this? He brushed his hair back with one hand and held the other in front of him, looking over his slim fingers and neatly filed nails.
When the woman passed him in the hall, she had just barely brushed his hand. His right hand had been where it had started, then after putting his hands together it had spread to his left hand, then to his pants after he'd touched them...
Tristan shot up from his chair and put his hand over his mouth to keep from crying out. Bad instinct. He tore his hand away and made a beeline for the men's bathroom. Locking the door behind him, he turned on the hot water and lathered his hands with soap. He scrubbed over and around and between his fingers, hoping to get off whatever had gotten onto them.
As he washed, a sleek, almost tickling feeling crept up his legs. He brushed his calves together, thinking it was just a hair, or a bit of thread. It was only when he paused and looked down that he saw what it really was. A pair of sheer black stockings climbed up his legs, flowing out of the tops of his socks.
The nylons squeezed his calves and thighs, gently reshaping them. His knees went weak but he caught himself on the counter. His stockings forced his calves tighter and smoother, while his thighs thickened out underneath his skirt. Stocking slipped against stocking as his hips widened. The pencil skirt hugged warmly against his legs, now a tight squeeze around his shapely hips.
Tristan chewed on his lip anxiously. What could he do? Even if he could keep from getting more parts of his body wrapped up in this, his legs had already gone fully feminine. The thought of trying to explain this to his boss Olivia made his stomach twist.
A lock of hair flopped down in front of his eyes and he shook it away, trying to keep his hands from touching the rest of his body. Hold on. His hair wasn't long enough to reach his eyes. He looked up into the bathroom mirror. A shock of blonde hair hung down over his forehead on one side. He gripped the counter and leaned closer—the strands of his dark hair lost their color, lightening into a pale platinum blonde, and grew longer. If he held still, he could watch the slow advance of blonde hair across his scalp and down across his cheeks and chin.
His long blonde locks draped down to his shoulders. Tristan swallowed dryly and stared into the mirror. He'd have to tell his boss somehow. He'd take some sick leave and deal with this. If he didn't touch anything else of his, maybe this wouldn't get any worse.
Tristan stepped back from the counter and took a step toward the bathroom door. As his foot came down, he wobbled, tipping forward and nearly falling over. His heels clicked beneath him as he staggered to keep himself upright. His plain, professional black shoes had become a pair of black pumps, with a heel about two inches tall. The tip-toed, high-heeled posture put him off balance, yet he didn't feel any burn in his calves. His body was used to heels, even if he wasn't.
Each blink felt a little heavier. Tristan paused and glanced in the mirror again: a bit of mascara graced his eyelashes, complementing the light eyeliner tracing the edges of his eyelids. He hadn't even touched his face! But his hair had--his blonde hair, now dominating the front half of his head and quickly filling in the back.
And if his hair was just as contagious as his hands were, then... He reached back, pulling up all of his thick blonde locks that he could, lifting them off his shoulders and away from his shirt. With a few expert twists of his hair, he had pulled it back into a tight bun. The quick snap of a hair tie held it all in place.
How did he know how to do that? Where had that hair tie come from? He'd just had it on his wrist, like it had appeared out of nowhere.
Tristan needed to get out of the office before things got worse. He slipped back out of the bathroom, resisting the urge to tug the hem of his skirt down. In his heels, he strutted back to his cubicle. He grabbed his phone and car keys...then looked down at his pocketless skirt.
Glancing around, he spotted a small black purse sitting on the floor. He knew it wasn't his, and yet there wasn't anyone else's it could have been. Looking at it, it felt so strangely familiar, like it was his. He bent at the waist to pick it up. As he did, he realized how much he was putting on display for anyone standing behind him. A sudden flush rose to his cheeks. He snapped back up and shoved his things into his purse, then slung it over his shoulder.
One hand clung to the strap of his purse and the other swung by his side as he walked down the hall toward his boss's office. He kept his head low, hoping at the very least that no one would recognize him. He'd ask Olivia for sick leave, she'd say yes, and he'd go home.
