His Perfect Employee

Tim entered the shared bedroom, determined to find a way to cover his body in a manner that would hide his enormous ass and feminine curves. He opened Eric’s side of the closet and pulled out a wide sports shirt, the kind men wore for the gym. He pulled it over his head, hoping the large fabric would cover him completely. But as the shirt clung to his body, the material began to shrink in a strange way. The sleeves vanished, the bottom hem lifted, and the fabric turned into a sexy, revealing sports bra—narrow, taut straps that covered only the chest area, leaving his entire belly, waist, and ass exposed. If he had breasts, they would have spilled out of this bra like ripe fruit.

He tried again, this time with wide-waistband workout pants. He bent down, struggling against the enormous ass pulling him downward, and managed to pull the pants up his legs. But the moment they reached his waist, the fabric began to shrink and shorten. The legs were cut to mid-thigh, and the pants turned into tiny, revealing workout shorts—a pair that hugged his ass like a glove, emphasizing every sway and curve, leaving most of the cheeks exposed. Tim stood in front of the large mirror and looked at himself: the huge ass jiggled with every slight movement, and the tiny shorts only highlighted the curves.

He raised his hands, twerked his ass on purpose, and watched the juicy flesh wobble and separate the cheeks. A small, involuntary smile crept onto his lips—a sensation of physical satisfaction, as if this motion was natural and attractive. For a moment, he felt the pleasure in that movement, the power in displaying a body that had become a tool of desire. But immediately afterward, realization hit him like a slap: this wasn’t him. This was the curse. He wasn’t supposed to feel sexy when twerking his ass like a slut.

The internal struggle was intense. Part of him—the old, masculine mind—screamed at him to fight, to rip off these clothes, to prove he wouldn’t submit. But the body, with every injected memory and urge, whispered that it was natural, that this was his place, that there was pleasure in presenting himself this way. Every attempt to resist made the urge stronger: his hands trembled as he tried to remove the sports bra, as if the fabric itself fought to stay in place; the ass continued to sway seductively even when he tried to stand still. In the end, with raw willpower, he managed to pull off the sports bra and tiny shorts, tossing them aside like enemies.

In a final attempt, he took Eric’s swimsuit—wide, covering swim trunks. He put them on, but as before, the fabric changed. They shrank and turned into an extremely revealing one-piece swimsuit: very thin straps that hugged his juicy thighs, with two narrow shoulder straps stretching over his shoulders. The straps covered only the nipple area with incredibly thin fabric, through which the pink areola lines were almost visible. The material disappeared completely between the cheeks of his enormous ass, leaving all the curves exposed. For Tim, surprisingly, this didn’t bother him. “These aren’t a girl’s nipples,” he thought to himself. “I’m still a man. So it’s just skin.” This thought allowed him to come to terms with the exposure, even if his entire body remained bare and emphasized every curve.

He stood in front of the mirror, feeling the thin straps cutting slightly into his skin, but also the perfect fit of the fabric to his body. The struggle wasn’t over—part of him still wanted to cover himself—but another part, growing larger, accepted the logic of “it’s just his body.”

Tim looked at Eric’s closet and noticed something that caught his attention: every clothing item that turned into a revealing, tight version on his body—the sports bra, tiny shorts, and swimsuit—returned to their places in the closet as if nothing had happened. The clothes were back in their original state: wide sports shirt, flexible pants, and full pool trunks, with no sign of the changes that occurred on his body.

He decided to try again, this time with one of Eric’s wide T-shirts and long sweatpants. He pulled the T-shirt over his head, and the fabric, as expected, began to shrink immediately. The sleeves vanished, the bottom hem lifted, and the shirt turned into a tight, stretched crop top that covered only the chest and shoulders, exposing his entire belly, waist, and enormous ass. The fabric clung to his skin like a second layer, emphasizing every curve and sway of his soft body. The sweatpants underwent a similar process: they shortened dramatically, turning into short, tight sweat shorts that barely covered the upper thighs. The lower straps disappeared between the plump cheeks, leaving most of them exposed, and the fabric tightened around the curves as if designed specifically to showcase them.

