Family business

It’s hard to say what’s brighter: the late-morning sun shining through the 45th floor’s glass walls, or Oliver Black’s smile as he basks in a retirement party. The entire executive layer of Sterling & Associates is here, everyone’s lanyards swapped for designer ties and heels, half the men with visible sweat halos, the women somehow unruffled in the face of open bar and what might be the best catering in the city. Oliver, tall and lean in a suit so expensive is working the room with the smooth precision of a man who’s been professionally worshiped for decades. He listens. He nods. He delivers a signature deadpan joke every four or five interactions—just enough to make people feel they’ve earned it.

Oliver’s gaze flicks toward the bar, where Jeffrey Wiker—mid-management, prematurely graying, pinched around the eyes like an over-brewed teabag—nurses his second whiskey. Jeffrey raises his glass in salute, the practiced smile a shade too stiff. Jeffrey never liked crowds. He likes the feeling of knowing every piece on the board and having at least two moves in his back pocket. This party, though—it’s the opposite of controlled. The only thing keeping Jeffrey from grinding his teeth into paste is watching the guest of honor, who, after decades of tight-fisted rule, looks like he might actually relax for once.

Oliver’s voice fills the space—measured, warm, perfectly pitched for the acoustics. “I want to thank every one of you for making this company what it is. No leader achieves anything alone, and my biggest achievement is the team I leave behind.” He pauses—classic Oliver—and lets the anticipation grow. “But every team needs fresh blood. So today, it’s my pleasure to introduce someone who, I believe, will take this company to new heights—someone who knows hard work because I made sure of it. My son, Caleb.”

The doors open and there he is, the golden child—literally. Caleb Black, twenty-five and so clean-cut it hurts, steps into the reception with a movie-star smile and hair so blond it looks faked. He’s in a navy suit a half-shade lighter than Oliver’s, perfectly tailored, and he moves with the unstudied confidence of a guy who’s never actually eaten a vending machine lunch. The women in the room size him up in unison; the men, including Jeffrey, do the same, but with different metrics. Caleb’s handshake-to-hug ratio is impeccable. He works the line, dazzling everyone, spouting “It’s an honor” and “Can’t wait to learn from the best” in quick succession. But Jeffrey, who’s been watching the room for years, sees the flicker of calculation in the Caleb's eyes. Not arrogance—something more slippery, a hunger dressed in collegiate humility. Jeffrey hates it. He especially hates the way Oliver watches Caleb, pride radiating off him like secondhand cologne.

Three hours later, the office is a field hospital of hangover symptoms and abandoned canapés. Jeffrey retreats to his lair: glass walls, chrome desk, views of the city so sharp they’re almost violent. He’s refilling his coffee mug when Caleb knocks and floats in, hands in pockets, the very picture of non-threatening curiosity. “Hey, Jeff. Hope I’m not interrupting" Caleb says respectfully.

“Not at all,” Jeffrey lies. He waves Caleb to the guest chair and hits the espresso button. “How’re you settling in?”

“Honestly? The people are great. The building’s insane.” Caleb scans the view, all of Manhattan’s vertical ambition. “Bit overwhelming, to be honest.”

“Gets easier,” Jeffrey says. “Or you get numb.” He slides the steaming cup across the desk. “This place runs on coffee. You’ll want to develop a taste for the good stuff.”

Caleb takes a sip. His face does a weird micro-flinch—bitter, maybe, or just surprised. “Wow. That’s… intense.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Jeffrey deadpans. He’s watching for the telltale signs, the subtle shifts, and sure enough, Caleb’s eyelids do a fluttery thing after the second sip.

“Anyway,” Caleb says, already sounding faintly hoarse, “I wanted to ask—what’s the secret? To getting ahead here.”

Jeffrey leans back, steeples his fingers. “Honestly? It’s about finding where you can add value without pissing off the people above you.”

Caleb laughs, and it’s just slightly off: a higher pitch than before. “That’s pretty real. My dad always said the same thing, but, uh, more old-school. He said, ‘Don’t make enemies unless you plan to bury them.’” His laugh sticks, turns into a cough. “Sorry, the coffee is, uh, hitting me weird.”

