Wear Your Wife To Work Day - Inanimate/Sexchange TF/TG

 “Having fun down there?” I whisper to my wife, craning my neck to peer down around my prodigious breasts.

“You know it! Wear Your Wife To Work Day is the best!” my wife-panties exclaim from beneath the desk.

   Lifting one heel, I cross my legs demurely, thick thigh gliding over the other. My wife gives a delighted squee, using the movement to snuggle closer against my womanhood. I wiggle my black satin panties against the chair, knowing the experience is akin to a full-body massage for her pantified form.

“Mmm that feels so good. Thanks, sweetie. Oh, and thanks for wearing a shorter skirt this time - it makes for a much better view. It’s nice to put faces to voices for a change!”

The skirt is more a belt, gracing only the top of my buttocks while leaving the rest of the pert peaches exposed. I tug at it awkwardly. My wife had chosen it, though it was wholly inadequate for the feminine proportions the autocloset had blessed me with this year.

“You’re welcome. Although I’m concerned it might be giving the wrong signal to the other men in the office.”

That’s the central flaw with Wear Your Wife To Work Day. While the married men are expected to wear their wives upon their feminised bodies, the ones spared the transformation are the horndog young men without partners. It creats something of a charged atmosphere out of what is intended as a light-hearted (albeit jovially humiliating) annual event.

“Yup! I caught your new hire checking out your ass over lunch break,” my pantie-wife giggles.

I squirm at the thought of being objectified. “I’d best have a word with him about inappropriate behavior in the workplace. Wear Your Wife To Work Day is a day of fun, not an excuse to leer at your feminized boss!”

I wobble onto my heels and mince across the office, cursing whoever programmed the autocloset for this year as my ass jiggles obscenely with each step. It gives my wife quite the ride as she clings on for deep life. I lean over Simon’s desk. “Can I have a word with you in my office?”

A scandalized gasp escapes my panties as I lead him back to the office and, sure enough, looking back I find the man’s gaze drinking in the sight of my finely feminized derriere. He isn’t even trying to hide it. The cheek! Clucking my tongue in displeasure, I bite my tongue in anticipation of the proper dressing down awaiting him, but there’s little I can do about the exaggerated sashay of my hips, nor the wiggling of my soft buttocks except to endure his stares until I have him in my office.

“Close the door behind you and have a seat.”

A rough hand grabs my neck, powerful muscles bending me down over my desk. His hand lifts my skirt to expose my plump, vulnerable cheeks jutting into the air, then seizes the delicate fabric hem of my wife, dragging her down my rippling thighs.

“I’d rather have you instead,” he rasps in my ear.

He wrenches her away. There is a snap of elastic, a ripping of lace. My yell is silenced as he stuffs my wife, now nothing more than a torn rag, into my mouth. My mumbles and moans filter through the gag as he unbuckles his pants and mounts my womanhood on his cock.

Brains and Brawn - Possession TG

   That clod of a barbarian had struck me again with the backswing of her axe, striking me with the flat of her blade while in her battle frenzy. I lie in the grass, stars wheeling around my head as blood trickles from my temple and the clanging of battle abates.

Lenna stands over me, wiping her gore-encrusted greataxe off on my wizardly robes. “Fucking mage, tripped over his dress again? You truly are worthless in a fight. Worse - I might have tripped over you lying there. Know your place the next time we're in battle - behind me.”

“I am a hundred and eleven years old, and you will treat me with respect, young lady,” I hiss. As I struggle to stand, there is a crack and a lance of pain from my pelvis.

“Disgusting,” Lenna spits. “Weak. My tribe would have sent you out in the cold decades ago. Save us both the trouble of me babysitting you in battle - do what all old men do and die.”

A berserker’s rage is a terrifying thing. A wizard’s is rarer, and far worse. My eyes flash with eldritch symbology as I level a finger at her, a lance of dark energy striking her in the chest.

“Ruoy ydob si enim uoy tnelosni nairabrab!”

Her spirit link with her animal companion has always been powerful. That connection served her well in battle, yet here it was her undoing. All it took was a blast of necromantic energy to dislodge her soul from her body for ever a moment, and the spiritual link sprang tight, pulled her in and sealed her within the animal, two souls joined in a single body. Leaving her flesh empty and unguarded.

My soul settles comfortably in its new home, my awareness slowly trickling out into her extremities. I feel like warm treacle filling a mold as my essence infuses the vessel.  I slip on her hands like donning fine, well-fitting gloves. My body is strong and vibrant, my blood singing with youth and adrenaline from a battle well-fought. The myriad pains of age, collected over such a long time that I’d almost forgotten their presence, are gone. The iron greataxe feels like a feather in the grip of my powerful arm.

My eyes flutter open. The details of a world unobscured by cataracts stuns me. Was the world always this beautiful? How had I never noticed before? Youth is indeed wasted on the young, as they say. I can make out every leaf on the tree, every hair on the mountain lion bearing down on-

Lenna sinks her teeth into my arm. It is a good pain - sharp and thrilling, not the dull chronic ache of ancient joints. Compared to the pleasure simply dwelling in this perfect physique gives me, the pain is nothing.

It is a simple spell to charm an animal. The glow of my hands reflects in the lion’s eyes.

“Know your place, animal - beneath me. Or else you’ll make a fine fur-skin rug for my wizard tower. Now… sit.” Obediently the animal sits. “At last, you learn respect. Roll over.” She obeys. “Beg.” The animal looks up at me, pleading, whining, the human fear clear in its animal eyes. “... speak.”

“Rawr rah rawrhhhh ra,” the animal mewls.

“Struggling with that one, are we?” I laugh. Slowly I heft the blade, relishing the bunching of my powerful muscles. The lion shrinks back. I check if I am being watched. Our companions are finishing up their half of the fight. They won’t notice. “In case you’re wondering if this is temporary…”

My axe thuds down into the inert form of my old body. My grey-haired head rolls away into the grass.