Tim stood in front of the mirror, examining the displayed figure: the tight T-shirt exposed his entire lower belly and waist lines, while the sweat shorts emphasized the enormous ass with every movement, causing it to jiggle inevitably. He tried to move his body, and the ass twerked naturally, drawing his eyes to the highlighted curves. “Well,” Tim muttered to himself. “At least I don’t have to pay for more clothes,” he said dryly, trying to make sense of the situation. This thought provided him with small comfort: the clothes weren’t ruined or lost; they simply changed shape on his body and returned to their original state. There was no need to worry about losing items or destroying them. Nevertheless, the feeling of the tight fabric hugging every curve of his body and turning every movement into a display of his curves reminded him constantly of the role the curse had imposed on him.

He tried to push away thoughts that the clothes would always adjust to make him more exposed and seductive, but he couldn’t deny that they left him no real option to cover himself. Every attempt to choose a “normal” garment ended the same way: a sexy, emphasizing version of that item, always leaving his body incredibly exposed. The experience of clothing attempts and the relentless changes in the garments was too heavy for Tim. Though he had promised Eric he’d stay in the apartment and try to understand the situation, he felt he needed a break, a space to relax for a moment from the flood of urges and changes. He headed toward the gaming room he’d seen yesterday, his steps slow and swaying. Every movement caused his enormous ass to move inevitably: the plump cheeks parted and rejoined with each step, their heavy weight causing his waist to sway slightly, and the soft thighs rubbing together in a smooth but heavy motion. The sensation was like walking with weights hanging behind him, yet strangely familiar, as if his body knew how to move these curves to maintain balance.

He entered the room and sat in Eric’s large black chair. The soft cushioning welcomed him like a cradle, but he immediately realized the softness came from himself: the juicy cheeks spread and filled the seat, creating a natural padding that almost swallowed him. He turned on Eric’s computer, hoping to find refuge or at least distraction, but a basic password-locked screen appeared. He considered calling Eric to ask for the password but feared Eric would realize he wanted to play on his computer. Instead, he moved to the pink chair and sat in front of the second computer. The desk was like a small altar to his role: on the surface were framed photos of him on his knees in front of Eric, intimate shots where his mouth enveloped Eric’s erection; colorful drawings of cartoon animals and small, fluffy dolls.

The pink computer was also password-locked. He tried his old password, without success and realized his new version probably used something entirely different and thought about what to do. Finally, he relaxed and let the urge guide him. His fingers moved across the keyboard almost automatically, and he typed: “Born for Eric.” The password was accepted immediately, and the computer opened. Tim rolled his eyes heavily, looking at the words on the screen. “In hindsight, it’s so obvious,” he muttered to himself, feeling the weight of the meaning behind the password. It wasn’t just a symbol; it was a declaration of his identity in this reality, something his body accepted as completely natural.

He entered his game library, hoping to find familiar refuge in the world of games. But the moment the library loaded, the sight shocked him: all the games he’d invested hundreds of hours in—fast-paced shooters, violent fighting games, competitive racing games—had vanished completely. There was no trace of them. Instead, the library was filled with games that clearly suited his new personality: baking games like “Bake It Pretty” where the player prepared hundreds of types of cakes, pastries, and desserts while managing precise recipes; “Housekeeper’s Dream,” a game where the player cleaned, organized, and designed virtual homes; “Sweet Kitchen Empire” where you built and managed a bakery with emphasis on aesthetic space design and attention to detail; and “Cozy Cottage Life,” where the player tended a small farm with activities like gardening, daily bread baking, and feminine, orderly interior design.