“Don’t worry,” Jeffrey says, barely hiding a smile. “You get used to it.” he says. Caleb sips again, and this time Jeffrey sees it—a slight quiver in the hand, the softening of facial lines. It’s starting. Jeffrey moves the conversation along. “So, tell me about your last project. Your résumé was impressive, but I’m interested in the human side.”

“Sure,” Caleb says, but as he starts, the words come slower, as if stuck in syrup. “Uh, so, at Penn, I did a capstone on, um, restructuring supply chains for—” He blinks rapidly. “Wait, what was it—? Sorry, my head’s like, foggy.”

“That happens to me, too,” Jeffrey says slowly. “Low blood sugar. Take your time.”

Caleb nods, but he’s clearly off-balance now, both hands around the coffee cup as if anchoring himself. His voice cracks on the next syllable, embarrassingly high for a split second. He tries to laugh it off. “Shit, puberty flashbacks." Caleb sets the coffee down, rubs his forehead. “Sorry, uh. Is it hot in here?”

“Probably just the view,” Jeffrey says, and stands to adjust the climate controls—while also palming the button that seals the soundproofing. The glass walls tint just a fraction.

Caleb’s face is flush now, his features seeming to… not blur, but reorganize, as if a sculptor is tweaking the clay in real time. His jaw softens. The cheekbones rise, lips plump, and with each swallow, his Adam’s apple recedes further. The blond hair, previously styled to Wall Street perfection, darkens by degrees, turning chestnut, then jet black, lengthening past his collar in a time-lapse sequence of follicular horror. A few long hairs break loose and coil down to his shoulders. “What the fuck?” Caleb whispers, voice now an octave and a half up, tremulous, the accent starting to twist around the vowels.

Jeffrey feigns concern. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I—I don’t know.” Caleb stands, almost knocking over the chair. His hands are smaller, more slender, the knuckles less pronounced. He stares at them in disbelief. “This can’t be—What’s happening?” He tries to say more, but the English syntax is slurring, Mandarin phonemes popping through like static. “Wo… wo shi—what am I—what’s happening to me?” 

Jeffrey enjoys this part. The confusion, the dawning terror, the realization that the world is suddenly, irrevocably fucked. Caleb stumbles toward the office window, steadying himself on the cold glass. He’s breathing fast, high-pitched whimpers between panicked breaths. His skin is lighter, the color of bleached porcelain, and as he watches his reflection, his eyes seem to double in size, the irises rich brown, the eyelids curving upward at the edges. His nose—smaller, daintier. His lips—glossy, full, shaped for a different kind of smile.

He reaches up, grabs a fistful of hair, and the black strands pool between his trembling fingers. “This isn’t—this isn’t possible.” The Mandarin is winning now, lacing every word, syllables growing sharper and more lyrical.

Jeffrey approaches, arms open, the parody of comfort. “Hey. You’re going to be okay. Just breathe.” Jeffrey says, as Caleb turns to face him. Where a broad-shouldered, blue-eyed legacy hire stood, there’s now a pixie-boned, high-cheeked woman with the look of a Taiwanese pop star. The suit hangs loose on her frame, sleeves suddenly too long, pants puddling at the ankles. 

She backs away, voice trembling. “What—ni yao wo zuo shenme?” The rest of the words dissolve into frightened, high-pitched Mandarin. Jeffrey grins, savoring the aftertaste of victory, the office thick with the scent of fresh-brewed coffee and existential crisis.

From the glass, a stranger stares back at Caleb—no, at Chloe, who presses a palm to the window and screams in her new, impossibly feminine voice. It carries, even through the soundproofed walls, all the way down the corridor, where no one can hear. The echo of her own scream—his scream?—spins around the inside of the soundproofed glass until Chloe can’t even tell what language it is, or who’s making the noise. Her palms are wet against the window. In the reflection, she sees herself: a gorgeous woman with flawless skin and panic-puffed lips. The suit jacket now fits like a tent, loose and ridiculous, but there’s nothing funny about what’s happening to her.

Behind, Jeffrey is circling in anticipation. The look in his eyes is almost paternal, but she recognizes the same smug calculation that’s gotten him every promotion, every bonus. He’s savoring the moment, probably logging it in some internal spreadsheet. Chloe wants to yell at him, threaten him, beg—anything—but when she turns, the words fracture on her tongue. “This isn’t—ni zheme zuo, ni—” She clutches her throat, voice impossibly high, like helium through glass. It’s not just the language that’s alien. It’s the sound. The pitch. The cadence. Every breath is thinner, the chest it fills unfamiliar.

