Yes

"Come back soon, handsome," Emily called, her voice laced with desire at his departure. "We'll be waiting to close the deal," Sarah added, persistent as ever.

As they walked the short hall to R&D, Elizabeth glanced at him sidelong, adjusting her turtleneck with a nervous laugh. "They're... really enthusiastic today. Must be the new hire vibe." Peter smirked inwardly, the remote warm in his pocket, already plotting the final transformations.

“So, how large is the R&D department?” Peter asked, and the look Elizabeth gave him told him that it too had been cut down to size—something that would need fixing. If Peter was to profit from this, he would need them able to cover all the work. To that end, he decided to amp up the skills within the R&D department, making them easily able to compensate for having a small team.

Peter stepped into the R&D department, the last stop on his orientation tour as the new hire. The room buzzed with focused energy—screens flickering with code, whiteboards scrawled with equations, and ten women scattered across workstations, each absorbed in their tasks. His guide, oblivious to the remote clutched in Peter's hand, droned on about innovation pipelines and prototypes. But Peter's mind was elsewhere. He'd already reshaped the other departments to his whims: marketing now a parade of eager, curvaceous assistants; HR transformed into submissive playthings. R&D would be his masterpiece.

His eyes locked on the first one—a sharp-featured brunette in her mid-30s, typing furiously at her desk. She had a professional air: hair tied back in a practical ponytail, glasses perched on her nose, wearing a modest blouse and slacks that hid her athletic build from years of weekend marathons. Her nameplate read "Dr. Elena Vasquez, Lead Researcher." Peter smirked. She was perfect for starting things off. With a subtle flick, he aimed the remote and pressed the button,

The change hit her like a wave. Elena paused mid-keystroke, her body tensing as a warm tingle spread from her core. Her ponytail loosened, dark waves cascading down her shoulders, growing thicker and shinier with each breath. Her glasses fogged up; she removed them, blinking as her hazel eyes shifted to a piercing green, lashes lengthening dramatically. Her face softened, cheekbones sharpening, lips plumping into a perpetual pout that begged to be kissed—or more.

She gasped softly, arching her back as her blouse strained. Beneath the fabric, her breasts swelled, pushing from a practical B-cup to overflowing DDs, firm and perky, defying gravity. The buttons popped one by one, revealing smooth, tanned skin glistening with a sudden sheen, as if she'd just finished a workout. Her waist cinched inward, abs tightening into a defined six-pack, while her hips flared out, ass rounding and lifting into a bubble that stretched her slacks to the limit. The pants shredded at the seams, reforming into tight olive-green shorts that hugged her like a second skin, riding up to expose toned thighs.

Elena's mind fogged with new urges. An insatiable drive to flex, pose, and show off specifically to peter. She stood, her height inching up a bit on newly sculpted legs, and whipped out her phone for a selfie. One hand tugged at the remnants of her blouse—now a skimpy white tank top with black trim, barely containing her enhanced cleavage—pulling the zipper down teasingly. "God, I feel... amazing," she murmured, her voice huskier, laced with seduction. She flexed her arm for the camera, admiring her own reflection in the office glass, oblivious to the stares starting to turn her way.

Peter watched, remote still humming in his grip, as Elena struck pose after pose—leaning over a desk, phone in one hand, the other playfully tugging her top lower while she snapped another thirst-trap—her transformation complete but the department's just beginning. The other nine women continued working, unaware, as he scanned for his next target, his gaze sliding past her and landing on the woman two stations down.

Her nameplate: Camila Rezende, Senior Data Architect.

Late twenties, Brazilian by birth, sharp dark eyes, naturally wavy chestnut hair pulled into a loose, professional half-up style. She wore a fitted dove-grey ribbed sweater that hinted at a toned but modest figure and high-waisted black trousers. Calm, analytical, always the one who caught bugs in code no one else noticed. Peter decided she would be next.

He lifted the remote again, thumb hovering.