The-Not-So-Great-Shift - Breeding Season

 After the Great Shift, population numbers were in severe decline. It wasn’t just the people who perished on Shift Day or those we lost in the months of chaos afterwards, it was the birthrate - about a third of what it had been before the Shift.

   It was understandable. Practically every existing relationship in the world had been ripped asunder, partners dispersed across the globe (with many millions still trying to find their way back home) or placed in bodies completely incompatible with their ex-spouses. Reforging those broken pairings and forming new ones was slow. Half of men were now women, and half of women were now men, and -for the most part- sexualities had been unaffected, rendering around half of the population technically gay overnight.

Then there were matters of age, religion, culture, and language, all of them scrambled. The awkwardness and generational divide of dating a smoking hot, teen blonde with the personality and values of 90-year-old Sudanese man. Finding common ground was hard these days.

It wasn’t that babies weren’t being conceived - with sex being one of the few universal cultural touchstones we still had in common, there was plenty of it going on (too much if you ask me), but few males had the nurturing instinct that a lifetime of hormones and cultural programming instilled. Most ex-males avoided pregnancy like the plague.

Ultimately the state intervened once it became clear how dire the situation was. The Compulsory Coupling Draft, the government called it. My blood ran cold the day they announced it. Forced breeding. We - everyone with a functioning uterus, female-born or not- was to be assigned a partner. A stud. We were to be bred like animals! Me! A respected surgeon and father of four! Given to some man to be impregnated again and again like some puppy mill. I was only just coming to terms with the fact the uterus between my legs might actually be mine, and now I was being told it was actually property of the state.

The man I was given to, Cathlene, was a thug and a brute. Testosterone psychosis. By all accounts, his body had been an affable family man once and his mind that of a sweet grandmother. Some women don’t cope well with being thrown into a brain with foreign, male impulses, which can run unchecked, making monsters out of the mildest ex-women. Even if I could escape the draft, there was no escaping Cathlene once he discovered the delights of breeding me. When I tried, the beatings began.

I’ve been lucky so far. I’ve yet to fall pregnant, though not for lack of Cathlene trying. The state monitors all fertiles closely, knows precisely when they’re ovulating. This month, it hit at work. There’s a special breeding room the hospital sets aside for staff-use, lilac-painted and decorated with photos of babies. I strip, lie back and stare at the ceiling. Cathlene spreads my legs eagerly and has his rough way with me.

“Perhaps this will be the month,” he croons, and I try not to flinch as he strokes my abdomen. The thought of my belly swelling with this man’s child makes my skin crawl.

I stifle noises of discomfort as he mounts me, knowing he hates anything other than my fake orgasms. His leering face is red and sweating as he rocks above me, growing in pace and intensity until he’s practically berserk, slamming me against the bed as he all-but foams at the mouth. A sticky warmth blossoms within me and I shudder, turning away. Suddenly he grabs my neck, squeezing. “You didn’t say ‘thank you’,” he snarls.

“Thank you,” I croak out.

“Hngh. Good girl.”

Lad's Outing - Clothing TF

 “Hm? Did I just hear a noise back there?”

“....”

“Oh, don’t play coy now. I’m not alone here, am I?”

“...”

“It must have been my imagination then. Hm. I can’t wait to get home tonight. Grinding my panties all over my boyfriend's thick, meaty cock. He does so love blowing his big hot sticky load all over my panties. He does so love rubbing it deep into the fabric. Of course, any poor boy who happen to be disguised as them would be cumlocked forever…”

“Wa-wait.”

“Ah hah! I knew it!”

“Way to go, man. You fucking blew it.”

“She said she’d cumlock me!”

“She was bluffing. Now she’s definitely going to cumlock us! Nice job, idiot!”

“Wait, wait, hold on, there are two of you? A little boy-bra too? I’m almost flattered. How long have you been my clothes? Let me guess, you made the switch in the gym, while I was showering, right? I knew somebody had gone through my things, but nothing was taken. On the contrary, I gained two naughty young men. Now entirely at my mercy.”

“And we would have gotten away with it too if it wasn’t for loudmouth!”

“Fuck you, you want to come down here and do my job? You think it's easy being wedged between her sweet ass cheeks for hours at a time? Do you have any idea how hard it is keeping quiet when you're stretched tight over her asshole. I’ve been nutting non-stop since the moment she wore me. Let’s see how long you stifle a groan when you're her camel-toe for half a day.”

“Oh, boo hoo. Try an hour in my shoes. Or her shoes anyway. Being crushed into non-existence with every step… awakening from total oblivion to the sweetest orgasm… the most perfect existence, wrapped around her foot... her heavenly toes... only to have your essence utterly snuffed out with the next fall of her foot. To truly be a thing... existing only at her discretion. It’s a miracle I didn’t start worshiping her as a sky goddess hours ago.”

“He’s right… Not easy… Swimming in her foot sweat... so long…An eternity... Soaking in her… My mind dissolving in her fluids… My humanity washing away... in her essence… Just a sock… Just her sock... Only herrr-ngghhh.”

“... my goddess…”

“This is why I'm the bra. So I can stay far away from you weird fucks.”

“I want to try being the bra next time.”

“There isn’t going to be a next time! She’s going to cumlock us!”

“Oh yeah…”

"*sigh* Well, gentlemen... it's been an honour."

Father of Dragons - Sexchange, Bodypart, Animal Transformation

   It was the third day of the convention and I was still struggling to adjust to life as the kitten-sized lizard dad had transformed me into. Worse than a pet, I was a cosplay accessory, made to sit silently on his shoulder as he prowled the convention floor, flaunting the tits that had once been mom to anyone who would look. Which was every male there.

He craved attention, and had intentionally garbed his feminised body in as little clothing as he could, only avoiding being thrown out for indecency by a discrete fondle of the security guard’s genitals. He posed and preened for the cameras, pushing the two succulent halves of his wife together into a spectacular display of cleavage.