His shirt tucked tighter around his waist and pulled inward across the shoulders, readjusting to fit a slimmer frame. As the shrinking fabric squeezed him around the waist, his stomach pinched inward. As it hugged his sides, his torso grew slimmer. He tried to keep his breathing calm and steady, but his changing chest squeezed air from his lungs, leaving him gasping softly for breath.
The blouse that his shirt had become clung closer to him than should have been possible. He was used to his body taking up a certain amount of space. Having the smooth cotton right up against his skin made him feel like a part of him was missing, like he had been stripped down to nothing.
In the middle of the hallway, Tristan's feet froze. He bent over and slumped against the wall. His chest ached, throbbing with each beat of his heart. He gingerly lifted his hand to touch the front of his blouse, pressing his fingers into the soft skin and feeling it press back. With each heartbeat, a little more pressure, a little more volume. He rolled back, shoulders pushed up against the wall. He shoved his chest forward and tried to stifle a moan behind his lips.
His new bosom surged forward against the front of his blouse. The top was tucked snug into the waistband of his skirt, but the sudden growth of his bustline dragged more of the blouse up. He was left panting, looking down at his moderately-sized rack as it pulled the front of his blouse forward.
"Oh god, o-oh god," he gasped. His voice cracked and slipped up an octave to a sweeter, more feminine register.
Power-walking as best he could in pumps, Tristan nearly made it to his boss's office. He was feet away when something hit him square in the gut. He groaned and bent over and clutched his stomach. His cheeks were red and he gasped for air. Underneath his underwear, his erection rose. It pressed against the front of his skirt and curled downward. His muscles clenched and his shaft spasmed. A whine slipped out of his nose. He couldn't move; his legs felt like jelly.
Reaching down, he tried to push against the swell of his erection, to force it back down, but it throbbed again. His eyelids fluttered and his teeth grit together. Something shifted deep inside of him. Something warm and tight and swollen with blood throbbed its way down through his body. It felt like some strange sort of orgasm he'd never felt before, coming in waves as it spread his body open from the inside out.
Dimly, he realized that people's heads were poking into the hall, drawn by his moans, watching him change. His cheeks burned in embarrassment, but his knees could hardly hold him up, let alone drag him to privacy.
Another throb. He was leaning against the wall, gasping and panting. Another. He twisted his heels against the carpet and tugged at his skirt. Another. He was just as stiff, but the tent in his skirt was shrinking. His underwear tightly cupped his soft ass and retreating shaft. Another. His eyes rolled back and he bucked his hips involuntarily. The taut, aching force inside of him was spreading his crotch open. Another throb. His voice cracked. Lost in the strange, new pleasure was the feeling of his balls sliding up inside of him. Another. A squealing moan left his lips as his knees and thighs squeezed together.
The last throb. At least, it started off as one, but it became a rushing burst of pleasure that left Tristan gasping for breath against the wall. As his cock pulsed smaller and smaller, it sank back against the soft, puffy folds now nestled between Tristan's legs, until it was nothing more than the swollen clit capping her tender pussy.
An aftershock drew a squeak from the new woman's throat, and sent a small shudder along her spine. A splash of fluid trickled from between her folds, dampening the front of her panties, dripping a few drops onto the carpeted floor.
Tristan groped for the door handle and pushed it open, stumbling inside her boss's office and shutting the door behind her. The office was empty; Olivia must have stepped out. Thank god, Tristan thought. She needed some time to collect herself and deal with...with being a woman.
With a careful touch, she peeled off her panties. They were soaked from her orgasm, and she didn't know what to do with them. She tucked them into the trash can and tried to shuffle some papers on top of them so they weren't obviously visible. Tristan wanted a good look at herself; she needed a mirror. Her hand dipped into her purse almost automatically and drew out a compact. Better than nothing, at least. She flipped it open to look herself over.
Thank god she wasn't garish and overdone like that woman in the purple leopard print, she thought to herself. She batted stray locks of blonde hair back into her bun, checked her modest makeup, straightened her blouse. A new gender was a hell of a change already. At least she still looked professional.
Tris snapped her compact shut and stuck it back in her purse, then sunk down into one of the chairs by the door. Curious about her manicure, she stuck out her hands in front of her. Her nails weren't the same as before, though. They were turning pastel pink from the cuticle out. She blinked, eyes slowly widening. Nail polish painted itself along her growing nails. The tips were about a half-inch long, and their tapered shape seemed to make her fingers all the more slim and delicate.