This time he pictured something different as Peter adjusted the remotes settings: sun-kissed caramel skin, exaggerated hourglass proportions, a permanent sultry glow, and an irresistible compulsion to speak in a breathy Portuguese whenever she got turned on. Confidence turned up to eleven. The kind of woman who owns every room simply by walking in and knows it.

Click.

Camila’s fingers froze over her keyboard. A soft “ahn…” escaped her lips as the warmth hit. Her sweater began to tighten immediately; the soft knit stretched like elastic as her breasts surged forward, going from a subtle C to heavy, perfectly rounded Gs in seconds, the grey fabric thinning until it clung like a second skin and the deep V-neckline plunged on its own. Her nipples, suddenly sensitive, poked visibly against the knit.

Her waist pulled in dramatically while her hips flared, trousers creaking before the seams split along the outer thighs with a soft rip. The black fabric re-knit itself into glossy, skintight latex leggings that looked painted on, accentuating a round, gravity-defying ass that lifted higher with every heartbeat. Her legs lengthened slightly, calves sculpting into dancer curves, feet slipping out of sensible flats into invisible platform heels that weren’t there a moment ago; yet she stood taller, swaying instinctively.

Hair exploded into thicker, shinier waves, tumbling past her shoulders in perfect beach curls. Lips plumped into a natural bee-stung pout, glossed deep rose. Cheekbones sharpened, lashes thickened, and her eyes shifted to a molten honey-brown ringed with green. A light golden tan swept over her skin like she’d just stepped off Ipanema beach.

She bit her lower lip, a low “meu Deus…” rolling off her tongue in a husky São Paulo accent that hadn’t been there before. Her hands slid up her own torso almost involuntarily, cupping the new weight of her breasts through the sweater, thumbs brushing over stiff nipples. A visible shiver ran through her.

Camila turned in her chair, locking eyes across the room with Peter’s direction without realizing why. She rose slowly, hips rolling with every step, the latex squeaking faintly. One manicured finger crooked, beckoning, as her voice dropped into a purr thick with Portuguese:

“Ei, novo estagiário… vem cá. I think I need help with something very… hands-on.”

Behind her, Elena glanced over, smirked, and went back to filming herself doing squats in the aisle. The other eight women in R&D were still working, but a few heads were starting to turn, sensing the shift in the air.

Now Peter's attention shifted again, drawn to a woman at a corner workstation, her focus unbroken amid the growing distractions. Elena was now perched on a desk, scrolling through her selfies with a satisfied hum, while Camila sauntered closer to Peter, her hips swaying hypnotically, murmuring something about "debugging" that sounded far more inviting than it should.

The third woman's nameplate read "Sophia Langford, Systems Engineer." Early thirties, with mousy brown hair in a simple clip, fair skin, and a no-nonsense expression behind rimless glasses. She wore a plain white button-up shirt tucked into khaki pants, her figure slim and unassuming—practical for long hours hunched over schematics. Peter adjusted the remote's settings subtly, envisioning an elegant upgrade: platinum blonde waves, refined features with a sultry edge, a poised confidence that radiated authority and allure, all while channelling a craving for subtle seduction in her professional domain.

He pressed the button.

Sophia straightened in her chair as the energy coursed through her, a soft exhale escaping her lips. Her hair lightened from roots to tips, shifting to a luminous platinum blonde that caught the office lights like silk, lengthening into soft waves that she instinctively swept into a high, voluminous ponytail with a flick of her wrist. The clip reformed into a sleek gold accessory. Her glasses vanished, eyes sharpening to a captivating hazel with smoky shadows appearing as if applied by an invisible hand, brows arching perfectly. Cheekbones lifted, skin smoothing to a flawless porcelain glow, lips subtly plumping into a natural rose tint that hinted at endless poise.