It was the evening and he’d seated his derriere at the hotel bar while I curled my draconic form around the jar of peanuts, picking at the food with my snakelike neck. Unfed by our ‘owner’, me and my brothers had resorted to scrounging scraps off the convention floor - half eaten hotdogs and doritos. Dad was deeply drunk - only a few beers in but he’d yet to compensate for his reduced tolerance. His loose-fitting sapphire blue dress had slipped down around his creamy breasts to expose his nipples, and none of the men in the place had the heart to tell him.

A man sat beside him, shirtless and covered in stenciled-on tattoos. “Daenerys,” he addressed dad with a wolfish grin. Dad’s lopsided gaze examined the fellow cosplayer.

“Drogo,” he mumbled in recognition.

“Those things real?” the man asked. His question might have been addressed to the two fake dragons, myself and my brother, whom many at the convention had already mistook for animatronics. Yet his gaze and his question was directed firmly at dad’s tits.

“Why don’t you touch them and find out?” dad murmured.

The man needed no further invitation. Dad gave a girlish mewl as "Drogo's" hands enveloped his breasts, squeezing and groping roughly, the loose dress falling down about his waist.

“Wa-wait, I- ooooohhhh,” dad moaned. His dainty hand gripped the man’s thick arm for a moment, the show of resistance falling away as a heady pulse of estrogen hit his brain.

   I rose in agitation, noticing dad’s heavily lidded eyes as he shifted closer to the other man, pushing the soft orbs of his wife against him, grinding his nipples against his palms. The tits, formed from female flesh, were designed to maintain his hormones like that of a woman, but each fondle turned his blood more into a hormonal slurry, his mind more into a lascivious slut. “W-we mustn’t,” he gasped. “I’m a ma-aaaahhh”

A quiet, feminine yelp escaped his lips as they were taken by the other man. They gasped and grunted as their tongues explored each other's mouths passionately. Dad was trapped in a vicious cycle - the more his body was played with, the more his mind was feminized. The more he was feminized, the more he urged the man to treat his body - no, worse, mom - as a plaything.

Realizing the situation was escalating out of hand, I hopped up onto my four paws, scrambling along the bar counter to intercept them before dad did something he’d regret. Dad was already slipping into the man’s lap, grinding his ass eagerly against him.

“This is a family bar.” The bartender interrupted the lurid scene. “If you've got a room, take it there.”

“Gladly,” smiled Drogo, sweeping the silver-haired slut into his arms.

Dad curled again him, cooing in drugged delight.

I followed, snapping at the man’s heels, though he paid me little notice as he continued to ravish the ex-man with his tongue. At his hotel room, he gave me a hard kick, sending me sprawling. “Scram, pest,” he hissed, slamming the door against my snout.

My talons scraped pointlessly at the door, trying to ignore the squeals of delight and moans of orgasm that emanated from within as Daenerys’ pussy was penetrated for the first time.

Father of Dragons

 

   Lockdown was over. The gaming conventions mom and dad loved so much were opening again and we decided to celebrate as a family with a group cosplay. Power Rangers, dad promised us, as he began programming our costumes into the autocloset. “As long as I’m not the pink ranger,” I joked.

When the day came, all five of us - mom, dad, and my two brothers - squashed into the autocloset together. As the panels on the walls of the autocloset opened to released dozens of scalpel-tipped mechanic arms, dad barely seemed able to contain his excitement.

It was one of the earliest models of autoclosets, designed only for applying makeup and making minor cosmetic alterations. In programming our cosplays, dad had bypassed every safeguard, blown every fuse, and blacked out the street’s energy grid. Our smoking, sparking autocloset spewed us back out. What was left of us…

I gnash my tiny jaws. “This isn’t what we agreed to,” I snarl.

The smug voice of the platinum blonde holding me is soft, feminine and sultry, but the tone is undeniably our father’s. “Snappy, aren’t we? Don’t take that tone with me, little lizard. I don’t hear your mother complaining, do you?” dad says, stroking a hand over the swell of his tits.

“Wait, where is-? What have you done?!”

He circles one finger teasingly around a nipple. The soft titty flesh seems to quiver and tremble “I can hardly be called a mother of dragons without a spectacular pair of breasts, can I? I may look beautiful now but, under this skin, I’m still the man I was. Give it a few hours and this Daenerys would be sporting a 5 o’clock shadow. But now that your mother’s female form is a part of me, her hormones flows into my veins with just the slightest squeeze… ahhhh.” He cups mom, his head rolling back in euphoria as his fingers tighten into the mammary, pumping a giddy rush of estrogen straight to his head. “A fondle here, a grope there, and I’ll stay beautiful forever.” He giggles. “Or at least the length of a convention. Do you like her?”

“Turn us back right now!” I hiss, my tail lashing back and forth in anger.

“Oh, but I intend to have so much fun first,” he pouts. “Of course, if you don’t like her, I can improve her. It might make reverting her challenging once I’ve filled her with two big bags of silicone. Is that what you want? You want her to be my fake, bolt-on tits forever?”

Shocked, I wag my little lizard head. “N-no. No, I don’t want that. She’s... fine as she is. B-but you’ll turn us back after the convention… right?”

He smiles and cradles my scaled body to his bosom, the warmth of his flesh pleasurable to my cold blood. “Perhaps." He strokes one finger lovingly along the ridges of my spine. “If you make a good pet.”

God-King to Mundane-Maiden

    The dwarf Magni the Ever Eternal, Infinitely Enlightened One, Most Hallowed Elder, He Who Is Above All, has sat outside the gates of Khun Moldur for twelve thousand years. As the dwarven tales go, in the Time Before, it was He who united the dwarven clans into a single people with wisdom and strength. In the peace of His kingship, His wisdom grew ever deeper, as deep as the roots of the mountains. He meditated for four hundred years, never moving, never speaking, taking a breath only once per decade.