Jeffrey props himself on the edge of the desk, legs spread, and nods at her. “I have to say, I’m impressed. The process is ahead of schedule.” He gestures, inviting her to take the guest chair, but she just backs further into the glass. “Sit,” Jeffrey says, gentle but with a blade underneath.

She does. Her body moves on autopilot, knees pressed tight, hands folded in her lap because that’s what she’s supposed to do now, apparently. The transition is not smooth; her shoulders jerk in, neck pulling slender, collarbones flaring under the loose fabric. The bones make a popping, fizzing sound that’s louder in her skull than it ought to be. Jeffrey picks up a legal pad and scribbles something, as if this is a normal onboarding. “How are you feeling?”

Chloe tries to say “terrified,” but what comes out is “很… 很奇怪. My body is—wo bù zhīdào zěnme shuō.” She can’t stop talking, can’t stop switching between Mandarin and English, the second language decaying with each syllable.

The next wave hits: her arms, which she’s never thought about before, suddenly seem to shrink, the sleeves of the blazer extending past her wrists, then her fingertips. Her hands are delicate, soft, the nails painted a shimmering pastel she knows for a fact wasn’t there this morning. She flexes the fingers and they look like they belong to someone else entirely, a secretary from one of the admin pools, maybe.

“What did you do to me?” she manages. She tries to sound fierce, but it’s just plaintive, almost cute.

Jeffrey tilts his head. “I told you, the best way to get ahead here is to add value. You, my dear, are about to add more value than you could ever imagine.”

He stands, comes around the desk, and places a heavy hand on Chloe’s narrow shoulder. She tries to shrug it off but the muscles aren’t there anymore, not in the same configuration. Her posture is dainty, compliant, the resistance in her body switched off.

“Let’s try something,” Jeffrey says. “Chloe, come here.”

Her body rises—obeys—before her mind can even protest. She’s on her feet, tottering a bit as the center of gravity shifts. The knees feel wrong, closer together, the thighs… are her pants tighter? Yes, the cloth clings in places it didn’t before, and the sharp lines of her hips make her sway when she walks.

“Down,” Jeffrey says. Not even a raised voice, just a quiet, executive order.

She’s on her knees. She looks up, horrified, as Jeffrey unzips and slides his pants down to mid-thigh. He’s not wearing underwear. His cock is already hard, red and veined, jutting from a salt-and-pepper bush. Chloe recoils, nose wrinkling—until she realizes she’s not moving away, she’s moving closer. “Open,” Jeffrey commands.

Her lips part, glossed and trembling, and she feels the head of his cock brush against them. There’s a moment, a last little gasp of resistance, but it doesn’t matter. Her mouth opens wider, her tongue flicks out—God, she’s never done this, but her body moves with the certainty of muscle memory. She can taste him, the tang of sweat and something darker. The unfamiliar lips seal around the shaft. 

Jeffrey sighs and pets her hair, now spilling black and silken down her back. “Good girl, Chloe,” he whispers, and her body shudders as if from electric shock.

Chloe wants to scream, to bite down, but instead she finds herself moving in rhythm, head bobbing gently, tongue twirling with a skill that must be written in some deep, hijacked part of her new brain. The cock slides in and out, occasionally bumping the back of her throat, but she doesn’t gag—if anything, she leans into it, hands bracing on Jeffrey's thighs, fingers digging into the fabric.

“Look at you,” Jeffrey moans, rolling his hips. “Natural talent.”

She tries to pull away, tries to say, “No, this isn’t me, this isn’t what I want,” but with every thrust the thoughts get fuzzier, like the world is being over-written. The sensations crowd in: her tongue feels longer, wetter, more agile; her lips ache with a weird, pulsing pleasure every time they’re stretched wide. Her jaw doesn’t tire. She starts to crave the taste, and when the tip of Jeffrey’s cock oozes a drop of precum, she finds herself moaning around it.

She tries to make it a word, a protest, but it just comes out as “嗯…” and more Mandarin syllables, hot and slurred.

Jeffrey grunts, thighs tensing. “You’re going to swallow every drop, aren’t you?”