“All the real games are probably on Eric’s computer,” Tim muttered in frustration. “I’ll have to ask him for the password when he gets back.” Suddenly he noticed one game that stood out: “Home Harmony”—a game he’d invested almost 600 hours in. The game sounded excruciatingly boring—tending a virtual home—but the enormous number of hours sparked curiosity: what could have made him invest so much time in such a game? He entered the game and relaxed for a moment, allowing the urge to take over. Memories of the game mechanics flowed into his head immediately: how to clean every corner efficiently, how to arrange furniture to maximize cleaning flow, tricks to speed up cleaning processes, and ways to design the home to make it easier to keep clean. The game itself was simple but addictive: the player cleaned dirty homes, built additional parts to expand the space and then cleaned them too, while managing day-night cycles that included preparing meals, organizing clothes, and ongoing maintenance.

Tim clicked the cleaning button to clean a dirty corner. The process finished quickly, and he thought it was boring and got up to close the game. But before he could, his eyes locked on another dirty corner. He cleaned that too, and then noticed night approaching in the game. A memory flowed into his head: with night coming, there was a need to prepare dinner, set the table, and ensure the home was completely clean. He tried to leave again but found himself cleaning another corner, then rearranging some furniture to make room for more tending. Action after action, Tim continued playing. Every time he raised his hands to close the game, something else caught his attention: a neglected corner, an uncleaned room, a meal to prepare. The urge wouldn’t let him stop; every completed action brought a slight sense of satisfaction, like releasing internal pressure, turning the game into an endless task. He felt as if the virtual home reflected the urges beginning to take over him in reality: the need to clean, organize, prepare, make the space perfect for someone else. Despite his attempts to stop, he continued, trapped in a loop of tending that frighteningly resembled what his body demanded of him.

Suddenly the phone rang, and Tim jumped in alarm. His enormous ass jiggled heavily as he turned toward the desk. He grabbed the glittery pink phone sitting on a cute bunny stand with long, curved ears. His gaze fell on the time displayed on the screen: ten in the morning. He froze at the realization he’d spent a full hour on the tending game without noticing at all. Time had vanished as if it never existed, and he wondered if the urge was what caused him to immerse so deeply.

He saw someone named BFF calling him but decided not to let the urge take over this conversation—otherwise, who knows what he’d say. He mustered courage and answered. “Hello,” he said reservedly. On the other end came a feminine, excited scream. “Heeeeey! How are you?” The woman on the phone sounded familiar, but Tim couldn’t recall who it was. He, not wanting to relying on the urge, improvised an answer. “I’m kind of okay, I guess.” The woman paused for a moment and then said, “Uh… that’s good news. The girls and I thought you wouldn’t come in the end with your cookies.” Tim saw an opportunity to gain information without surrendering to the urge. “And where am I supposed to go?” “To work, of course,” the woman replied as if it were obvious. “The girls and I have been waiting all week for your cookies.” Tim knew going to a completely unfamiliar workplace would be a disaster, and he tried to escape. “The thing is I’m not feeling the best, so I’m not sure I’ll come.” The woman let out a disappointed sigh. “Really? I was really hoping for those cookies.” Tim felt a sharp stab of discomfort inside him, as if someone pulled an internal string. “Really?” he asked in soft surprise, without meaning to. “Of course,” the woman answered simply. “All the girls were hoping.”

The words hit him like a blow. At that moment, a new, powerful urge gripped him in an irresistible hold. His legs began moving automatically toward the kitchen, as if his body received a command impossible to ignore. He tried to fight the urge, to tell her clearly he wasn’t coming, to end the call quickly, but the words that came out of his mouth were entirely different. “Don’t worry,” he said in a soft, reassuring voice, “you can always count on your BFF.” He hung up before he could process what he’d said.

Tim stood embarrassed and shocked. He hadn’t meant to say those things. Hadn’t meant to promise anything. But his body wouldn’t let him stay put. The urge pushed him forward, step by step, toward the kitchen. Every movement intensified the feeling of helplessness: the enormous ass jiggled heavily, the thighs rubbed together, and he felt as if his legs simply knew where to go, even if his mind resisted. The closer he got, the clearer the urge became. Memories of a chocolate-vanilla cookie recipe began flowing into his head: precise amounts of flour, sugar, butter, and chocolate, mixing and baking times.