"H-hey, no," she said, turning her hands over quickly, like she might find some way to stop it. "I'm already a girl. Stop!"
Tris shot up to her feet and clicked over to Olivia's desk. She pulled open the drawers and glanced over the desktop, searching for nail polish remover. But Olivia didn't wear nail polish, so her search turned up nothing.
Tris stepped back from the desk and took deep breaths to calm down. Maybe that was the end of it? Maybe the nails were the final bit and now she'd be done. Maybe—
"Eep!" Tris squealed, bending at the waist. She toppled onto Olivia's desk, her feet curled and her ass held high in the air. Her asscheek stung as if someone had just spanked her, still tingling in a blend of pain and pleasure. The sharp crack against her ass came again and she curled her rear into the air and squeaked. Her skirt rode up past her knees, climbing up her thighs. With a snap, the fabric shimmered into tight leather.
Tris reached back gingerly, rubbing her hand over her ass. Her rounded rear was squeezed tightly into the skirt. The hem didn't even reach halfway down her thighs and left the tops of her stockings bare, exposing an inch or two of skin. She tried to tug the skirt down, but the leather refused to budge.
Tris's pussy was hot and aching again, and now with her panties gone it was bare against the cool air. She pressed her legs together, puffing softly, trying to keep her emotions under control. This wasn't good. She'd thought this was done, but it seemed there was more in store.
Tris started to push herself up with her hands. She had almost stood back up when a sharp pinch on the backs of her calves sent her toppling down again. The shape of her shoe curled around her foot, pressing her toes downward and lifting her heels higher off the ground. She rolled to one side and kicked her foot up so she could see. The surface of her shoes were a glossy pastel pink, and the heel lifted a full six inches off the floor. Her calves ached as she straightened her knees and planted her feet on the floor, teetering on the thin heels.
Putting her hair in the bun had kept it out of sight and out of mind, but now her scalp began to tingle. Hair poured out in thicker, longer locks, shimmering into a brighter platinum blonde. The hair tie snapped off and her hair tumbled over her shoulders and down her back. It was long, and silky, and fell into natural waves that framed her face.
Tris batted her bangs away from her face and leaned against the desk. This second rush of changes had followed the same pattern as the first, hadn't it? If that was the case, then next would be...her face.
She plopped her purse onto the desk and dug the compact out of it. Flipping it open, she tried to get a good look at herself, but she could only catch chunks of her reflection in the small mirror. She watched her mascara thicken and her eyeliner feather out at the corners, making her blue eyes pop. Blue? That was new. She turned her head to the side and stroked her cheek. Her features grew softer and more gentle, rounding out her face, smoothing down her chin, making her nose more subtle.
Her lips already had a clear gloss on them, but as she watched, she could see the pink swelling out over them. Her lips themselves softened just enough to give her a gentle, natural pout. Her brow furrowed as she pouted deliberately, then snapped the compact closed again.
That was her face, which mean next...
Her eyes fell down to her blouse. That morning, Tris had put on a light blue shirt, but now, it was off-white, almost pinkish. She carefully laid a pink nail on top of one of the buttons. Her back arched suddenly, thrusting her chest forward, a loud moan slipping from her lips. It was the same thick surge of mass she'd felt before but stronger, more intense. The new size of her breasts dragged the neckline of her blouse open. The plain cotton turned to a shimmering satin texture as the pink intensified.
Tris reached up and cupped her breasts. Bent at the waist, chest heaving, she tried to hold them back, or at least to hold them steady while they grew. Her fingers spread around the swelling mounds, while the buttons on her blouse kept snapping open, letting free more of her cleavage. Each side of her blouse was snug around her growing bust, wrapping tight over the prominent curve of her breasts even without a bra. The mounds were too big for her hands to hold in, but she still cupped them, rubbing her fingers across the taut fabric with her burgeoning tits just beneath.