Her mind screams “NO,” but her head bobs in a feverish yes.

When Jeffrey cums, it’s a torrent, hot and thick, and her mouth drinks it down automatically. Each swallow sends a shockwave through her, as if the very act is burning out the old self, soldering new habits into place. She gulps, swallows, and feels her old memories—studying for finals, shaking her father’s hand, making out with her first girlfriend—start to bleed away, replaced by images of karaoke bars, shopping trips, flirty DMs, endless afternoons at nail salons. When he’s done, she slumps back, coughing, but manages to keep most of it down. She wipes her lips with the back of her dainty hand and tastes a smudge of cherry-flavored gloss.

Jeffrey is already redressing, barely winded. “You did very well,” he says, voice soft as a bedtime story. “In fact, you did exactly what I asked. Didn’t you?”

Chloe wants to say something, anything, but her mouth is still filled with the taste of him. The tongue feels different now, heavier, almost foreign in her mouth. “I—ni—wo… wo zhīdào le,” she stammers, shaking. Jeffrey offers her a tissue, which she takes, dabbing at her lips. The action is humiliating, but the part of her brain that should rebel is weak, feeble.

He sits behind his desk, folding his hands with the grace of a chess grandmaster. “You know, I wasn’t sure this would work,” he muses. “I spent years refining the infusion. But you—Chloe—you’re a masterpiece." he says. Chloe stares at the floor, at her knees, now perfectly smooth, no trace of hair or muscle definition, just delicate bones under flawless skin. Her mind is a soup of new and old, swirling faster with each breath. “Stand up,” Jeffrey says. “Let’s see the rest of you.”

She obeys. Of course she does. The suit jacket falls from her shoulders, puddling at her feet. Underneath, the button-down shirt is stretched over a set of breasts—not big, but perky and round, nipples hard enough to poke through the fabric. Her arms are slim, wrists tiny. The pants cling to her hips, which are now wider than her waist, and the belt cinches at the last notch. She realizes, with a jolt of horror, that she’s standing with one hand on her hip and her weight cocked to one side—exactly the way she used to make fun of girls for posing.

She looks at Jeffrey, trying to muster hate, but instead it just feels… familiar. “I… what did you do to me?” she whispers.

Jeffrey shrugs. “I helped you become yourself. Chloe Tsai. The new office darling.” The name rattles around in her skull. Chloe Tsai. Chloe Tsai. The more she hears it, the more it fits. She hates it. She loves it. She wants to run away and she wants to stay right here. Chloe’s vision swims, and she sinks to her knees again—not out of obedience, but because her legs can’t hold her. She looks up at her tormentor, cum on her lips, and knows that she’ll never be able to go back. She can barely remember why she’d want to.

For a moment, there’s just a stunned silence—the hush that comes after the thunderclap. Chloe kneels on the carpet, mouth tingling with aftertaste and mind spinning on the edge of blankness. There’s something almost peaceful about it, like that numb second before the dentist’s drill comes down. Jeffrey isn’t satisfied. He circles back behind his desk, but keeps his gaze fixed on Chloe as she trembles, the remnants of her old self sliding further out of reach. “You’re adjusting,” he observes, his voice a crisp click in the silence. “Good. We have more work to do.”

Chloe tries to stand, but her legs are jelly. She braces herself on the edge of the desk and pulls up, sleeves flapping. The suit’s a disaster now: jacket pooled on the floor, shirt stretched comically across her budding chest, pants loose at the waist but tight as a sausage skin below. Jeffrey points at her. “Look at me.”

She does, and immediately feels a shiver from the base of her skull down her spine. Her back cracks, vertebrae stuttering as her posture shifts; the subtle forward hunch she always had is gone, replaced by a perfect, unnatural S-curve. Her waist twists inward, each breath pressing her ribs closer together, the sensation simultaneously suffocating and almost… pleasant? She lets out a gasp, high and girlish, as her hips follow suit, expanding like an airbag. The belt gives up, buckle popping free and slapping against the floor. The pants, which seconds ago felt loose, now bite into her pelvis as the bones beneath balloon outward, hips reshaping in real time. 

The pressure mounts until with a sickening pop-pop-pop, her tailbone realigns and her ass swells into a pair of perfect hemispheres—soft, jiggling, almost obscene in their roundness. The fabric of the pants gives up around the seam, splitting right at the seat and exposing creamy, hairless skin.

