The Bare Minimum

 19/25

Jeanie ached with every minute of the 14-hour shift she had and was still enduring. As with anywhere else, the Ministry of Manipulated Wishes had faced a challenging last few years and budget cuts and redundancies had resulted in longer hours and fewer benefits for the witches that remained. Jeanie found herself cursing her ever-increasing quota and her tyrannical line manager far more often that the unsuspecting public whose wishes she was supposed to be twisting into unintended disasters.

Everyone thought the perfect wish came from precision – that long wordy descriptive requests were the key to avoiding the pitfalls that came with leaving your desires at the mercy of a mischievous witch. They were wrong. The key was in fact simplicity. A clear succinct wish was not easy to manipulate – something Jeanie found out the hard way often as scores of ‘customers’ simply wished for her to suck their dick. She was not paid for these wishes – unless you counted a mouthful of unwanted cum, which she didn’t.

It was on a night like this that she ran into Archie. The young man also looked exhausted having pulled a long night shift at the docks lugging barrels of fish into a walk-in freezer. When Jeanie met him he was frustrated and stank like the bottom of a boat.

“So, how does this work again?” He folded his arms, clearly unimpressed by the pixie-like woman offering him whatever his heart desired.

“Okay, so what you have to do is rub my clit three times and…” She grinned as his mouth dropped open. “No, fuckwit, you just tell me what you want, I wave my wand, your wish, my command, yadda-yadda-yadda…happy days.”

“Hmmm…” He nodded sceptically, but then his face softened into a thoughtful expression. “Alright…I wish I could leave all this behind,” he waved his arms at the docks and Jeanie felt a tickle of excitement in her loins. “I want a life of leisure…of luxury…and I don’t want to work long hours for it…just the bare minimum.” The witch before him grinned broadly and everything disappeared.

Archie was lying in the warm afternoon sun – relaxation flooding his body. He adjusted his position and something damp grazed across his shoulder. It was his hair, his long blonde hair. Glancing down, he quickly realised a number of other things. He saw a pair of enormous breasts squeezed into a tiny bikini top, and below that a smooth hourglass-like tummy splayed out into a pair of thick womanly hips. The bikini bottoms clinging to them traced inwards to where his cock had once been. He screamed silently.

“Hey, gorgeous!” A male voice alerted Archie to the presence of a figure to his right and he lowered his sunglasses instinctively. A man with salt and pepper hair stood wearing a speedo. “I keep you in this life of leisure and luxury…” he sauntered over and pushed the long lock of blonde hair back behind Archie’s slender shoulder. With his other hand he thumbed the waistband of his speedo down to reveal a throbbing erection. Archie shuddered as the man’s first hand moved to the back of his head. “I give you all of this…how about you give me the bare minimum in return…

Whatever Happened to Raphael? (Shipshape)

 This is a continuation of my LoanRanger series, which is available on my index page. This particular caption is a flashback of Shipshape, which you can read here

The car idled in the carpark behind the hotel, its seclusion shielding the two figures inside from the paparazzi flashes battering the street st the front, where the promotional gala for LoanRanger glittered with neon signs.

Raphael shifted in his seat, the latex dress squeaking as it clung obscenely to every surgically sculpted curve. The neckline plunged low, displaying the implants Alice had insisted upon. His legs, shaved smooth and glossed with lotion, gleamed. The investor, seated opposite him, watched with an expression that hovered between amusement and appraisal. To Raphael, it was like being on the yacht all over again.

“You wear it well,” the investor said at last. His voice was low, indulgent, the tone of a man already in possession.

Raphael forced a smile, lashes fluttering as Alice had taught him. “I wear what I’m told.” Raphael’s heart thumped. He hated it. The dress, the body, the humiliating role of ornament. But he had learned one thing in these months of forced femininity: survival depended on performance. So he leaned forward, breasts pressing against the latex, voice pitched sweet and high. “I like…being valuable,” he whispered.

The investor’s smile widened. “Good answer.” He leaned closer, conspiratorial now. “Tell me, Raphael. Do you want to stay valuable? Or do you want to spend the rest of your life as LoanRangee’s plaything—paraded, mocked, disposable?”

Raphael’s nails dug into the seat. He thought of Alice smirking as she’d unveiled him on the yacht, a cold hand guiding his waist like property. He thought of his body—no longer his. “I want…more,” he admitted.

The investor reached into his briefcase and produced a slim folder. He slid it across the seat. “Then give me what I need, and I’ll give you what you want. A future. Freedom from Alice's leash. Protection.”