Tim stood in the kitchen, his hands trembling slightly as the urge continued pushing him toward the cabinets and ingredients. He stopped himself with willpower and took a deep breath. “Listen,” he said in a low voice, as if speaking directly to the urge inside him, “there’s no way I’m making cookies now. And if you **** me, I’ll make sure they’re terrible—burnt, underbaked, everything.” Suddenly, his body acted without permission: his hand reached for one of the cabinets, opened it, and pulled out a large plastic box full of homemade cookies. The box was meticulously organized, with layers of perfect chocolate-vanilla cookies wrapped in baking paper. He immediately understood that his new version had probably baked them the day before, and the urge didn’t demand he make them now—only bring them.

He decided not to resist this urge. Like the sexual urge, which was almost impossible to ignore, so too this urge—to please his “girlfriends”—was too strong to confront directly.

The urge led him to the bedroom. “I know,” he said in a rising voice, “I need to get dressed.” He realized wearing something from Eric’s side would be useless, so he opened his own side of the closet. The sight revealed a whole world of revealing clothes: short skirts, tight yoga pants, crop tops, fishnet stockings, and thin lace panties. He tried reaching for a pair of pants that looked more covering, but his hand was drawn involuntarily to a pair of extremely tight black yoga pants that barely covered the upper thighs and emphasized every curve of the ass. “No,” he said angrily, “I’m going to work. Eric won’t be there…hopefully. I need something relatively normal.” The internal struggle that developed was like an exhausting negotiation with an invisible ****. He tried pulling out a longer shirt, but his hand swapped it for a tight crop top that exposed his entire belly. He tried long pants, but the urge made him swap them for short sweat shorts that exposed most of the cheeks. Every time he tried choosing a more covering item, his body resisted, pulling his hand to a more exposed item, as if the closet itself rejected the attempt to cover the body. The struggle made him sweat, and he felt the enormous ass jiggle with every quick movement, as if the body reminded him of its limits.

Finally, after a series of failed attempts—skirts that shortened too much, shirts that turned into crops—he found a compromise both sides could accept. He chose a short black skirt that barely covered his enormous ass. Any slight movement would expose the thin lace panties he was already wearing, but the skirt itself wasn’t as short as some other options. Alongside it, a tight but covering shirt: the fabric hugged his narrow waist and slightly swollen chest but fell to mid-belly, covering the navel and shoulders. It wasn’t a modest outfit, but it provided minimal coverage that felt like a small victory in his struggle. Tim looked at himself in the mirror, aware that the skirt would expose every ass sway and the shirt would emphasize every curve; he knew this would be the closest to “normal” he could achieve.

He headed to the shoe shelf in the bedroom, trying to complete the outfit. He took a pair of sneakers from Eric’s side, thinking it would be less affected by the curse. He slipped his feet into the shoes, but almost immediately felt the fabric changing shape. The shoes lengthened and curved, turning into high-heeled black glossy pumps with thin ten-centimeter heels. The thin straps tightened around his ankles, and the heels fit his foot structure as if designed specifically for him.

He tried to stand, feeling his weight concentrated on his toes, fearing loss of balance. But his body acted instinctively, as if it knew exactly how to move. His steps became measured and precise, with a natural sway of the hips and enormous ass. Every step caused his backside to lift and jiggle more prominently, as if the heels made the curves even more pronounced. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw the effect: the heels not only shortened the ass appearance, making it protrude even more upward, but also emphasized the calf muscle lines, which became firm and shaped. “No wonder girls love heels,” he thought to himself, admitting the involuntary sexiness that arose in him.