Her body refined itself with graceful intensity. Shoulders squared confidently as her posture improved, chest expanding beneath the shirt—breasts firming and swelling to a full, elegant D-cup that strained the buttons just enough to tease without bursting. The white fabric darkened to a deep navy speckled with subtle gold flecks, the collar loosening as her hand rose unconsciously to toy with it, fingers brushing her collarbone. Waist tapered elegantly, hips curving into a subtle hourglass that made her khakis hug tighter before they smoothed into tailored slacks that accentuated her longer, toned legs. A delicate gold necklace appeared at her throat, matching earrings dangling like grape clusters, and a ring glinted on her finger as if it had always been there.

Mentally, her analytical mind twisted with new layers: a surge of poised charisma, an urge to command attention through intellect laced with flirtation, turning every technical discussion into a captivating performance. She craved the thrill of leading with her enhanced presence, her voice dropping to a velvety timbre that could negotiate breakthroughs or whisper innuendos with equal ease. Doubts evaporated, replaced by a quiet dominance—she was the one who owned the room now, effortlessly blending brains and beauty.

Sophia turned her head slowly, her new ponytail swishing, and met Peter's gaze with a knowing smile before her eyes flicked to the erection in his pants. "Intriguing prototype you've got there," she said, her tone smooth and inviting, fingers lingering on her shirt's open button as she stood and approached, exuding an aura of sophisticated allure. "Care to demonstrate its full capabilities?"

Camila paused nearby, eyeing Sophia with a mix of curiosity and competition, while Elena flexed in the background. The remaining seven women typed on, but the department's atmosphere thickened with unspoken energy.

Peter's grip tightened on the remote, scanning for number four, skipping past the growing cluster of transformed women (Sophia now leaning against a whiteboard, marker in hand, drawing an architecture diagram while deliberately letting her blouse gape just enough to keep half the room distracted; Camila circling her like a panther, whispering Portuguese teases; Elena filming the whole thing for her new “team morale” content).

At the far end of the open lab, near the 3D printers, stood the fourth.

Nameplate: Valeria Ortiz, Hardware Integration Specialist. Colombian roots, late twenties, currently dressed like she’d just come from a weekend hike: plain white crop-top T-shirt, faded high-waisted jeans, dark hair in a simple low ponytail. Lean, athletic, the kind of natural beauty that didn’t need makeup and rarely wore it. She was calibrating a prototype arm, brow furrowed in concentration, completely tuned out from the chaos spreading behind her.

Peter lifted the remote again. This time he dialed in something clean, addictive, and dangerously approachable: radiant girl-next-door perfection with a relentless teasing streak. Sun-kissed skin, effortless sex appeal that felt innocent until it very much wasn’t, and a playful, almost bratty need to push buttons (his especially).

Click.

Valeria’s shoulders twitched. A soft “ay—” slipped out as warmth flooded her body.

Her skin took on a flawless golden glow in seconds, like she’d spent the ideal amount of time under Mediterranean sun. The plain white crop-top shrank tighter, the cotton turning thinner, softer, almost silky, riding higher to expose a toned strip of midriff midriff that now shimmered faintly, as if dusted with invisible highlighter. Her breasts swelled gently but dramatically (from a sporty B to full, perky double-Ds), the shirt stretching until the fabric was practically translucent, nipples faintly outlined beneath. The hem lifted another inch on its own, teasingly.

Jeans reshaped instantly: waistband dipping lower on her hips, denim softening into a perfectly worn-in medium wash that hugged every new curve. The legs slimmed and lengthened slightly, seams popping and re-stitching into fashionably distressed skinny jeans that looked painted on, frayed just enough at the thighs to draw the eye. Her ass rounded into a firm, heart-shaped shelf that made the back pockets sit higher and tighter.

Hair exploded out of its ponytail into thick, glossy chestnut waves that tumbled to mid-back, catching the light with natural caramel highlights. Eyes brightened to a warm hazel flecked with gold, lashes lengthening dramatically. Lips plumped into a natural rosy pout that curved into an immediate mischievous smile.

Inside, the shift was instant: sharp intellect still razor-focused on circuits and tolerances, but now laced with an irrepressible urge to flirt, to tease, to see how much she could make him squirm while pretending it was all accidental. She wanted attention the way other people wanted oxygen, and she wanted it from Peter specifically, hum only no other man existed to her but him.