Each breath now made her cleavage rise and fall between the sides of her blouse. The buttons popped open, all the way down nearly to the bottom of her bust, leaving a huge gulf of cleavage exposed. Being female was entirely new to Tris, so she had no basis for telling what sort of cup size she was, but it had to be up there at the end of the octave with the F's and G's.
"Oh god," she gasped. Her hand went to her throat. Her vocal cords tickled, like she was about to cough, but instead what came out was a breathy "ohh." Her voice was high and soft and pleasant to the ear, and sounded nothing like she had as a man.
That was it then, right? That covered everything that—
Her pussy throbbed. Her back arched and she squeaked out in her new voice and clutched at the front of her skirt. She tried to push her legs together, but she was too sensitive. The rubbing drove her crazy and she had to part her legs again. It throbbed again, and a small drop ran down her bare folds and fell onto the carpet. Little gasps and grunts slipped from her nose as she cast around the room, looking for something to hide her dripping.
Another pulse hit her and she staggered, running her hand back through her hair and clutching the hem of her skirt. Each new throb was a jolt through her whole body, a jump-start to her sex drive that she couldn't fight. It was all she could do to keep from pulling up her skirt and fingering herself right there in her boss's office.
This was too much. Tris had to go home. She'd tell her boss it was a medical emergency and she had to leave. She took one step and then another pulse hit her. "Nnnh!" she grunted, eyes fluttering briefly. A few drops of her juices fell to the floor as she clutched her purse. Time to go, she thought, reaching for the door.
The door swung open and Tris walked right into Olivia. Her boss, only about ten years her senior, was a brunette, and wore a jacket, blouse, and a much more respectable pencil skirt. "Oh!" Olivia gasped, stepping back and looking up at Tris, whose wide eyes were only enhanced by her makeup.
"Who are you and what are you doing in my office?" Olivia asked. She looked Tris up and down, lips pursed but a hungry look in her eyes. As Olivia pulled the door shut, Tris's eyes were drawn to the front of Olivia's blouse. In a spreading patch across the front of her chest, the fabric was shifting into tight black leather.
Tris gulped softly. "I-it's me, Tristan, I got turned into a girl. I need some time off. I'll use up my sick leave if I have to," she said. Her eyes darted down to Olivia's chest again, which was slowly cre-e-eaking forward against the low-cut leather blouse. Then she looked back up at Olivia's face, where her boss's red lipstick had grown thicker and brighter.
It was possibly the worst moment for another needy throb from her pussy. Her hands balled into fists and she tried to gulp to hide her whimper and the drops of her juices falling to the floor.
A smile crossed Olivia's face. Her eyeliner subtly thickened and her jacket clung tighter to the curve of her growing bustline. Her chin-length dark hair slowly draped down to her neck, then fell across her shoulders.
"I won't approve your time off," she said. Tris began breathing heavily, feeling a rush of confusion, indignation, and panic. "But I will give you some new responsibilities. I've wanted a secretary for a while now, and I like you much more as a woman. Welcome to your new job," Olivia said. Her smile broke into a grin as she reached out and squeezed Tris's chin between her fingers.
The ache between Tris's legs made her want to just melt into Olivia's hands, but she couldn't. She forced herself to stay standing and to look Olivia right in the eyes. She found herself looking up to do so. Olivia's heels were growing into black stilettos, lifting her up higher. Her stockings shimmered from skin-tone into sheer black.
"What if I just leave?" Tris asked. She tried to sound stern; instead she sounded pouty.
"You're not going to," Olivia said. Her longer hair and more sultry makeup matched the low-cut leather blouse and snug black corset she now wore. Her jacket had shrunk, but was still recognizable, hanging off her shoulders and giving her an air of professional authority that made Tris weak in the knees.
"W-why not?" Tris stammered. It was so hard to keep up appearances when faced with someone who was so easily confident. Olivia had always had a commanding presence, but never before had Tris felt that presence directed so intensely at herself.
"Because you're hopelessly horny and you need to be fucked," Olivia said. Her hand slipped from Tris's chin to slide down underneath her skirt. Her fingertips brushed along the new woman's folds, making her shiver and bite down on a heavy groan. "You're not even wearing panties," Olivia said.