Raphael hesitated before opening the folder. Inside were photographs: offshore accounts, internal memos, emails with Alice’s signature, ledgers showing the hidden trail of transformations. Evidence. Enough to sink LoanRanger and everyone steering it. “You already have this,” Raphael whispered.

“Pieces,” the investor corrected. “What I need is the whole picture. . The contracts. The clauses. You have access. And you have motivation. Bring them to me, and your new body will be an asset, not a punishment.”

Raphael’s throat tightened. He could almost see it: no more humiliating orders, no more being paraded as a joke. Instead, a penthouse, a wardrobe of his choosing, adoration without ridicule. His new body—his curse—turned into currency. He closed the folder, his manicured hands trembling. He looked at the investor, then at his reflection in rearview mirror: blonde hair, painted lips, breasts gleaming under latex. Not a man. Not even himself. Slowly, he nodded. “I’ll get you what you want.”

The investor raised his glass in a toast. “Good girl.”

The Lodger Part 7

 

Brittany stood in her room acutely aware that something wasn't quite right. The room itself with its shadows and creams wasn't the problem – she had even tailored her outfit to match it specially for Ms. Paulsen's return. Looking spectacular as always, Brittany had paired a dark skater dress with silky cream pantyhose, cutting no corners when it came to her makeup – her skin glowed and her hair glimmered. And yet something was very wrong...

Caleb was the same as always. Giddily thinking he was a girl in his pink paradise of a bedroom. Last Brittany had seen, he had been rolling around like an excited puppy on the bubblegum coloured shag rug – his perfect bleach blonde curls and cotton-candy tutu spread around him in a picture of feminine bliss. So why did Brittany feel so,,,off?

The tea clearly hadn't worked on Caleb. She had served him up an extra strong pot as soon as Ms. Paulsen had left – even giving him the bags that she was supposed to drink – and though he had fallen asleep with a sickeningly sweet smile on his face, when he awoke wearing the most masculine thing Brittany could find in the house – a bland unisex pair of brown button up pyjamas – he had just giggled at the sight of his new tits poking out from the top fastening and was back looking like a Barbie doll in 10 minutes.

Brittany had continued to give Caleb her serving of the Camomile tea along with his own. If nothing else, it kept that idiot asleep most of the time and out of her hair. She didn't bother trying the stunt with the pyjamas again and with every enforced nap, he seemed to wake as even more of a simpering airhead that the time before. One afternoon, Brittany caught him sitting in front of the dresser that had once been hers, giggling at himself mindlessly in the mirror and bouncing his boobs.

Brittany was not sure what was wrong, but she no longer looked at Caleb's boobs with the same envy she had a few days ago. Caleb was a boy – he shouldn't have breasts and the fact Ms. Paulsen had given them him was wrong. She just wasn't sure why. The pink room didn't even strike her fancy any more. Once it had held a power over her she couldn't explain, and now? It was just a room. It was stupid pink Caleb's stupid pink room.

Ms. Paulsen would be home later today along with her freshly graduated daughter, Sophie. I sure hope they know what's up with me, Brittany thought as she curtseyed half-heartedly in her skater dress for the mirror. She frowned as it hung loosely over her flat chest. Caleb wasn't a girl...and maybe she wasn't too... She just hoped Ms. Paulsen would know what to do...

The Lodger Part 6

 The rest of this series is now on my index page

Brittany came to the bottom of the house's front steps to see Ms. Paulsen off, careful not to lose her footing on the tiles in her silver pumps. She had no recollection of the woman whose house she lodged in ever leaving home without her, but finally the big day had arrived and Ms. Paulsen was going away for a couple of day's for her daughter Sophie's college graduation.

Brittany had spent the entire morning prepping her appearance for the moment Ms. Paulsen drove away. She wanted the final image of home for her landlady as she drove away to be picture perfect – a lasting mental image of beauty to take with her on her trip. And so, Brittany had picked out the most exquisite dress in her extensive wardrobe, a flowery number with a cinched black bodice complete with a large black rose at the breast. She had straightened and pinned her hair and spent hours getting her makeup just so, until, finally, she was satisfied that her beauty would be akin to a wondrous postcard Ms. Paulsen would carry with her in her mind purse – until she returned with no choice but to move Brittany back into the main bedroom.

Caleb hadn't even come to the door, she thought bitterly. How was he the favourite? He wasn't even a girl... So, why did he get the big pink room? Why had Ms. Paulsen got him breasts and not her? Caleb thought he was a girl. He even acted like one.- especially after drinking the Camomile tea. But he wasn't – she knew because she still remembered his arrival. That was the day she had been moved out of the pink room and into the spare one – the day she was no longer Ms. Paulsen's favourite.