Valeria set the prototype down, rolled her shoulders once, and turned. The movement made her new curves bounce in the most distracting way possible. She cocked one hip, hand resting on it, and tilted her head.

“Oops,” she murmured again, the word rolling off her tongue like honey. “I think something in the lab just cranked my settings way past spec.” Valeria took a slow step forward, then another, bare feet silent on the lab floor. “Question is… are you planning to run diagnostics, or should I start stress-testing myself?”

She stopped an arm’s length away, close enough that Peter could smell vanilla and warm skin, and gave him the sweetest, most wicked smile imaginable. Returning it Peter’s had gaze drift past Valeria and landed on the fifth woman.

Nameplate: Ashley Carter, Machine-Learning Engineer. Early twenties, the youngest in the department. Short, straight ash-blonde hair tucked behind one ear, thick black-rimmed glasses, a pale-pink ribbed tank top (definitely a tank, not lingerie), and loose grey joggers. Cute in a quiet, bookish way, the kind of girl who lived in hoodies and could out-code anyone in the building before breakfast.

Click.

Ashley’s breath hitched. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose out of habit, but the frames were already thinning, turning into sleek, barely-there rose-gold rims that made her ice-blue eyes pop. Her hair lightened in waves, going from ash to a bright honey-blonde with perfect golden highlights, growing longer and fuller until it fell in thick, tousled waves past her shoulders like she’d just come from a day at Venice Beach.

The pale-pink tank top tightened and lifted, fabric softening into a baby-soft cotton-spandex blend that hugged newly rounded, gravity-defying F-cup breasts (full, high, and impossibly perky), the neckline dipping just low enough to show a teasing hint of cleavage. A tiny white logo appeared over her left breast: some made-up surf brand that suddenly felt like it had always been her favourite. Her waist pulled in dramatically, abs tightening into a subtle, athletic six-pack that the cropped hem now proudly displayed. Joggers slimmed and shortened into pale-grey dolphin shorts that barely covered the curve where thigh met ass, the waistband folding over to reveal a sliver of tanned hip.

Skin shifted to a flawless golden glow, faint bikini tan lines appearing like souvenirs from a summer that never happened. Legs lengthened, thighs toning into that impossible gap, calves flexing as invisible flip-flops lifted her an extra inch. A delicate gold anklet materialized around one ankle; a thin choker with a tiny heart pendant settled at her throat.

Mentally, the switch flipped hard. Shy focus became radiant, addictive confidence. She didn’t just want attention; she needed to be the centre of it, and she knew exactly how to get it with a giggle, a hair flip, or an “innocent” bend forward. Every line of code she wrote now felt like she was flirting with the compiler itself.

Ashley spun her chair toward Peter, glasses glinting, lips curving into the brightest, most blinding smile in the room.

“Heyy, new guy,” she sang, voice like warm honey and iced coffee. She hopped up, breasts bouncing in the most distracting way possible, and padded over barefoot. “So, like… are you the reason my heart rate monitor just spiked to 140?” She stopped right in front of him, close enough that he could smell coconut sunscreen and vanilla lip gloss, and twirled a strand of blonde hair around one finger. “Because I’m gonna need you to take responsibility for that.”

Peter’s pulse was thrumming now.

Five transformed goddesses were orbiting him like planets around a new sun (Ashley giggling and twirling her hair while she “accidentally” brushed against his arm, Valeria pretending to stretch so her crop top rode higher, Sophia murmuring low suggestions about ‘optimizing performance parameters,’ Camila and Elena filming everything with matching sultry smirks).

But there was still work to finish.

Searchign across the room for the sixth woman, Peter found her standing at a high table reviewing schematics.

Nameplate: Lauren Hayes, Lead Mechanical Engineer.

