Elven Assistant

Bright rays of sunlight poured into my small room as I stared into the mirror, unblinking, trying to understand—was that really me? Or rather… her. My breasts... God, they weren’t just huge, they were massive. When I inhaled, the fabric stretched to its limit, buttons creaking ominously, and I had to hold my breath to avoid… something utterly ridiculous. My tits felt alive, heavy, and God, how they pulled on my shoulders, making me arch my back—just the way he, the professor, wanted.

— Uh… Professor Hunt? — my voice rang out, soft and clear… painfully feminine, with that exact note of naive submission that made my insides freeze. I coughed and tried to speak lower, rougher, but that only made it sound even more… seductive. I shuddered involuntarily.

— I told you to call me "Master", Lianna — the professor didn’t turn around, standing by his strange device, but I could feel his smirk. — Or did you forget what you signed?

— I… — I felt my heart pounding in my chest. — Y-yes, M-m-master…

— What did you want to ask? — he said, gesturing for me to come closer, and I took a few shaky steps on my heels, feeling how the tight skirt held my hips captive, not letting me move faster, while my tits bounced and pulled down, forcing me to walk like I was trying to seduce someone.

— I… I wanted to ask… — the words caught in my throat, and I had to swallow to calm my nerves. — I mean, sorry, Master… do I really have to wear this?

I said it barely above a whisper, staring at the floor like a little girl caught doing something naughty, cursing myself for acting this way, but I couldn’t help it. Around him I always felt this urge… to be a submissive little girl.

He finally turned around. Professor Edward Hunt—tall, with that specific charisma of a genius who knows he's above the laws of nature and… above me.

— Of course you do, Lianna — he said, walking over slowly, adjusting the sleeves of his white coat, which looked more like a wizard’s robe than a scientist’s outfit. — You’re my perfect little elf assistant, and your uniform is part of the contract. Or do you want us to revisit some other… clauses?

I looked up. Oh, bad idea. His gaze—lazy, appraising, shamelessly sliding down my neck, to the valley between my breasts, hidden—or more like highlighted—by the snow-white blouse with the top buttons undone. I already knew where this was heading. And still, I felt everything tighten inside—not from fear, no. From something way more humiliating.

— N-no, M-m-master… it’s just… — I hesitated, feeling the skirt pull again as I shifted from one foot to the other. — It’s a little hard… to move. This skirt…

He squinted at me, like he was studying me with some inner X-ray.

— That’s the point. You’re supposed to move slowly. Gracefully. You’re supposed to be… seductive.

I gasped. Not at the words—at how they sounded. Like a command. Like hypnosis.

But fuck, how did I end up like this? I was Jason Brant. 24 years old, graduate drowning in debt, fired from two jobs for "aggressive behavior" and "inappropriate communication style". I didn’t have a choice when I saw Professor Hunt’s ad: “Looking for an assistant. No experience needed. Housing, food, pay included. Anonymity guaranteed.” I thought I’d be carrying papers. Cleaning test tubes. At worst—feeding rats.

And instead…

— I need you to bring me the documents from the archive — he stepped closer and slid his hand over my ass, and I nearly gasped — not from pain, no. From how sharply my body reacted. My hips twitched toward him on their own, and a shiver shot up my spine. Like I wanted to obey.

I forced myself to straighten up and nodded without meeting his eyes, feeling my face burn with heat.

— Y-yes, Master. Right away.

I turned toward the door — or tried to. The skirt reminded me of its grip immediately: my steps were short, almost ridiculous. My heels clicked against the floor, making me sway with every step. I could feel how my thighs — no, my thighs now — rubbed against each other with every move, and my tits, heavy and alive, nearly popped out of my blouse every time I bent down.

— Oh, almost forgot. Hand me that notebook with the formulas, under the table — his voice was lazy, but it carried that commanding tone that already made my knees shake.

I froze at the doorway. The table was only a few steps away. But… the notebook was actually on the floor, of course — right under the wide tabletop. To get it, I’d have to…

I turned — awkwardly, like a doll, because in this skirt, walking meant taking tiny, careful steps. With every movement, my breasts bounced, and I knew he wasn’t taking his eyes off me.

— Master, maybe I could… bring the documents first? — I tried, hoping he’d change his mind.

— The documents can wait, Lianna — he sat in the chair and leaned back, folding his arms across his chest — but the notebook… I want it right now.

Everything clenched inside. From shame, from helplessness, from… how that sounded.

I approached the table and dropped to my knees — or tried to, but the skirt didn’t allow it. It stretched tight across my thighs, cutting in, and I had to bend forward without bending my legs, just folding at the waist. I immediately felt how the blouse pulled dangerously tight over my tits, the fabric creaking at the sides and a couple of buttons nearly clinking.

— Good girl… — came from behind me.

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Good girl"… fucking hell. I was shaking with rage. I wasn’t a girl, and definitely not someone to be spoken to like that. But… this submission. I needed it. My body acted like it wanted this. I could feel my breasts hanging like a heavy weight, the cold air brushing against the skin at the neckline, and my thighs trembling slightly from the strain, from the pose I was forced to take.

I bit my lip to keep from moaning in humiliation. And still, I obeyed, stretching both arms forward, arching even more to reach the notebook, fully aware of the view I was giving my Master…