Before leaving the room, his hand automatically reached for a separate shelf and took a stylish feminine bag—a pink-black shoulder bag with a thin strap and sparkling items. He realized there was no point resisting; any attempt to choose another item would lead to the same result. He abandoned the thought and went to the kitchen, took the full cookie box, and put it in the bag. At the same time, he checked its contents: a small wallet with credit cards, pens, light makeup, hairbrush, and keys—all the things he needed in the new reality.

…

Tim left the apartment and reached the street sweating and panting. He knew the urge inside him could lead him to the right place, but he didn’t want to surrender to its control. Instead, he rummaged in the feminine bag, finding a work badge with his name. The badge showed a photo of him—in his current version, with longer hair, light makeup, and an obedient gaze—and the company name: X Games. He immediately recognized the company: the same one that produced advanced computers and computer games, like those in his and Eric’s apartment. “Maybe I get an employee discount,” he thought to himself. He wondered if his role was game programmer—a thought that gave him slight hope. It could be relatively cool, something more suited to who he once was than a household servant.

He flipped the badge and examined the back, where it clearly read: “If lost, please return to sixth floor, X Games building.” Tim pulled out the pink phone and checked the address. The building was about a ten-minute walk from his residence. He breathed a slight sigh of relief. Though he knew the walk would cause his body to move prominently and unwantedly—the enormous ass jiggling with every step, the heels emphasizing every motion—at least he wouldn’t be stuck in public transport, in a crowded space surrounded by people.

He arrived at the X Games building sweating and panting. Despite the early hour, sweat had already soaked every part of his body, but especially accumulated embarrassingly in the crevice of his enormous ass. The thin panty strap, combined with thigh friction and the constant jiggle of the cheeks during the walk, turned the sensation into something sticky and oppressive. He took a deep breath, put a brave look on his face, and decided not to rely on the urge to behave or speak with people. He feared that if he surrendered to the urge, he might say or do things he’d regret later. He entered the building, and the receptionist, a well-groomed woman in her early forties, greeted him with a warm smile. “Hey, Timmy,” she said in a charming, relaxed voice. Tim, unsure how to respond, replied briefly and simply, “Hey,” without adding anything. He swiped his work badge through the entrance reader, the door opened, and he entered the elevator. He pressed the button for the sixth floor, and as the elevator rose, an optimistic scenario passed through his mind: working in computer game development, a chance to build the games he and Eric loved so much, to turn their ideas into reality.

But all this hope was dashed the moment the elevator stopped and the announcement sounded: “Sixth floor—Human Resources.” His heart sank. He exited the elevator into a spacious office filled with cubicles and desks, occupied only by women. Not a vibrant game development environment, no teams of programmers and technicians, but a world of women dressed in professional yet feminine style, busy with phone calls, document files, and data tables.

Tim immediately understood the meaning. Clearly, this version of him wouldn’t be part of the male, cool development team. Instead, he worked in human resources—in a role requiring oversight of employee relations, handling complaints, and maintaining a “proper work environment.” He knew well how HR departments operated: he’d been called there several times in his previous life, when women in past jobs complained about his behavior or comments. HR women, from his experience, were often witches—women who enjoyed punishing those who didn’t conform to behavior rules designed to make everyone as miserable as them. Moreover, he’d read online that HR women tended to undermine other women, finding flaws in their behavior and ensuring no one succeeded too much, to maintain the controlled order they ruled.

Tim stood in embarrassment, trying to locate his place in the office full of cubicles, when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. “So glad you made it,” came the familiar voice from the phone call. He jumped and turned, his gaze locking on terrifyingly familiar faces: Lucy, his ex from his previous life. Lucy was a woman his age, with rich, wavy red hair cascading to mid-back, glowing like living flames. Her eyes were bright green and sharp, framed by long lashes, and her face had a delicate structure with high cheekbones and full lips. Her body had generous, balanced curves: large, rounded breasts that emphasized her narrow waistline, and full hips that carried their weight in natural, smooth motion. She was dressed in a professional business suit—a tight white silk blouse with a subtle corset belt emphasizing her body lines, and tight black pants reaching the ankle, with low heels. Her style combined professionalism with inherent femininity, and she carried herself with the confidence of a woman who knew her place.