Mid-thirties, ice-blonde hair in a severe low bun, sharp cheekbones, cool grey eyes. Tall, almost six feet in flats, wearing a charcoal blazer over a simple white tee and black slacks. Built like a runway model who secretly deadlifted: long lines, subtle muscle, zero softness. The kind of woman who intimidated half the building just by existing.

Time for something more overt

Click.

Lauren’s pen clattered to the table.

The change was immediate and merciless.

Her bun exploded into thick, straight platinum hair that fell to the small of her back like liquid silver. The blazer and tee fused, darkened, shrank: sheer black mesh long-sleeves over a built-in balconette bra that looked barely legal for an office, the deep V zipper stopping just above her navel. Her breasts surged forward (full, heavy, perfectly rounded H-cups that defied every law of physics, yet sat high and proud, the black fabric straining with every breath).

Her waist cinched impossibly small, flaring into wide, dramatic hips and an ass that ballooned outward in a dramatic, shelf-like curve. The slacks liquefied and re-formed into a blindingly white, high-waisted micro-skirt (so tight it looked painted on, so short it was basically a suggestion). Her already long legs lengthened another two inches, thighs thickening with power, calves sharpening into lethal curves. Clear six-inch stilettos materialized on her feet that had never needed them before.

Skin took on a porcelain glow, lips painting themselves a cool frost-pink, eyes shifting to an arctic blue ringed in silver. A thin black choker snapped around her throat like a collar she’d chosen herself.

Inside her head, the switch flipped from detached precision to regal, predatory confidence. She didn’t giggle. She didn’t flirt. She owned. Every movement became deliberate, sensual, calculated to make knees weak. She liked control, liked watching people try (and fail) to look away, liked knowing she could ruin someone with a single arched brow.

Lauren pushed off the table slowly, hips rolling like a runway model who’d decided the world was her catwalk. The click of her new heels echoed through the suddenly quiet lab as she stalked straight toward Peter. The other five women parted instinctively.

She stopped inches from him, towering in the stilettos, looking down with a faint, cool smile. Lauren’s icy eyes softened the moment they met his, the cool mask melting into something warm and dangerously warm. She stepped in close, the click of her new heels slowing to a deliberate, teasing rhythm until her body was almost brushing his.

Instead of towering, she let her height fold just enough to bring her lips near his ear, the heavy curve of her new breasts pressing softly against his chest as she spoke.

“Mmm… you’re doing so good, baby,” she whispered, voice like black velvet soaked in honey. “You’ve made me all hot and bothered.”

Her glossy black nails didn’t trace the remote this time; they slipped between his fingers, lacing with his own, guiding his hand (remote and all) to rest against the back of her tiny, cinched waist, right where the sheer black mesh met warm skin.

“I was cold before,” she breathed, lips grazing the shell of his ear, sending a visible shiver down her own spine. “Now I’m burning up… and it’s all because of you.”

She pulled back just far enough for him to see the slow, adoring smile spreading across her frost-pink mouth. One hand came up to cup his jaw, thumb stroking gently. While the other cupped Peter’s balls.

“Keep that little toy ready, handsome,” she purred, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his lips, just shy of a real kiss. “I want all of your attention. I want to thank you properly, slow and sweet, until neither of us can think straight.”

Her tongue swept across her lower lip, eyes half-lidded and shining.

“Promise you’ll save the best reward for me?”

Four left.

Peter’s gaze slid past Lauren’s slow, predatory circle and landed on the seventh woman.

Nameplate: Riley Thompson, Embedded Systems Developer. Twenty-four, strawberry-blonde hair hanging straight and simple past her shoulders, fair skin, almost no makeup, wearing an oversized charcoal turtleneck sweater that swallowed her slight frame and loose black cargo pants. Quiet, methodical, the one who could debug firmware in her sleep.

Peter raised the remote and pressed.

The change rolled through Riley like a silent wave.