Finally, Magni attained dwarven apotheosis, a level of transcendent oneness with the spirit of the planet itself. His body became as stone and the light of creation itself beamed out from within Him. In that moment, He became more than mortal; he became a true God-King. Though His ossified form has never moved since, He remains a figure of veneration for dwarves across the world.

So imagine the horror of the dwarven guards when, performing their morning rounds, they came upon their Hallowed Elder surrounded by flecks of chipped stone. The God-King Himself had been… defiled. Horror upon horrors, some iconoclastic vandal had chiseled His stone body away in the night. Chiseled Him into the likeness of a human woman.

A glacial people, I’ve never seen a dwarf truly angry, let alone a whole city. It hadn’t occurred to them to erect defenses or walls around their immobile Elder. So deep was their adoration, they’d never even conceived anyone would want to perform any harmful act upon Him. They quickly concluded that only a human would be capable of such an act, reasoning I happened to agree with, knowing their devotion. An inspection of Magni confirmed their suspicions. The God-King was covered with human fingerprints, particularly around His, um, breasts.

Other than us diplomats, there are few humans in Khun Moldur, so it didn't take them long to find the perpetrator, some spoony bard and human nationalist by the name of Runvern. For reference, dwarven trials take between 3 to 5 decades to reach a guilty verdict. It took them until the evening to throw Runvern in a volcano.

As head diplomat, I’ve done my best to salvage the situation. ‘This man does not represent humanity’. ‘Let us not let hatred come between our two people’. Alas, in the moments before they tossed Runvern over the edge, his parting comments regarding what he'd done with the manhood of the feminised, humanised Magni were of such a vulgar nature that I fear the dwarven rage cannot ever be quenched.

The human diplomats were expelled this evening. It seems the dwarves are mobilizing for war. The War of Magni’s Member.

Dwarven Assassins

 

   I have quite the collection of dwarven assassins. With their affinity for the earth that lets them turn their flesh into solid stone, they all have the same bright idea - concealing themselves as statues to be imported into my chateau, then transforming back while I sleep to throttle me in my bed.

It’s not a bad plan. I’m well known for my statuary after all, though they don’t realise until it's too late that they are all their brethren who came before them, chiseled down from thugs into beautiful things.

Nor do they realise the enchantment around my chateau locking any dwarf within their stone form until they leave the grounds. Which, once they’re in my collection, they never do.

Their petrified flesh makes such wonderful, workable material for a sculptor. Some are like granite, others marble, while some even become creatures of brass, though it is all the same softness under my adamantine chisel. To a master, the statue is already there within the stone, just waiting for the superfluous material to be removed, begging to be exposed to the world as items of feminine perfection. Which I do, carving away all the ugly dwarven musculature and brutish pronounced brow until at last I step back and admire my creation.

I like to leave a little something of the men they were to remember them by. The latest, one-eyed, devilish-looking cut-throat to grace my abode had such a pronounced hunchback I couldn’t resist carving it into a pair of angelic wings.

He makes a fine effigy of Aphaea, goddess of fertility and childbirth. My hand graces his thick thighs and broad, childbearing hips, and I press one ear to the statue’s breasts, listening for a moment to the stifled, terrified dwarven oaths echoing within, before sending him to be presented publicly in the grounds.

The Fabric Of Life - Gymwear

 

 There was a new clothing store on the highstreet, The Fabric of Life. Unusual for a clothing store, it didn’t sell clothing. It would be more accurate to say the clothing sold themselves.

Personal wearers were in vogue. With the breakthrough in TF tech, people -quite often men- paid handsomely to be turned into and worn -quite often by women- as items of clothing, and a whole industry had sprung up, with some enterprising influencers making wearing their fans a huge part of their income.

As is often the case with new markets, personal wearers was completely unregulated. There had been tragedies, far too many missing persons, if the term ‘person’ could still be applied to the misplaced or malicious discarded ex-humans that now drifted through thrift stores, car boots sales, and ebay, trapped forever within their fabric bodies to be bought and sold by unknowing owners until time and use wore them out.

The Fabric of Life store had established itself as a reputable middle-man. Celebrity clients submitted requests to stock their wardrobes, the store advertised, and then performed the transmutation and delivery of paying customers into objects. When the contract expired, they ensured the individual was returned to their previous life. Sure, people occasionally still fell through the cracks, but it was safer.

When Emily Ratajkowski put out a request, the store made a huge deal out of it, advertising on buses and billboards, and turning it into a midnight opening. It wasn’t just that Emily wanted people-panties. Oh no, her entire wardrobe, her whole life was to be stocked with lucky fans. Not only would they have the honor of adorning her body, they’d decorate her home, be her furniture, her perfume, toiletries, even her food and drink.

Fans of the actress camped out in advance to secure spots in the queue, which snaked down the highstreet, half a mile of excited chatter. You were there to try a short-term contract, enjoying the positive vibes as the impromptu fan community light-heartedly divided themselves into #TeamPanties and #TeamSneakers. You were stuck behind a 19-year old superfan named Eric, a ginger-haired gentleman wired on so much coffee and anticipation he hadn’t slept in three days or, seemingly, stopped jabbering away factoids about his ‘goddess’, Emily, for even a moment.

At long last the store doors opened and fans surged inside. Store technicians began processing contracts. The non-disclosure agreement was 30-pages long - after all, fans would have intimate knowledge of every aspect of her life.

“How long?”

“Just 48 hours,” you reply. “I was hoping I can be her-”

“That’s $600. We take cash or card. Due to the volume of fan response, the store cannot guarantee final form,” the store technician stated bluntly, not even meeting your gaze. She had a long shift ahead of her and yawns as she ticks through boxes. “Though you will legally be the possession of Emily Ratajkowski, the store does not guarantee that you will be used, worn, touched, looked at, or otherwise acknowledged by Miss Ratajkowski. During your stay, you are not entitled to move, except where your final form entitles or requires you to move to perform your function. Due to safety legislation, you will be able to speak, though you are not entitled to speak to Miss Ratajkowski, in her presence, or in the presence of the press or paparazi. Failure to maintain silence will result in yadda yadda blah blah.”