Brittany wanted boobs too. They would fill out her dress perfectly and she would look even more amazing as she waved Ms. Paulsen off on her trips. It wasn't fair. Caleb was a boy and he had breasts, and she was a girl and had none. A plan started to form in her mind. If she could show Caleb he was a boy, he would no longer want his breasts. He might not even want to stay around with Ms. Paulsen. All she had to do was prove it to him.

But how? Of course...the tea! The tea made you sleepy. Brittany had drunk enough of it to know that. She would give Caleb a big pot, not just his serving, but hers too, and he would fall asleep. When he woke up he would have boy clothes on...but still boobs... Hmmm... And where would she get boy clothes? This was hard, Brittany thought wearily, wiping her brow and cursing at the sight of bronzer on the back on her hand. Ms. Paulsen's car was disappearing around the corner at the end of the road. She sighed. She was alone with Caleb now. Stepping carefully up the tiled steps, she headed for the kitchen to prepare some Camomile tea.   

The Anarchist (Bimbo Note)

 18/25

This is a continuation of my Bimbo Note story. The rest of the captions are in order on my index page

Dull, dull, dull... Even the drinks are boring, Azalea thought as she slugged on another glass of house wine from her spot next to the cloakroom. The wedding reception should have been in full by now – an orgy of drunken karaoke, slurred speeches and future regrets, yet the scene before her was as sterile as a 90-year-old's dick – polite toasts, rehearsed dances, sincere messages in a guest book, and worst of all, one of those gimmicky photo booths. Not even the gaudy pinks of the room's drapes and velvet carpets could add colour to the event.

She couldn't remember how she came to be invited to the union of the newly minted Mr and Mrs Frost – some cousin of a cousin maybe – but her plan to drag home a drunken wealthy grooms-man or two was fading by the second. She had incorrectly assumed that the inclusion of distant relations such as herself meant a big budget and similarly rich suitors, however, the vibe from the department store suits and sweaty 20-somethings was poor...poor and dull.

Grabbing two more glasses of wine from the tray of a nearby waiter, she surveyed the cloakroom for a coat she could sell to at least make her coming worthwhile. An impossibly grey middle-aged woman caught her eye – she was standing near the guest book and waving frantically for some kind of help. Apparently, the pen provided had ran dry. Couldn't be any dryer than this party, Azalea muttered under her breath, even as an idea started to form in her mind. A fiendish, terrible majestic idea.

Azalea found her own trenchcoat from the rack and pulled the leather tome from the inside pocket along with the pen that always accompanied it. “I have a pen,” she strode over to the woman with it held out like a sabre before letting it slip from her grasp at the crucial moment. As the woman bent to retrieve it, Azalea quickly scooped up the guest book and replaced it with the Bimbo Note open to a clean white page. “Enjoy!” she smiled sweetly and melted back into the crowd of people.

Azalea knocked back another six glasses of wine as she watched the chaos slowly to simmer into outright anarchy. The stiff suits and off-the-rail dresses started to fade into a posse of large breasted young women dressed in stockings and platform heels. Thinking someone had ordered strippers, the more uptight guests headed for the exit, signing the guestbook before they left, further feeding the scene until the dance floor looked like something from the Playboy Mansion rather than a wedding reception.

“Wait for me!” Azalea plucked another wine glass from the tray of an open-mouthed waiter and danced her way over to where three of the former guests were getting increasingly handsy with one another. She kissed one on the mouth before pouring a little wine between two plump glossy lips, letting a little of the red liquid spill onto the massive breasts below. “Let me help you clear that up!” She said, pushing one of the other bimbo's face towards the soaked pair of tits.

Whatever Happened to Saul? (Rescue Package)

 Today's Flashback Friday is a continuation of my LoanRanger story. All the previous captions in this series are on my index page. This particular flashback is for Rescue Package.

As a man, Saul had been a stress magnet. A failing business and a failing marriage would be enough to get any guy a little anxious, but throw in Saul's nervous disposition and you got a cauldron of jitters. As a man, Saul has been a sweat factory – but as a woman, he was something else entirely.

The stage-lights certainly didn't help. In fact, the whole backstage area was a furnace, and by the time Saul finally got to take his weight off his painfully high-heeled feet, perspiration was streaming down the back of his leather corset and into the seat of his rhinestone covered panties. Already, he could feel a damp patch forming on the velvet cover on the chair holding his plump surgery enhanced ass. Suspenders were chaffing his freshly waxed legs and his nylon stockings were itching uncomfortably.