Her hair brightened three shades, shifting from strawberry to a warm honey-blonde with soft golden streaks, growing thicker and longer until it brushed the small of her back in a silky sheet. The turtleneck tightened and shortened, fabric turning into a fitted, second-skin ribbed knit in the same charcoal shade, the high neckline lowering into a subtle scoop that revealed newly delicate collarbones. Beneath it her chest swelled, slow and steady, pushing from almost flat to full, high C-cups that pressed softly against the stretchy material, nipples faintly visible when the air-conditioning kicked on.

Her waist drew in, hips rounding into smooth, feminine curves. The cargo pants slimmed and tapered into high-waisted black leggings that hugged long, newly toned legs all the way to her ankles. Bare feet slipped into invisible support so she stood a little taller, posture straightening without her noticing. A thin silver ring appeared on one finger; small stud earrings glinted in her lobes.

Her face refined itself: cheekbones lifting slightly, lips filling into a natural rosy pout, lashes darkening and lengthening. Eyes shifted from hazel to a clear, luminous gray-green framed by soft, feathery brows. A faint flush rose on her cheeks, like she’d just come in from the cold.

Riley blinked once, stretched her arms overhead (the motion lifting the hem of her sweater just enough to flash a strip of flat stomach), then turned back to her monitor as if nothing had happened. But now every small movement carried an effortless, **** grace. When she reached for her coffee mug her sweater clung in all the right places; when she leaned forward to type, the soft weight of her new breasts rested lightly on her forearms. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and kept working, quiet focus unbroken, only now the room felt warmer whenever her gaze flicked across it.

Peter’s eyes moved to the eighth workstation.

Nameplate: Naomi Park, Photonics Engineer. Late twenties, jet-black hair in a severe middle part, straight as a ruler, tucked behind her ears. Minimal makeup, small silver studs in her ears, wearing an oversized black hoodie and dark jeans. She was hunched over an optical bench, adjusting a laser array with steady, practiced hands.

Peter raised the remote and pressed.

The change swept through her in one fluid motion.

Her hair thickened and lengthened, turning glossy obsidian with a faint blue-black sheen, falling in heavy waves past her waist. The hoodie shrank and reknit into a tailored black corset-style top (matte with subtle damask patterning), the zipper lowered just enough to reveal deep, sculpted cleavage as her chest expanded into full, rounded F-cups that sat high and impossibly firm. A silver dragon pendant settled between them on a long chain, the tail curling down into the valley.

The sleeves became sheer black lace that clung to newly toned arms. Her waist cinched dramatically, flaring into wide hips and a firm, dramatic backside that pushed against the back of her chair. The jeans darkened and tightened into high-waisted black leather pants that looked poured on, gleaming faintly under the lab lights. Thigh-high stiletto boots materialized, silent on the carpeted floor, lifting her another five inches.

Her face sharpened (cheekbones slicing higher, jawline refining, lips painting themselves a perfect blood-red). Eyes turned a deep, hypnotic brown ringed in gold, lashes lengthening into thick fans. A thin black velvet choker snapped around her throat, the dragon pendant’s mate.

Naomi let out a soft sigh and rolled her shoulders so the dress creaked softly, and leaned forward again to resume aligning the laser. The motion made the silver dragon sway gently between her breasts. She crossed one leather-clad leg over the other, the boot heel tapping once against the desk leg, then stilled. Her expression stayed cool, focused, almost bored, except now every small shift of her body radiated quiet, lethal sensuality.

Seeing that he was almost finished Peter’s sight locked on the ninth woman.

Her nameplate read: Brooklyn Hayes, RF Systems Specialist. Late twenties, mousy brown hair scraped into a messy knot, glasses, baggy hoodie, mom jeans. She was soldering a tiny antenna board, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth in concentration.

He pressed the button and held it a fraction longer this time.

The heat hit her like a slow, filthy wave.

Her hair ignited first, brown burning away into cascading platinum curls that spilled down her back in thick, cotton-candy spirals, each ringlet bouncing as it grew. The hoodie melted off her shoulders, reforming into a paper-thin, cherry-red crop top that clung to suddenly swelling breasts like wet tissue. They surged outward, round and impossibly heavy, stretching the fabric until it was translucent, nipples stiff and dark against the scarlet, the hem riding higher and higher until it barely covered the undercurve of two perfect, fake-looking J-cups that jiggled with every breath.