The speech rambled for forty minutes before you were allowed to sign. You were led through into the transformation booth. Everything went black.

—----------------------------------

What a bargain! Only $500 to have your entire being stretched tight across your idol’s thighs, ass and pussy. Your entire form signs with each movement she makes. Her body heat permeates every part of you, her scent the most intoxicating perfume as you subtly nuzzle against her womanhood. It is as though your senses are stretched out, your entire form acting as your eyes, nose, and tongue.

And it has only been an hour since she plucked you from the wardrobe, ascended you above all others to be hers and hers alone. Your anticipation grows to fever pitch when you catch sight of yourself in store windows - you’re gym clothes! Soon you’ll drink in the sweaty delights of her workout.

Emily tenses suddenly as a nasal voice speaks from nowhere. It’s Eric.

“Oh, wow, you lucky bastards, I can’t believe you got to be her actual gymwear! What am I? Can anyone see what I am? Oh my god, she’s actually touching me! This is the best day of my life!”

Emily rolls her eyes, plucking the mouthy sunglasses from her head. She grips the two lenses tightly in her fists, flexing the thin, brittle plastic. The sunglasses give a tormented scream of pain in their final moment before there comes a crinkle of splintering plastic as the sunglasses are snapped into a dozen pieces.

Emily holds the broken fragments out in her open hands for the rest of her stunned attire to see. “Anyone else have anything they want to say?” she asks, tossing the pieces in a garbage bin.

Missing Property - Good End

 

Missing Property - Very Bad End

 

Wonder Broman - Autocloset Cosplay TG

 Haha. Sure, fine, you caught me, bro. Maybe I do help myself to mom’s autocloset and wardrobe when I have the house to myself, so what? I’m man enough to admit it. There’s nothing sissy about wanting to play with a pussy and a pair of titties, even if they are your own. Maybe if you were half the man I am, you’d understand that. Know what isn’t macho? Spying on your brother.

Now shift out my way, the autocloset can’t keep my linebacker physique on ice all evening.

Whoa! Why are you taking your cock out?! Let’s not do anything hasty here. I’m still your brother. Remember? Your best big bro?

You have… footage? Of me fucking myself with my girlfriend’s sex toys? And you’ll upload everything online unless I become… which of your fantasies? Dude, if you think for a second I’ll become your wet dream just because you’re blackmailing me…

Ugh. *sigh* So would you rather I suck you off in the dress or the armor?

Commander Riker, Risan Love Slave

    Commander William Riker placed the last crate of vaccines at the planetary governor's feet and tapped his combadge. “Okay, Geordie, that’s the last of the medical supplies delivered. One to beam up.”

A harsh crackle of static burst over the communication channel briefly. “Sorry about that, Commander." Geordie's voice sounded uncharacteristically flustered. “We’re having problems with holodeck 4. It's affecting systems all over the ship, including communications.

“Anything you need help with?”

“I’ve got half of engineering chasing glitches but we’ve managed to isolate the cause - when you’re back, maybe you can tell me the Ferengi that sold you that Risa holosuite program,” said Geordie, his tone exasperated but light-hearted. “Alright, transporters are back online. I’ll have you out of there in no time.”

Riker knew something was wrong even in the hazy moments between as he cycled through the pattern buffer. Something was being taken from him, siphoned away. He was relieved to see the transporter pad appearing around him as he rematerialised, yet he felt… light… somehow hollow. As if his flesh was merely a figment.

He staggered for the transporter terminal, trying to ignore the sway in his juicy ass or the bounce of his pert, gravity-defying tits. The terminal was flickering and erratic but the data was clear enough. The atoms that had once construed the solid, 6’ 2” William Riker had never rematerialised. Instead they’d been routed out of the transporter buffer into the replicator system to be processed into food for the crew. The molecules that had once been his cock were, at that very moment, being repurposed as one of Deanna Troi’s chocolate sundaes on Ten Forward.

The transporter had replaced him with a new template. It was a face he recognised well even when its mouth wasn’t stretched around his cock. He was one of the nymphomaniacal sex puppets he’d been fucking the AI brains out of in the holodeck ever since they left DS9. A 4’9” risan girl, nothing more than a few grams of holomatter and photons held together by forcefields. His plump, fuckable lips, designed by holonovel artisans to provide maximum pleasure - shaped into an expression of horror.

So enraptured by his reflection, Riker didn’t hear the soft hiss of the door, or feel the gaze of the chief engineer drifting over his bare ass. “Another glitch.” Geordie rolled his eyes behind the visor, slapping his combadge. Computer, I’ve located another holocharacter loose in transporter pad 3. Erase it and return it to Risan Love Slave, Part 3.”

“Wait, Geordie, I’m -!”

The rogue holoprogram vanished in a wisp of holomatter. Geordie sighed and returned to work. Perhaps once he got Riker’s mess under control, he’d spend a few hours playing with that risan fuckpuppet. He'd certainly earned it.

Missing Property - Bad End 2/2

 

They’d reupholstered you for the overseas market. Safer to sell you far from home where you’ll never be recognised as the man you once were. They’d swapped out your hair and face, and dyed your silicone skin, then sent you overseas for sale. For days you’d endured the darkness. When light flooded in, you were on display, men leering at you as you’re paraded before them, the latest item in the auction.Your final price? 10,000 baht. Cash was exchanged, then you. More darkness. Then your new home.

The man has a collection. Ex-men like you.

He explains how lucky you are. The world can be a cruel place for an object like you. Then he describes to you, in detail, grinning all the while, just how terrible those cruelties can be. He shows you some of the men who disobeyed him. What's left of them. They're still moving. Even the ones melted into furniture.

He’s right. There are far worse fates for a sentient piece of rubber. To be his toy is a small price to pay for his protection, his kindness. So you become his doll, servicing and satisfying him with your new holes however and whenever he desires.

