Build a bimbo

Keep flirting as the first changes begin to manifest

Jessica is mid-sentence, discussing velocity metrics and sprint capacity, when you interrupt again.

"You know, I bet you'd be more fun at these meetings if you relaxed a bit," you say, leaning forward. "Maybe we could grab drinks after work sometime? I could help you unwind."

Her hands freeze over the keyboard. She looks up at you with an expression of pure disgust mixed with disbelief.

"Are you serious right now?" Her voice is tight, controlled fury barely contained. "I just told you that your comments are inappropriate. I just threatened to report you to HR. And you're doubling down?"

But even as she speaks, something shifts. A single strand of hair slips free from her bun, falling across her forehead. She doesn't notice, too focused on glaring at you.

"Marcus, I don't know what's gotten into you today, but this meeting is over." She reaches for her laptop to close it again. "I'm going straight to HR after this to file a formal—"

Another strand falls. Then another. Her hand pauses halfway to the laptop as she seems to feel something, a faint tingling across her scalp. She touches her bun reflexively, finding those loose strands.

"What the..." She tries to tuck them back in, but more hair is already coming loose. The severe bun that's been her signature is unraveling strand by strand, brown hair cascading down. But not just brown anymore - you can see it now, blonde highlights appearing at the roots, spreading downward through each strand as it falls.

"Is something wrong?" you ask, your voice thick with anticipation you're barely managing to hide.

"My hair..." Jessica's voice has lost some of its sharp edge, confusion replacing anger. She's pulling at her bun now, trying to understand why it's falling apart. "I don't understand, I just put this up this morning, it shouldn't..."

More strands tumble free, each one transitioning from brown to a lighter shade as you watch. Caramel. Honey blonde. She's still trying to fix it, her fingers working frantically at the hair tie, but it's like the bun has a mind of its own, dissolving despite her efforts.

"Maybe you should just let it down," you suggest, your cock hardening further at the sight. "Might be more comfortable."

She shoots you a look that should be withering, but there's uncertainty in it now, distraction. Her hands are still in her hair, feeling the texture changing, the blonde spreading like spilled bleach through fabric.

"This doesn't make any sense," she mutters, more to herself than to you. "Hair doesn't just..."

Fifty-eight minutes left.

You soften your expression, leaning forward with what you hope looks like genuine concern.

"Hey, look, I'm sorry about before," you say, modulating your voice to sound sympathetic. "I can see you're having a bad hair day or something. I know you take a lot of pride in your professional appearance."

Jessica's hands are still tangled in her hair, which is now noticeably longer than it was two minutes ago, blonde streaks dominating the brown. Her fingers keep encountering unfamiliar length, strands that shouldn't exist.

"This isn't... I don't understand what's happening," she says, her voice strained. There's fear creeping into her tone now, mixing with the confusion.

"Maybe you should just let it down for now," you continue, keeping your tone gentle. "It's just you and me in here. Nobody else is going to see. You can fix it properly after the meeting, take your time with it."

She looks at you, her eyes searching your face for mockery or ulterior motive. Behind her glasses, you can see her pupils are slightly dilated, her breathing a bit faster than normal. The transformation is affecting her autonomic nervous system already.

"I..." She hesitates, her hands still working uselessly at the dissolving bun. More hair tumbles free with each passing second, the blonde now approaching a honey color, bright and eye-catching against her navy suit. "I suppose that makes sense."

Her voice sounds uncertain, unlike her usual crisp decisiveness. She pulls the hair tie free completely, and the rest of her hair cascades down around her shoulders. It's definitely longer now - reaching past her collarbone when this morning it barely touched the nape of her neck when bound. The blonde has spread to perhaps forty percent of the total volume, giving her an expensive-looking highlighted appearance.

"There," she says, running her fingers through it nervously. "That's... better, I guess."

But she doesn't look relieved. She looks disturbed, her brow furrowed as she examines a strand between her fingers, holding it up to the fluorescent light. The color is wrong and she knows it. The length is wrong and she knows it.

"Marcus, does my hair look different to you?" she asks abruptly, looking directly at you. "Like, the color? The length?"

Her laptop sits forgotten on the table between you, the screen gone dark from inactivity. Fifty-six minutes remaining.

You try to sound casual, like you're just offering an honest compliment.

"A little, yeah," you say, studying her transformed hair openly now. "Looks better this way, actually. Kind of reminds me of the girls I would fuc—" You catch yourself, but too late. "—date. The girls I would date."

Jessica's eyes widen behind her glasses. The confusion that was clouding her expression sharpens instantly into something else - wariness mixed with disgust.

"Excuse me?" Her voice has gone cold again despite the breathy quality that's started creeping into it. "The girls you would what, Marcus?"

She stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. The movement causes her blazer to shift, and you can see it now - the fabric pulling slightly tighter across her chest than it was minutes ago. Her breasts are definitely larger, the buttons of her white blouse underneath straining just perceptibly.

"You know what, I don't care what you were going to say." She reaches for her laptop, snapping it shut. "This meeting is done. I'm leaving, and I'm going straight to HR like I should have done the second you started this inappropriate bullshit."

But as she moves to gather her things, she stumbles slightly, catching herself on the edge of the table. Her hand goes to her chest, feeling the tighter fabric, the unfamiliar fullness beneath.

"What the fuck..." she whispers, looking down at herself. The honey-blonde hair falls forward around her face in waves that are growing longer and lighter by the second. "Something is wrong. Something is really wrong."

Her breathing is faster now, shallow. When she looks back up at you, there's real fear in her eyes.

"Marcus, I need you to be honest with me right now." Her voice trembles slightly, the professional veneer cracking. "Does my body look different to you? Not just my hair. All of me. Do I look... bigger?"

She's holding her blazer away from her chest, staring down at the way her blouse is pulling tight between the buttons, gaps of white fabric appearing where none existed before. Her hands are shaking.

"I think something's really wrong with me. I think I need to go to the hospital or—"

She sways again, gripping the table harder. A soft gasp escapes her lips, and you can see her skin beginning to take on a warmer tone, the pale office fluorescent quality fading into something sun-kissed and golden.

Fifty-four minutes remaining.