Each breath Tris took came fast and deep, squeezing her bosom out against her pink blouse. She wanted to walk out just out of spite, but her legs weren't working. Her body wanted more of Olivia's touch to relieve her desperate ache.
"Now, bend over my desk and get ready to get fucked." Olivia stared straight into Tris's eyes. It wasn't even a choice she could make; before she knew it, she was curled over Olivia's desk, chest against the tabletop and ass in the air.
Tris spared one glance over her shoulder to watch Olivia pulling a strap-on out of one of the drawers of her desk. Her tight leather jacket and blouse and towering stilettos gave her a look somewhere between business professional and dominatrix. She gave the strap-on a little shake, rattling its clasps. "You know, I've kept this here for a while. I want to thank you for giving me a reason to use it."
Another touch on her folds made Tris shudder and moan. Her hair fell down around her like a blonde blanket, flooding Olivia's desk. Olivia drew back her fingers and rubbed them together, then patted Tris's ass cheek. "Look at you. So wet I don't even need lube." She leaned down closer, speaking more quietly. "I hope you enjoy getting to work very closely with me."
Tris shuddered and groaned. A bead of her fluids hung off her folds, wobbling in the air but not falling just yet. She heard the clink and shuffle of a strap-on being pulled on, and then felt Olivia's hands on her hips, holding her steady.
And then the strap-on slid inside her. Even on its own, the feeling of being spread open, of having something long and firm slip inside her and squeeze her as it went, would have sent her reeling. Every inch of her new pussy was aching to feel that pressure, and that only made it more intense. She'd been desperate for what felt like hours, even though it hadn't been even thirty minutes since Tris had started to change.
She didn't need to think about pushing back; it just happened. Bracing herself by gripping the edge of the desk, Tris planted her heels as firmly as she could and pressed up against Olivia's hips. Her nails dug into the underside of the desk and her eyes rolled back. All her concerns about seeming professional had melted away and now she was moaning out loud, gasping for more.
The feeling of being spread open, again and again, was something she'd never imagined enjoying until now. But each thrust made her want more, stoking the new fire that had sprung up deep within her body. Now that she'd had a taste of sex like this, she didn't think she'd ever stop craving it.
Tris lost track of time as they crashed together, Olivia holding her down against the desk, she squealing and squirming and grinding her chest against the tabletop while pushing her ass high into the air.
Her orgasm came like dynamite, leaving her in pieces. Half her body was numb in the afterglow. Her heart pounded away. Little strings of her juices clung to her pussy, her thighs, the desk, as Olivia slipped the strap-on out of her pussy.
With a tug on the back of her blouse, Olivia hauled Tris up to her feet. Tris's eyes were still spinning, her legs still weak. "My first job for you," Olivia said, pushing a roll of paper towels into Tris's hand, "Clean up the mess you made."
---
Tris picked up the phone as it rang and tucked it between her ear and her elbow. "Hello, Olivia's office, how can I help you?" she asked.
The vibrator between her legs clicked on and Tris's thighs squeezed together immediately. With one hand, she gripped her desk; with her other, she held onto the phone. She tried to keep her voice as level as possible. At least no one could see you blush over the phone.
"S-she's going on her break right n-now but I'll have her guh-get back to you as soon as possible, thanks, bye!" she said, rushing out the last couple words before hanging up.
In her tight black miniskirt and pink blouse, the blonde secretary picked herself up from her seat and walked--very carefully--through the door to Olivia's office. Her boss was leaned back in her chair, nearly popping out of the underbust corset and jacket she was wearing, her sharp black heels propped up on her desk, and a small remote in her hand.
"It's time for my break," Olivia said, rubbing the remote with her thumb. "Down on your knees." She punctuated her sentence by clicking the top button, causing the faint buzzing coming from Tris's body to double in volume. She gasped out loud and dropped onto her knees, one hand darting down to make sure the vibrator stayed in place.
Olivia stood up and walked slowly around the desk, making Tris listen to each click of her heels. "You know, I like our new arrangement. Having you around gives me an outlet for all my stress," she said, weaving her fingers through Tris's hair and pulling her head closer as she lifted her skirt.
If Tris's mouth wasn't busy, she would have told Olivia that she liked her new job, too.