Missing Property - Bad End 1/2

 The two men stare down at you with cold, unfeeling eyes. You try to plead with the pawnbroker as you had with your abductor, though all that had earned you with the latter was a sock stuffed in your mouth, and all it earns you with the former is quiet muffled sounds.

“I figured the animatronics would be worth something at least,” says your abductor hopefully.

The pawn broken frowns. His calloused fingers grip your silicone skull. There is a terrible wrenching as your point of view twists 180 degrees and rises up in his hands. He’s detached your head. He spends a moment examining the hollow insides of your skull, fingering the severed joint of your neck.

“No animatronics. This aint a sex doll. What you’ve got here is a Grade-A transformed human.”

“Wh-what? I just found the thing on the streets.”

“Probably minding its own business. Poor bastard. Chances are someone’s looking for it. Or ‘him’ judging by the tone of its whining,” he says, lifting your head to his ear so he can better hear your stifled groans.

“If I’d known….” Your abductor stammers, turning pale. Your head is set aside, facing downwards. Even disembodied, the link remains to the rest of you. You sense the same calloused fingers playing with your vulva, kneading your soft silicone breasts. The abductor’s voice drops to a low whisper. “So… how much?”

The pawnbroker sucks air through his teeth. “To the right man…? This thing is priceless. I know a collector. I’ll make some calls.” Rough fingers grip your plastic hair, scalping you in a single motion. “Hand me that wig first. Last thing we need is anyone recognising this guy.”

Reality Switch - Pantified Boyfriend

 “Oh thank god you’re here, Lydia. Look, me and Jessica decided to fool around a little with a reality switcher. Something has gone horribly wrong.”

“Uh, Jessica, why are your panties talking?”

“Thanks for noticing! Cool, huh? They were a wedding present. Somebody got me a pair of novelty panties. You know, the Talking Panties™ with speakers sewn into the fabric? They’re like those greeting cards with audio messages when you open them.”

“I don’t know if those are… a thing…?”

“Sure they are, they sing happy birthday to you.”

“No, I mean I’ve never heard of panties with speakers in them before.”

“Of course you haven’t! Nobody has! That’s just the reality shift trying to explain why I can speak.”

“It’s a very niche product.”

“Lyia, listen to me, I’m Jessica’s boyfriend. I’m a human. The reality shift erased me but Jessica was never meant to be part of it. She needed to remember so she could revert things to how they're meant to be.”

“Does your husband know you have boyfriend panties?”

“Haha, very funny.”

“She’s not meant to be married, Lydia! Without me in existence, she must have met somebody else. Some macho asshole who-”

“How do they know my name is Lydia?”

“Just a coincidence. They come pre-loaded with different fun catchphrases. Stuff like ‘Jessica, please help me’, ‘I love you, Jessica’, ‘reality is broken’, and ‘please don't wear me when he touches you’.”

“Those don’t sound very fun. And it just plays randomly?”

“Uh huh. Little snippets of audio. Sometimes the audio sounds like its syncing to things you say, almost like it’s replying, but it’s just a coincidence.”

“I am replying to you!”

“See?”

“Don’t they seem like a strange wedding present to you?”

“Not at all, they’re totally-… Huh… Actually, now that you mention it… yeah, they are kinda weird…”

“Thank god, a breakthrough. Finally you’re seeing this isn’t how reality is supposed to be.”

“And so annoying too. The sobbing audio seems to be stuck on a loop.”

“Annoying? No I-”

“Why didn’t I mute them weeks ago? All I need to do is remove the battery from the speaker.”

“No no no, Lydia, don’t let her mute me. No no. DON’T LET HER MU-”

…

“Finally a bit of peace and quiet.”

“I know, right?”

“Good job they’re cute panties or I’d have thrown them in the trash.”

“So anyway you were telling me about your sex life with the gorgeous new hubby.”

“Oh, right, where was I…?”

Personal Wearer - Clothing TF

 

Kimiko stopped to catch her breath, dabbing lightly at her perspiration. Pausing, she adjusted each article of clothing she wore, giving each one its own moment of her total, undivided attention.

As a personal wearer, her reputation depended on being attentive to her clients and their needs. She’d amassed quite a collection of clientele - people willing to pay to be used for an hour or two each week. Each had their reasons for being there - for some, it was the physical intimacy, others were using her to work through issues they had in their human lives, while others merely found a sense of accomplishment in being used as objects that they lacked in their daily lives. A good half were there for fetish reasons. But whatever their individual motivations, they were less important to her than identifying and satisfying their needs.

She wiped her hand off on her black sport’s bra, knowing how much David loved soaking in her sweat. The garment shivered against her breasts. She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, hearing an ecstatic squeak as she crushed the sneakers, Sophie, hard against the asphalt with her heels. Placing the water bottle to her lips, she tipped it back, pretending not to notice the orgasmic groan from the inert plastic as the bottle’s fluids spurted down her throat.

Lastly, for what must have been the sixth time that run, she tugged at the pantified young man wedged painfully between her ass cheeks, extracting the overeager, elasticated gentleman with a finger. This was why she preferred older clients. They had a respect for boundaries - her most important boundary being her asshole, which she was convinced the young man was desperate to go spelunking in.

She’d have a word with him after the session. If he couldn’t behave himself, he'd need to find another wearer.

A meek voice made her jump. “Um, Kimiko? Not to be a bother but I think I’m changing back.”

Kimiko looked down. Sure enough, her leggings were rippling and shifting in the way that indicated they were starting the transition back to humanity.

“Mike! I’m so sorry. I must not have set the machine for the full hour,” she exclaimed.

“It’s fine, it’s fine It’s just... that you told me to take my clothes off before you transformed me…”

Michael was agoraphobic, practically a shut-in after lockdown, and had been using outings as a garment as a low-stress way to venture back out into the real world. The last thing he -or her business- needed was him reverting in a public place, butt naked.

