The Perfect PA

Zane leaned against what was now his desk, the remote's blue glow painting Stephanie's frozen face in eerie highlights. Her eyes had gone glassy—like a taxidermied fox he'd once seen in a museum.

"Bad news, Steph," he said, tapping the remote against her forehead. "Corporate restructuring."

Her nostrils flared. A single bead of sweat slid down her temple like the last shareholder fleeing a sinking company.

Zane scrolled through the interface, watching as the system catalogued every unflattering detail: 5'9", 158lbs, BMI 23.4, resting bitch face severity: 8.2/10. The age slider practically begged to be adjusted.

His thumb hovered. Then pressed.

Stephanie's body jolted like she'd been tasered. The changes came in waves—first subtle, then savage.

At 40, her frizzy bun loosened into shoulder-length waves, the grey streaks darkening to chestnut. The wrinkles around her eyes—the ones she'd gotten from squinting at quarterly reports—smoothed away.

35: Her boxy suit jacket sagged as her shoulders narrowed. The permanent frown line between her brows vanished. Her hands—always clutching a pen like a weapon—softened, the knuckles less pronounced.

30: Her hips slimmed; the slight paunch from too many late-night takeouts disappeared. The veins on the backs of her hands retreated like bad investments.

25: Her jawline sharpened. The slight droop at her jowls—the one no amount of "firming cream" could fix—tightened. Her lips, always pressed thin in disapproval, plumped without injection.

He stopped at 20.

Stephanie swayed, now swimming in clothes meant for a woman twice her size. The suit pants pooled at her ankles, revealing legs that had never seen sunlight outside of a Wimbledon broadcast.

"Christ," Zane muttered. "You were never pretty, were you?"

Zane’s thumb hovered over the remote’s touchscreen, scrolling past pre-sets to the manual controls. The glow illuminated his smirk as he tapped [HAIR: TEXTURE MODIFICATION].

Stephanie’s practical bun unraveled strand by strand, each frizzy lock slithering down her back like snakes shedding skin. He watched in real-time as the brown darkened to rich espresso, the fibers thickening until they cascaded in liquid waves past her waist. A single strand caught on her lipstick—pluck—the sound absurdly loud in the quiet office.

"Now let’s fix that nose," Zane muttered, zooming in on [FACIAL STRUCTURE: GRADUAL RESHAPING].

Her strong British bridge crackled like breaking cartilage. Stephanie whimpered as the bone retreated millimeter by millimeter, her nostrils flaring with each audible pop of reforming tissue. The tip upturned with agonizing slowness, transforming her proud profile into something doll-like and delicate. A bead of sweat rolled down her new slope.

He didn’t bother unbuttoning her blouse before activating [CHEST: VOLUME INCREASE]. The fabric strained with a chorus of pinging threads. Her modest B-cups swelled like rising bread dough, the weight making her stagger back against the desk. Zane leaned close enough to hear the schlick of dampening silk as her nipples hardened into peaked ruches beneath the cloth. The seams of her blouse popped as her breasts swelled to perfect D-cups, nipples hardening against the strained fabric. Zane watched, fascinated, as her areolas darkened to a deep pink—the exact shade he'd selected from the palette.

The remote’s screen fogged with his breath as he selected [BODY HAIR: COMPLETE REMOVAL]. Stephanie’s arms flailed as invisible razors scoured her from collarbones to toes. The hssssk of vanishing leg hair mixed with her choked gasps. When the process reached her bikini line, her thighs slapped together with a wet smack.

"Ass next," Zane said, dragging the [GLUTEAL MASS] slider to maximum.

Her sensible slacks split up the seam with a rrrrip. Flesh ballooned outward in slow undulations, each cheek developing a hypnotic wobble that made her pantyhose shred like rice paper. He timed his squeeze perfectly—the moment the transformation finished—and his fingers sank knuckle-deep into impossibly yielding fat. The squelch echoed off the filing cabinets.

Stephanie’s new lips trembled. "P-please—"

"Ah ah." Zane’s finger hovered over [SPEECH PATTERNS]. "Let’s fix that stuck-up accent."

Her next whimper emerged three octaves higher, the Queen’s English dissolving into something breathy—like a bad American porn parody of a Londoner:

The remote pinged. [PERSONALITY MATRIX READY].

Zane cracked his knuckles. "Now the fun part."

Stephanie's knees buckled as the changes hit her psyche. Her once-piercing gaze turned doe-eyed and eager.

"F-fuck, sir... I'm so dripping for you..."

Zane scrolled through life history options. "Let's see... You're still fucking your husband, but now you're his barely-legal mistress." The remote chimed. "And my personal cock sleeve."

Reality shimmered. The office walls darkened to rich mahogany. Stephanie's ruined clothes transformed into a skin-tight white blouse and microskirt that showcased every asset he'd given her.

She was on her knees before he could speak, manicured fingers working his belt. "Please sir," she begged, tongue darting over suddenly fuller lips. "Can I get a blowjob to start your day?"

Zane sank into the CEO's leather chair—his chair now—and spread his legs. "Better make it good, Steph. I've got lots of job openings to fill today."