“You always were a nervous wreck at things like this,” Vivienne his ex-wife and new CEO of LoanRanger spotted him panting in his chair. “Good thing we had the sense to set you up with waterproof makeup for tonight. And with your hair all grown out now, at least you don't need to wear a heavy wig.” She nodded sympathetically at Saul's sweaty brow as the buzz of excitement from the crowd the other side of the curtain started to gather volume.

“Small mercies...” Saul replied dryly and breathed out heavily, his large round breast implants pushing against the leather material of his top and producing another epicentre of warmth on his body. “Vivienne...” he sighed and tossed his long blonde hair to one side and nervously pushing the toe of one of his stilettos into the wooden floor, ...”can't I at least take the plug out for this? There are so many people out there, and it is so uncomfortable. I feel so full with it in and I just know I will forget my lines. It makes me feel so distracted...so...”

“Horny...?” Alice, the LoanRanger company attorney and architect of the scheme that had transformed both Saul and his life in exchange for saving him from his creditors, approached the former husband and wife from behind. “I am afraid there is no time,” the lawyer explained gleefully. “I mean, while I am sure you are nice and loose by now, by the time you have squeezed that cute little princess plug out, the Annual Credit and Loans Awards night will be half-way through its second presentation. If its hostess was spending that time expelling a sextoy in front of them...well, that would just be improper, wouldn't it?” She drank in Saul's baleful look and noted the sympathetic wince on the face of Vivienne, her client. “I will tell you what though, Sugartits. If you waddle that pretty plump ass of yours out onto that stage and entertain those people in your sexy little outfit, I will give you a little 'prompt' every time you forget your lines.” She produced a keyfob and gave Saul a little taste of what she meant that almost sent him leaping out of his seat. “If I were you, I would concentrate,” she grinned as the lights dimmed and the curtains began to open ominously. “Screw up too much and you could be putting on a very different kind of show...

The Lost Art of Gift Giving

“Can I make an observation?” Josephine asked as she snapped another photo. Her client was stood between a pair of Christmas Trees wearing a Santa red latex dress with matching stiletto and glossy nylon pantyhose. Usually, her clients ordered her photoshoot experience days as a feminine escape from their mundane masculine existences, but in spite of the layers of cosmetics painting Greg's face into a creature of beauty, he did not look pleased at all. “You don't seem all that happy. Are you not enjoying this? We can try some different outfits if you would prefer?”

“It's that obvious is it?” Greg brushed some blonde locks of his wig from his face and gently rolled his eyes. With makeup contouring on his face and his thick red lips, it looked like little more than a prissy pout. “Look, I don't want to offend, but this really isn't my thing.” He watched the vivacious photographer's face contort with confusion and sighed. “It's my cousins... There are four of us, and we kind of came up with this tradition about 7 or 8 years ago that whatever we received from each other for Christmas had to be used regardless of how we felt about it. We kind of had issues with re-gifting and it was supposed to fix this and teach each of us to be more grateful. That was the intention anyway.” Greg blushed as if remembering his predicament and started to fidget with the petticoat beneath his dress before thinking better of it. “So, after a few years, I kind of started to have some fun with it. I would gift weird embarrassing things, John got a mankini, I got Abigail a whipped-cream enema kit...the one year I got Kacey glow in the dark nipple rings. She didn't realise she had to keep them in for six weeks so they would heal...she had them in for her wedding...”

“So let me guess,” Josephine grinned and started to shoot pictures again. “They teamed up and got you a makeover photoshoot with little old me this year? By the way, what actually is to say you actually have to use the presents? What's to stop you saying no?”

“It is an automatic disinvite from everything, every family event – weddings, birthdays...even the Easter Egg Hunt. It is immediate family pariah status.” Greg settled his hands on his hips. “And actually, the photoshoot was just John's gift. Kacey got me a round of hormone therapy, she insisted I take them for a month before I came to you. She quote unquote wanted me to have curves to show off. And Abigail...well, she got me...” He glanced down nervously at the hem of his vinyl dress and whispered, “...a chastity cage...”

“Ah...” Josephine chuckled, “now I understand why you didn't want me to show you how to tuck after I put your breastplate on. You're already tucked up nice and tight.” She arched one eyebrow over her camera. “That is if the pills have left you much to tuck.” She tried to stifle her laughter as she continued to shoot photos. The cousins had got Greg good but it probably wasn't the moment to mention that John had paid for the premium package and she had used permanent makeup and threaded the wig into his actual hair.