In his previous life, they met as teens and were together for nearly two years, but she ended it a few months before the fateful night yesterday, claiming he was too sexist and homophobic. The breakup was bitter and painful, and they hadn’t spoken since. But here, in this reality, their relationship was entirely different. They were BFFs. He was her close, loyal friend who provided emotional support and functioned as a source of comfort. “Yeah,” Tim answered under pressure, trying to sound natural. Lucy examined him with a curious gaze. “Did you bring the goods?”

Tim pulled the cookie box from the bag, and Lucy snatched it from him enthusiastically. He saw an opportunity and seized it. “Can you please put the box on my desk? I need to fix something in my bag.” Lucy nodded and headed toward one of the cubicles. Tim followed her, and when they arrived, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t recognized this desk immediately. It matched exactly his gaming room desk: a pink, feminine environment, but adapted to a professional workplace. The desk was covered in light pink, with heart-shaped pen holders and a transparent document organizer in feminine design. On the wall behind were framed photos of him and Eric together: one showing Tim smiling beside Eric, his hand on Eric’s arm, and another where they stood side by side, Tim looking close and devoted.

The desk itself was meticulously organized: a neat stack of folders labeled “Employee Complaints,” “Training Programs,” and “Satisfaction Surveys,” alongside feminine and professional accessories—pink-covered notebooks, pens with sparkling handles, a small pink teddy bear doll in a suit, and another photo holder with a group shot of office women, including Lucy, with him standing in the center smiling widely. Everything looked completely professional, with no hint of sexual content, but the visual language was unmistakable: this was the place of a feminine, devoted, organized woman functioning as a close friend and comfort source for the group.

Tim sat in his chair, his enormous ass spreading and filling the seat, while Lucy opened the cookie box. The sweet, rich aroma of melted chocolate, fresh vanilla, and golden pastry filled the air, penetrating Tim’s nostrils and astonishing him. He was stunned by how good it smelled and wondered if the curse had indeed turned him into a skilled baker, as Eric had said.

Before he could dwell on it further, two more women approached him. His urge erupted and flooded him with memories of these women. The first was Susan, a middle-aged Black woman with a full, juicy body radiating powerful physical presence. Her breasts were large and rounded, pressing against her white silk blouse to the point of nearly bursting, the deep cleavage between them looking as if it might spill out with any movement. Her ass was wide and exquisite, protruding under her tight business pants and causing the fabric to crease around the enormous curves, so every step made the cheeks jiggle noticeably. Her thick thighs rubbed together, emphasizing her feminine, heavy frame.

The second was May-Lin, a young Asian intern with a slim but prominently curved figure. Her chest was small but raised and pointed, pushing her short business suit upward. Her ass was round and tight in her pencil skirt, highlighting her narrow waist so the tight shorts clung to it like a second skin, emphasizing every slight sway. Her legs were long and smooth, and she moved with fluid motion that caused her buttocks to jiggle lightly.

Susan spoke first: “I thought Monday cookies were canceled.” May-Lin added “Yeah, Timmy. Lucy said you weren’t feeling well.” Tim, unsure how to respond, said briefly, “I got better. Sorry for the delay.” Susan took a cookie, bit into it, and with a mouth full of sweetness said: “I’m not complaining. Though maybe you should consider stop bringing them, because all your cookies always go straight to my thighs.” Suddenly Tim felt a strong urge to make a joke: to tell her it was better than going to her ass, like in his case. He struggled to keep his mouth shut, but then Lucy pointed at Tim and said: “At least it’s better than going to Timmy’s ass.” The three women burst into laughter while continuing to eat the cookies.

Tim didn’t resist the temptation and tasted one cookie. The flavor was perfect—rich chocolate, caressing vanilla, and a texture crisp outside and precisely soft inside. It was amazingly good, but despite that, the memory of the taste of Eric’s cum still lingered in his mind, superior to anything he’d ever tasted.