“There’s a transformation point over there! Just hold together, okay?”

“I’ll try my best,” the leggings promised, straining to hold its form as she sprinted for the machine. To its credit, her satchel had noticed her panic and already opened wide, practically regurgitating her purse into her hand. “Thanks, Terry.”

Grabbing a loose handful of change, she quickly thumbed coins into the public transformation machine. The slow, clunky interface took an insufferably long time to work through, and her leggings were already turning an alarming shade of human when at last she confirmed her selection. The public transformation device hummed and whirred as it shifted the leggings back into nondescript legging form, and locked them in for another 3 hours.

“So sorry about that, Michael. I won’t charge you for this session.”

“It’s fine. It happens,” the leggings replied brightly. “Disaster averted, right?”

Kimiko huffed a sigh of relief. “Yep. Disaster averted.” With an appreciative pat to Terry, she flung him back over her shoulder and started the jog home.

In the coin reservoir in the belly of the transformation machine, three dollars looked at each other anxiously.

“She’s coming back for us, right?” asked one.

Manufactured Consent - Dildo TF

 

Transcation Excursions - Facatativá

 

In the 17th century, the area of Facatativá in present-day

Colombia was brutally put to the sword by Spanish conquistadors. So the tale goes, as the priestess of Huitaca lay bleeding out, she placed a curse upon the land, so that the invaders would experience the fate of those they had killed.

That night the conquistador slept beneath the open sky. As the silvery light of the moon touched them, they took on the bodies and faces of the slain villagers. When a second party of conquistadors arrived to relieve them, the transformed Spaniards discovered their tongues too had been taken from them. Watching as their former comrades drew swords, they could only plead helplessly in the native tongue in the moments before they were struck down by the men they had once called brothers.

But the curse didn’t stop. Ever since that day, all who sleep there awaken to find their flesh twisted into the shapes of long-dead men and women…

Today the city is a thriving spa town! Drawn by the so-called curse, retirees from across the world throng the streets, staying at one of the many luxurious high-rises that dot the hillside of this once-sleepy village.

By day, guests can enjoy the local culture, experiencing first-hand a forgotten language from their own lips! Try the cuisine, visit pre-Columbian architectural sites, or perhaps even catch a bus tour to visit the spooky, unmarked graves of those unlucky conquistadors.

And at night, our transformed attendees engage in acts that would make Huitaca, the goddess of sexual liberation herself, blush!

Thinking of booking an excursion to Facatativá? Contact us today!

Disclaimer: New bodies will be received by guests upon sleeping within the perimeter of Transcation Excursions Resort and Spa. Transformations are determined at random from a pool of 449 17th century indigenous muisca peoples. Transcation Excursions does not guarantee the age, sex, gender, or any other attribute of the body received by our guests. Transcation Excursions can not be held responsible for any loss or acquisition of age, limbs, hair, tattoos, or sexual organs upon transformation. Transcation Excursions can not be held responsibilities for any pregnancies conceived during or following a stay at the Transcation Excursions Resort and Spa. Transcation Excrusions can not be held responsible for cloudy, stormy, or otherwise moonless weather conditions during your stay. For indemnity purposes, all transformations are considered Acts of God. All transformations are final. 

Green Fingers, Thumbs, Limbs and Torso - Plant TF

 Honey? Are you still there?

We're still spiritually linked by the spell, Simon. I can hear you for now.

I changed my mind. I want to go back. I can’t see, I can’t move. Undo the spell. Please?

Undo it? But didn’t you say you wanted to support me? That you wanted to share everything with me? It’s so incredible feeling your life force, strength, humanity, everything flowing into me. I could run a marathon right now. Mmm your life essence tastes so good. Even if it has gone straight to my ass, haha!

But I’m a houseplant!

And what a beautiful houseplant you are too. There really isn’t enough life force left to hold you in the shape of something complex like an animal or a fiance.

But- but- we were meant to share everything…

We will. I’ll share with you the sunny window ledge of my new apartment. Let me introduce you to the collection. Say hi, boys.

Wait. Are these men too?! How many fiances ha-

Aaand there goes the link.

A Helping Hand

 

When my son came out as gay, I knew I wanted to be supportive of his lifestyle, even if I wasn’t always sure how to go about it. But when things started getting serious with his boyfriend and he admitted he was anxious at never having satisfied or even been with a guy before, I knew it was my time to shine.

Of course I insisted he spend an hour in the autocloset first. A korean cutie so I wouldn't have to look at his face as he practiced. He didn’t appreciate the bra and panties I dressed him in, but I insisted.

"Don't skimp on the tongue. And would it kill you to play with my balls a little?"

Hand on his head, I gently forced his mouth down again and again until I was completely, utterly satisfied 

that he’d mastered deep throating.

Milk Made

 

It had been two decades since our last child and my wife’s body was less prepared for nursing than it had been then. We tried massage, breastpumps, everything, yet she remained dry as a bone. She'd been set on nursing, and it was obvious her inability to provide was bothering her, so maybe I should have been more tactful with my words.

“Face it. Everybody gets older.”

   She didn’t like that. Not one bit.

I still can’t believe she sold me, forging my consent in a body trade. My birth body was hauled away to be who the hell knows where - worked to death on a construction site or taken apart for organs, and I'm trapped in this vat-grown, barely-human clone, a bovine-augmented wet nurse. I'm a milk factory, existing to lactate and nothing more.

These disgusting tits ache like they're going to burst, the skin tight as a drum, nipples desperate for release. Quadruplets couldn’t drain them fast enough. The longer I go without a milking, the worse the pain gets. My wife treats my agony only with mockery, her derisive moos following me around the house.

My savior got home from college today. He offered a shoulder to cry on and a chance to vent, but that wasn't the release that I craved, and it was his mouth, not his shoulder, that I cared about. In his defense, I had to beg.

If I look blissed out of my skull right now, this is what having two liters drained in a single milking does to a man.