“Fuck—no, no, no,” Chloe whimpers, but all that emerges is a breathless “不, 不要, 太大了—!” It’s a language she understands but didn’t know she could speak, and the disconnect is dizzying.

Jeffrey is loving it, eyes glinting as he watches her new proportions settle. “Perfect,” he murmurs. “Absolutely perfect.”

The transformation rolls down her legs in a hot wave. Thighs thicken, the skin stretching tight and smooth, the muscles melting to a seductive, athletic curve. She tries to squeeze them together for modesty, but the new flesh just presses in, the sensation almost erotic. Below, her calves shrink, ankles sloping into delicate, tapering lines. The shoes—once tasteful, brown-leather oxfords—feel suddenly enormous and clunky. She flexes her feet and the bones crunch, toes shrinking, the arch rising, and in seconds they’re dainty enough for a Cinderella cosplay, nails painted with the same subtle pastel as her fingernails. It’s a nightmare, but her body seems to love it. Every pulse, every shift, is layered with an electric charge, a pleasure that fogs her panic. She shudders, panting, hands fluttering at her sides.

Jeffrey gestures to the kitchenette alcove at the far end of the office. “Why don’t you make us some coffee, Chloe?”

She wants to say no. She wants to scream, or run, or break something, but what she does instead is stand on her delicate new feet, mincing toward the coffee setup in a tottering, high-hipped gait that she can’t even control. Each step sets her hips swinging, the soft flesh of her ass rippling under the shredded pants. She pulls the shirt closed, but it’s pointless—her chest, still modest, is now tipped with sensitive, puffy nipples, the buttons straining to keep her covered. 

At the coffee bar, her hands move with weird, automatic confidence. The fine motor skills are new: she scoops the grounds, tamps the filter, measures the water without even thinking. “He likes it strong, two sugars,” she thinks—except she never learned that, not as Caleb, so where did the memory come from? She sets the machine to brew and stares at her own hands, slender and trembling.

Behind her, Jeffrey clears his throat. “Bring it to me.”

Her feet obey. As she steps back toward the desk, the next wave hits—harder, deeper. Her sternum aches, ribs crackling as her torso slims. The flesh under her chest tingles and lifts, and she watches as her breasts—A-cup, then B, then C—bloom beneath the cotton. She hyperventilates, watching the buttons strain, the nipples perk and push against the fabric, the weight pulling at her shoulders in a way she’d never imagined. There’s a pressure inside, as though the breasts are full of something warm and alive. She feels a trickle down her belly and realizes, with a wave of horror, that she’s started to lactate, a creamy, sticky droplet leaking through the thin cotton.

“God, please, stop this,” Chloe begs, but the words are softer, more sing-song. Jeffrey ignores her, tapping the desk. She sets the coffee mug in front of him, trembling.

“Thank you, Chloe. But I think you forgot something.” Jeffrey says with a smirk. She hesitates, but her hands move on their own—fingers slipping inside the shirt, pinching at the nipples, squeezing until two fat beads of milk pearl out and drip into the mug. She watches in fascinated revulsion as the liquid spirals into the dark coffee, lightening it, the scent sweet and cloying. Jeffrey takes a sip, licking his lips. “Delicious. Just like I remembered.”

The new memories slam in: Chloe at the office, pouring coffee, flirting, taking dictation, her life an endless loop of serving men like him. The old memories—Caleb in the dorms, the pride of a promotion, his father’s handshake—flicker and fade, the slideshow jammed with scenes of giggling over lattes, shopping for push-up bras, and late nights spent on FaceTime with girlfriends. She wants to cry, but her body just smiles, demure and perfect. She hates how natural it feels.

Jeffrey watches her, eyes hungry. “You’re almost there,” he says. “Just one more little detail.” Chloe looks down at herself, chest heaving with panic and new weight, ass so fat and round it barely fits the chair. The ruined pants are bunched at her ankles, her legs smooth and hairless. There’s only one thing left—her cock, small now, but still stubbornly present, an embarrassing, shriveled vestige. She covers it with her hands, but Jeffrey just smiles, eyes twinkling. “Let’s see what happens next,” he grins.