Her waist snapped inward so hard the air left her lungs in a soft moan she didn’t notice. Abs carved themselves into a tight, diamond-cut eight-pack that flexed under golden skin. The jeans shredded down the sides with a slow, deliberate rip, threads popping one by one as her hips flared wide and her ass ballooned into a round, overripe shelf that made the remaining denim shrink into frayed micro-shorts, the Union Jack belt appearing low on her hips like a dare. A silver barbell glinted through her navel; a tiny heart tattoo bloomed just above the waistband.

Thighs thickened into smooth, powerful curves; calves sharpened. Her skin took on a deep, honeyed tan, glistening faintly as if oiled. Lips plumped into a glossy, cock-sucking pout painted hot pink. Eyelids smoked themselves dark and dramatic, lashes lengthening until every blink felt obscene.

Brooklyn gave a soft pleasurable moan, a slow, shuddering one that made her new tits rise and fall hypnotically. She shifted her weight; the motion sent a visible ripple through her chest and ass. Without thinking, she arched her back a little more, rolled her shoulders so the crop top rode even higher, and went right back to soldering, tiny sparks from the iron reflecting off glossy platinum curls and sweat-misted cleavage.

One woman left.

The entire lab smelled faintly of warm vanilla, ozone, and something far more dangerous.

Letting the remote rest against his palm Peter desired to savour the one last second.

The final workstation belonged to Harper Reid, Algorithm Theorist. Twenty-six, naturally dark ash-blonde hair twisted into a librarian bun, thick, black-rimmed glasses, no makeup, wearing a shapeless navy sweater-dress that reached mid-calf and a loose black cardigan. Soft, curvy in a hidden way, the kind of body most people never noticed because she never let them.

He pressed the button and didn’t let go until the glow pulsed twice.

The change was slow, luxurious, almost cruel in its thoroughness.

Her hair loosened first, the bun unravelling into a waterfall of pure silver-platinum that poured down her back in thick, glossy waves, the colour so bright it looked wet. The sweater-dress began to shrink against her skin, fabric turning slick and stretchy, sliding upward inch by inch as her breasts swelled beneath it, heavy, aching, ballooning from modest handfuls to overflowing, bra-free J-cups that **** the neckline lower and lower until the dress became a second-skin micro-dress in electric teal. The hem stopped high on her thighs, clinging to newly flared hips and a round, plush ass that lifted and separated with every tiny shift of weight.

The cardigan melted away completely. Her waist pulled in so tight the dress looked vacuum-sealed, ribs flaring into an exaggerated hourglass that made breathing feel indecent. Thighs thickened into soft, pillowy curves; calves sharpened. Clear, chunky-framed glasses stayed on her face, but the lenses thinned and the frames turned glossy black, giving her that perfect sexy-secretary stare. Her lips filled into a permanent bee-stung pout, glossed pale pink.

Skin flushed warm ivory, then took on a soft, moonlit glow. Nipples stiffened visibly against the thin teal fabric, dark and prominent, every breath making the dress drag across them in a way that looked almost painful. A delicate silver chain appeared around one ankle; her bare feet arched slightly as invisible heels lifted her a few inches taller.

Harper let out the tiniest, breathy sigh, rolled her shoulders once so the heavy weight of her chest shifted and settled, then reached up to push her glasses higher on her nose. The motion made her breasts sway, slow and hypnotic. She turned a page in her notebook, crossed her legs (the dress riding even higher), and kept working, cheeks faintly pink, thighs pressing together like she was fighting a sudden, delicious distraction she didn’t quite understand.

Ten out of ten.

The entire R&D lab was now a gallery of impossible, breathtaking women, every one of them still seated at her station, still working, screens glowing, fingers flying across keyboards and touchpads, but every curve, every breath, every tiny shift of fabric now radiating raw, unbearable heat.