Tim finished chewing his cookie and noticed the three women looking at him expectantly. Susan raised an eyebrow and said, “Well…” as if waiting for an answer. Tim, confused, asked, “Well what?” May-Lin asked directly: “What did you make Eric for breakfast this morning?” Tim shuddered at the question. “Why does it matter?” Lucy explained: “You always tell us about the high-quality, luxurious breakfast you make for your man. All the girls here are jealous of your cooking skills.” Tim didn’t know what to answer, so he decided to be honest. “This morning, I made him one fried egg.”

The three women looked disappointed. Lucy asked, “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Susan intervened: “Get off his ass, Lucy. He works hard every morning. He’s allowed once not to give 110%.” Tim appreciated Susan’s defense, but another feeling began budding in him: was he really ashamed for not making Eric a bigger breakfast like usual? He immediately stopped that line of thought. “Wait,” he thought to himself, “this is the first time I’ve ever made him breakfast. I have no standard to compare to.”

The urge didn’t wouldn’t let that remark go by. A memory burst into his head with absolute clarity, as if he was reliving it: two weeks ago, he woke early and made Eric a luxurious pancake breakfast. He stacked a tall pile of golden pancakes, topped with soft, sweet whipped cream, alongside a glass of fresh orange juice. But the memory didn’t stop there. He saw himself on all fours, his enormous ass raised in the air, as he filled his tight, juicy anal hole with fresh whipped cream. The soft, sweet, cold cream filled his insides, pushing against the walls and dripping out between the plump cheeks.

Eric entered the room, his thick, hard erection aimed at him, and began fucking him forcefully. Every thrust pushed the whipped cream deeper, creating a creamy, messy mixture that filled his anal hole and burst out with every withdrawal. When Eric reached climax, he flooded Tim with torrents of hot, rich cum that mixed with the whipped cream, creating a white, thick, bubbling fluid that leaked out of the opening, expanding hole. Eric’s cock, when pulled out, was covered in a thick layer of whipped cream mixed with cum, dripping and glossy. Tim immediately got up, hungry and obedient, and dropped to his knees in front of Eric. He wrapped his lips around the well-covered erection, licking and sucking every drop of the sweet-and-salty mixture. His tongue cleaned every inch: the melting whipped cream stuck to all the prominent veins, the thick layers of cum covering the head, and the drops leaking from the base. He swallowed it all—the creamy sweetness of the whipped cream, the rich saltiness of the cum—and felt deep satisfaction from fulfilling his role.

That day in the office, he told the trio the entire story: how he filled his anal hole with whipped cream to be a “dessert” for Eric, how Eric’s cock came out covered in the whipped cream and cum mixture, and how he cleaned it until spotless. He told them explicitly, “Eric’s cock was my dessert.” They all laughed in delight.

Tim’s face flushed deep red as the memory flooded him. He sat there, surrounded by the three women, feeling the weight of the explicit, sexual memory now part of him, as if it had truly happened.

Lucy looked at Tim’s red face and asked with concern, “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Your face is completely red.”

But before Tim could answer, a woman in her fifties approached the group. Her height, decisive movements, and the way the other three women turned their gaze to her indicated her status. Her body was solid but balanced, with short, neatly styled silver-gray hair and a dark business suit radiating authority. Tim assumed she was the floor boss, and perhaps even his.

She asked in a low, sharp voice, “What’s all the commotion here?” May-Lin answered quickly, “Nothing, Mrs. Nori. Just a little chatting.” She raised the last remaining cookie from the box and held it forward. “But look, we saved you one of Tim’s cookies.” Mrs. Nori tried to resist, her gaze wandering between the cookie and the group. Her attempt to hide the desire to eat seemed surprisingly familiar to Tim—like his own struggle against the urges trying to control him. She said, “I don’t need cookies saved for me,” but her voice hesitated, and in a moment of silence, she surrendered. A slight smile appeared on her lips, and she took the cookie.