She wants to spit at him. Instead, she stands perfectly still, trembling with the next phase of whatever the hell this is. Her cock—her last connection to Caleb, to manhood, to anything before this—twitches with cold dread and something less noble. It’s tiny now, dwarfed by the mounds of ass and thighs and the obscene wetness leaking down her leg. Every time it pulses, it’s smaller, softer, more pathetic.

Jeffrey catches the glance. “Still hanging on, huh?” he smirks. “How cute". He stands, stretches, and unbuckles his belt. “Let’s finish the job, shall we? Some of us actually have deadlines.”

Chloe’s knees go weak. She braces herself on the edge of the desk, vision blurring. She’s so horny, so empty, so ruined—whatever’s in the coffee, whatever’s in her, it’s rewired her to crave this. She tries to resist, but her hand finds her own cock, stroking it with practiced, slutty desperation. It’s not even a contest anymore. She wants it. She wants to watch it disappear, wants to feel the loss, wants to be emptied and filled in the same impossible moment.

Jeffrey drops his pants, his cock already hard and red with anticipation. Chloe moans—actually moans, high and whimpery and real—at the sight. The sound is so shameless she almost blushes, but her body doesn’t even slow down. She jacks herself off, fast and hungry, hips bucking, ass jiggling with every motion. The more she strokes, the more her cock shrinks, each spasm bringing her closer to the edge.

She wants to beg for mercy, but all that comes out is a gasping, “拜託, 老闆, 給我—我要你, 快一點… [Please, boss, give it to me—I want you, quick…]”

Jeffrey steps behind her, hands gripping her new hips with proprietary confidence. He rubs the head of his cock against her ass, then lower, smearing the leaking juices over her trembling slit. Chloe glances down, sees her cock shriveling, balls sucked tight to her body, and it’s too much—she cums, shuddering, a pathetic arc of white drooling onto the carpet. As she does, the shaft retracts, the head ballooning, the balls deflating and slurping up into her body. The old flesh folds inward, flesh sealing over, and suddenly she’s left with nothing but a glistening pair of pussy lips and the obscene, swollen bud of a clit where her cock used to be.

Jeffrey grunts in satisfaction. “Good girl. Now let’s see if you’re as tight as you look.”

He thrusts in, the cock splitting her open in one smooth stroke, and Chloe screams—first in pain, then in pleasure, then in a slurry of Mandarin and breathless, stupid giggling. The sensation is like nothing she’s ever felt: raw, electric, a thousand times better than jerking off ever was. She grinds back against him, slutty, greedy, desperate for more.

He fucks her hard, hands gripping her wide hips, pulling her back onto his cock with every thrust. Her breasts sway and slap against the desk, the nipples leaking milk with every bounce. She comes over and over, the pleasure an endless, rolling wave, her new pussy quivering and drooling with each orgasm.

She wants to say stop, but all that comes out is “More, more, more—老闆, 再來, 再用力一點—!”

Jeffrey slaps her ass, then her tits, then grabs a fistful of her black hair and pulls her head back so he can whisper in her ear. “You were never going to be anything but this, Chloe. You were made for it.” She nods, drooling, biting her lip as he fucks her deeper, harder, faster. The world narrows to the friction and the smell and the sound of skin on skin. She loves it. She loves him. She loves being Chloe.

When he finally explodes inside her, Chloe comes again, so hard she collapses onto the desk, face pressed into the lacquered wood, body twitching with aftershocks. They stay that way for a minute: her, trembling and empty; him, breathing heavy, cock still hard inside her. Eventually he pulls out, tucks himself in, and ruffles her hair like a good pet.

“Get yourself cleaned up,” he says. “We have a meeting in twenty.” She nods, still dazed, and totters to the private bathroom. In the mirror, she sees herself for the first time—truly sees herself. Chloe Tsai. The perfect secretary. The office slut. There’s no trace of Caleb in the face: just enormous brown eyes, full lips, flawless skin, and hair so black it looks fake. She grins, flashes her teeth, and shivers with pride.

She splashes water on her cheeks, reapplies lip gloss, fixes the buttons on her shirt. She can hear Jeffrey in the outer office, already on a call, already moving on. She feels a flicker of resentment, but it’s swallowed by the pleasure-pain in her new pussy, the memory of his cock inside her.

She wonders when she’ll get to do it again.