Pay Dr. Maddox a visit

Jon Kekyll stepped into the faculty lounge like a man with a loaded secret in his pocket—because he was. The RAC device rested in the inner pocket of his lab coat, humming with dormant possibility. The soft murmur of coffee machines and idle conversation filled the air, along with the faint scent of printer ink and someone’s sad tuna sandwich.

At the far end of the room stood Professor Maddox, ever the towering presence: tall, stern, and somehow always too loud. He was explaining—poorly—some equation to a bored adjunct. Jon approached quietly, not interrupting, instead slipping into the nearby armchair like just another weary academic.

Maddox caught him in his peripheral vision and gave a hearty clap on the back. “Kekyll! Look who decided to show their face! You hear we barely made tenure renewal without your signature on the model projections?”

Jon gave a sheepish smile. “Well, you know me. I had… personal recalibrations to handle.”

“Hah! That’s one way to put it.” Maddox took a long sip of black coffee. “You look different though. Lighter somehow. Get a haircut or just laid?”

Jon smirked. “Something like that.”

Maddox grunted and turned back to the counter, unaware that Jon had already slid his hand into his coat and tapped a preset on the RAC.

[TARGET: Prof. Simon Maddox]
→ ALTERATION: [Gender: Female]
→ DEFAULT PARAMS LOADED

The RAC chirped softly beneath Jon’s palm.

Maddox twitched slightly, rubbing the back of his neck, and resumed speaking—now in a smoother, slightly huskier female voice that didn’t miss a beat. “Anyway, the administration’s still harping about allocation inefficiencies. I told them if they want precision, they better start investing in better infrastructure—especially for quantum analysis.”

Jon tilted his head. Maddox’s hair had grown in subtle spirals around the ears and down to the shoulders—brunette with silvering streaks. Her jaw softened, voice retaining that bossy cadence but now flowing from pillowed lips. The gray blazer cinched slightly at the waist, her chest subtly pressing against the fabric as her figure adapted, hips rounding beneath the now subtly feminine slacks.

She reached for the coffee pot, her hand now smaller, nails unpolished but elegant. “Damn thing’s empty again,” she muttered. “Is there a conspiracy against caffeine around here?”

Jon leaned back, hiding a grin. “Maybe they’re hoping you’ll finally burn out. You’re still running the optics research wing?”

“Of course. I don’t trust anyone else with the algorithms.” Maddox—now Simone, though Jon hadn’t yet heard the new name aloud—crossed one leg over the other, her form more compact, but still commanding. “You know how it is. If you want it done right, you do it yourself.”

Jon watched the lounge’s other occupants interact with her like nothing had changed. Like she had always been this competent, no-nonsense woman with a biting wit and no time for fools.

He couldn’t resist. His thumb danced over the RAC again.

[TARGET: Prof. Simone Maddox]
→ ALTERATION: [Body Type: Hourglass; Bust: Exceptionally full, H-cup; Demeanor: Confidently sensual; Style: Smart-sexy; Libido: High (suppressed)]

The change began subtly—her glasses thinned to designer frames, hair tumbling from the bun into a voluminous shoulder-length style. Her blouse opened slightly as her breasts swelled behind it—round, heavy, and clearly not modest anymore. The cardigan cinched into a tailored blazer with narrow lapels that emphasized her suddenly voluptuous shape. Her hips flared wide, and her chair squeaked quietly as she adjusted, legs now long and shapely beneath a pencil skirt instead of slacks.

Her lips parted slightly as if remembering something too intimate, and she bit the lower one reflexively.

Jon leaned in, almost teasing. “You okay, Professor?”

Maddox blinked, then gave him a warm, almost feline smile. “Fine. Just… thinking.”

Her voice was smoky now, playful without losing its sharpness. She uncrossed her legs, re-crossed them the other way, and Jon’s eyes flicked to the perfect, deliberate bounce of her chest.

“So. What brings you up from the lab, Jon?” she asked. “Surely not just to mingle with your colleagues.”

Jon laughed. “Fieldwork.”

Simone gave a gentle hum, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she shifted in her seat. The motion sent a subtle ripple through her blouse, her full bust pressing softly against the fabric as she leaned forward to reach for her mug. Her fingers, manicured with a practical nude polish, curled delicately around the handle as she sipped.

“I assume you’ll be needing access to your usual workspace,” she said, adjusting the fall of her blazer without seeming to realize how snugly it framed her hourglass figure. “Just let me know.”

There was no trace of flirtation in her tone—just calm, polite professionalism. But her voice carried an inviting softness, her posture unconsciously poised to display the elegant curve of her hips and the long line of her legs crossed at the knee.

She glanced up at Jon with casual attentiveness, her green eyes wide and steady. “Be sure to send in anything you need cleared. I’m happy to sign off if it’s all in order.”

Jon nodded slowly, caught for a second in the graceful way she tucked a heel behind her calf and smoothed her skirt over her thighs without breaking eye contact. There was an almost practiced elegance to her movements, though she wore it like second nature—not a performance, just her reality.

“I appreciate that,” he said.

She gave a soft smile—warm, unthinking, almost schoolteacher-gentle—and turned her attention back to her notes. “Just don’t forget to file your recal sheets this time,” she added, completely unaware of the subtle sway of her bust as she reached across the table for a pen.

Jon turned to leave, the RAC resting quietly in his coat pocket.

Behind him, Simone continued reviewing her printout, the rhythmic click of her pen tapping the paper matching the slow bounce of her crossed foot in the air.