Susan laughed and said, “What wouldn’t we do without your cookies, Timmy?” Tim sat quietly, watching Mrs. Nori take the cookie and take the first bite. Her initial resistance melted before the temptation. All the women returned to their desks, and Lucy sat across from Tim, in the chair positioned directly opposite his cubicle.

Tim decided to focus on work to avoid further conversations and turned on his desk computer. As expected, a password lock screen appeared, but he already suspected the answer. He typed “Born for Eric,” and the computer opened without resistance. The home screen displayed a photo of him and Eric standing together in front of the Eiffel Tower, Tim smiling and leaning on Eric, whose arm was wrapped protectively around his waist.

Tim began typical HR work: reading employee complaint reports, classifying them by type—harassment, personality conflicts, or management issues—and updating electronic forms in data tables. He analyzed case descriptions, recorded resolution recommendations, prepared satisfaction surveys, and updated risk management files. The work was mostly reading: reviewing documents, sorting details, documenting processes, and creating summary reports, without need for deep technical knowledge or complex calculations. It was boring and mechanical but doable without much effort. Tim knew the work would flow more smoothly if he let the urge guide him, but he firmly refused to surrender to its control.

Suddenly Tim remembered who he really was and decided to seize the opportunity here. He called Lucy, who rolled her chair toward him. “What’s up?” she asked. “Since when are Eric and I a couple?” Tim asked. Lucy thought for a moment, her gaze wandering upward. “I’m not really sure. I’ve always remembered you together. Even when we were kids, you were always close.” “Do you remember anything unusual or strange in our relationship?” Tim continued. Lucy laughed. “The only unusual thing is how perfect you are for each other. And how you look out for each other. That’s what your mom always says.”

Tim’s heart sank. He had completely forgotten about his mother. In this reality, what was her role? What did she think of him? The thought of her clarified that if anyone could provide answers about his past—about when he and Eric became a couple, about their shared history—it was precisely his mother. She, more than anyone, had witnessed the development of their relationship and could perhaps give him a clear picture of what was before everything changed.

Tim tried to think of a way to escape the office, and when Lucy remarked that he suddenly looked pale, he recognized an opportunity. He got up and headed toward Nori’s office, stopping outside it several times. With every step, his enormous ass jiggled forcefully, causing the short skirt to sway and the heels to echo on the floor. He tried to build a plan: if Nori was the boss, she was surely the strictest witch in the office, so he had to sell the feeling of illness well. But before he could decide on an approach, Nori, who saw him from her office window, came out and asked, “Tim, do you need something?” He jumped, with no time to think. “I’m not feeling well,” he said quickly. “I’d like to go home.”

Nori’s eyes softened immediately, and her voice turned maternal and warm. “Of course. What kind of question is that? You didn’t even need to ask. Take as much time as you need at home.” Tim was surprised by the response. He expected resistance, bureaucracy, or at least a doctor’s note, but Nori—and perhaps all the other women in the office—treated him with kindness and empathy he hadn’t anticipated. He thought he’d entered a hornet’s nest, but his relationships with the women here seemed good and respectful, unlike his previous life, where conflicts with women were routine and often ended in mutual shouting. This change felt surprising, and even pleasant.

He returned to his desk, packed his things in the bag, and Lucy immediately asked, “What’s going on?” “Not feeling well again,” he explained. “I’m heading home.” Sadness covered Lucy’s face. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t called and asked you to bring the cookies, you wouldn’t have bothered coming here.” Tim wanted to ignore it, but the urge wouldn’t let him. He stood, hugged her tightly, and said, “That’s complete nonsense. It’s not because of you at all.” During the hug, his chest pressed against her large, full breasts, and he clearly felt her soft breasts pushing against him, but felt no sexual desire. The sensation was only of emotional closeness, with no sexual hint. He released the hug and headed toward the elevator. On his way out, Lucy called after him, “Let’s do a double date sometime!”

Tim, already on his way, answered without turning, “Sure.”