Jack Bounder - Ex-Superspy - Part Six

 

For anyone looking for Part Five, I popped it up on Patreon. Don't worry, you're not missing a huge amount of plot 😋

www.patreon.com/transviscera

----------------------------

The head of the British Secret Intelligence Agency, F, slapped the newspaper down on her desk.

BRITISH AGENT JACK BOUNDER IN DAYLIGHT LOUVRE HEIST!

   More clones! Was there no end to them? F considered the whisky bottle in her desk before jabbing angrily at the intercom for her secretary.

“Miss Pennymoney, would you bring Jack in here.”

“Mmngh-now?” came Pennymoney’s breathless response. It sounded positively… orgasmic.

“Yes, now. I need to speak with him urgently,” F snapped.

It took a remarkable number of minutes for Miss Pennymoney to make the 3-meter walk from her desk to F’s office, smoothing her skirt and trying to conceal her flushed cheeks as she stepped into the room. Steadying the trembling in her knees from the long hours of stroking the pantified agent against herself, she approached F’s desk hesitantly.

“Oh, do get it over with, Miss Pennymoney. I don’t enjoy this any more than you do.”

Pennymoney nodded, placing her palms wide on the desk and bending forward.

It had been three weeks since the secret agent’s return from China. F had placed him on indefinite leave until the issue of his doppelgangers was cleaned up, and he’d spent that time convalescing against Miss Pennymoney’s pussy. Considering the unrequited lust the woman held, it was the safest place in England for him.

“Nervous, ma’am?”.

F poured and drained a double of whisky. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve given you a dressing down, Miss Pennymoney.” F crouched behind her, gripping the zipper and slowly parting the skirt to expose her shapely rear and the transfigured agent. She cleared her throat. She could only assume the misogynist cold war dinosaur was listening to her but, then again, the same could be said for any briefing she’d ever given him.

She sighed. This morning she'd spoken directly to the Prime Minister. Now here she was talking to laundry.

“Consider your holiday cancelled, Jack. I have a mission for you.”

Celebrity Culture - Emmy Rossum

It was one of the largest illegal DNA busts the TFPD had made. A criminal gang were running their operation out of a tower block where they were manufacturing and distributing celebrity status - cells stolen, grown, and pumped back into anyone who could pay for it.

The SWAT team entered through the parking garage at the base, heading up, sweeping floor by floor, room by room, past vats of bubbling flesh-coloured goop.

“Watch you dont get that shit on you, rookie,” Daniels growled behind his respiratory. “Unless you want to spend your career as Anne Hathaway.”

The patients and low level technicians administering the treatments were fleeing. The real criminals were fighting back, gunshots echoing down the concrete corridors. The radio channels erupted as resistance was encountered. 

“-got a Downey Junior heading for the roof with-”

“Kardashians have sealed the stairwell. I need gas grenades.”

“Oprah is armed. I repeat, Oprah is armed.”

I kicked in a door and swept the room. Empty, oversized IV bags dangled above a chair in the center of the room.

A half-clothed figure darted past me from the shadows, sprinting for the elevator, trailing an IV drip behind her. She must not have realized we cut the power. I found her desperately thumping at the buttons. She cowered back at the business end of my rifle.

“Miss Rossum, I presume. Hands where I can see them.”

She doesn’t resist as I push her against the wall, patting her pockets until I locate a wallet. One hand pressing her face against cold steel, I flip it open to her driver's license.

Poor guy. Men’s prison wouldn’t be kind to him. He sniffed miserably. “I just wanted to be someone…”

Two floors up, the roar of a machine gun turned my blood to ice. The radio chatter became screams. Shit. Our intel hadn’t mentioned that level of firepower.

“Don’t be here when I get back,” I hissed, shoving the ID back into his hands and sprinting back into the fight.

Celebrity Culture - Alexandra Daddario

 

Another sweaty, obese, aging man shuffles into my back alley office. He looks around the space illuminated by a grimy bulb. Even by the standards of a black market clinic, the place is unsanitary. “This is the place?”
“That entirely depends. How did you find me?”
“A friend recommended you. You did great work on him… Err, her?… him? Gal Gadot?”
I nod. “I remember him. What is it I can do for you?”
Licking his lips, he pulls on a pair of latex gloves. Reaching into a pocket, he places an autograph book encased in a plastic bag on the table with the air of a man holding a holy artefact. The looping signature of ‘Alexander Daddario’ is scrawled on it.
“She brushed her hand against the paper when she signed it.”
I sniff. “That's it? Not exactly much to go off.”
“I’ll pay any price.”
Ugh. Another super-fan. I pull the autograph book closer. The paper is fibrous, not gloss - it might have captured a skin cell or two. “Assuming nobody else touched this other than her - not your wife, not your cat-... it’ll take me three weeks to culture the cells. Don’t show your face around here until then."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I strap the client’s arms to the chair before the transfusion - not for any safety reason, it simply stops them fondling their half-formed breasts before they're done. I hook the thick tube into his jugular vein and hang the 5-liter sacks of cultured cells from hooks in ceiling. Lastly I kick an empty plastic bucket under the chair.
“For when you need to evacuate… this,” I said with a gesture at his beer-bloated middle-age spread.
Around the fifth hour, the client begins to groan, clutching his cramping stomach, and the bucket starts to fill. Each hour, the filled bucket is taken and emptied. Slowly the celebrity cells infiltrate his flesh, forcing out the old cells via the same orifice as any other waste. Little by little, the middle-aged mess shits himself away, skin hanging loose off his bones. Dark hair sprouts from his bald scalp, patchy, ugly tufts at first, but soon growing into thick locks.
At the 37th hour, his skin softens, his complexion smoothening. The excess hanging off him starts to contract tighter about his budding breasts and ass. The delectable shape beneath becomes evident.
At the 60th hour, I pour the last bucket of him down the drain. There is one more Alexandra Daddario in the world. Two seconds after removing the restraints, he's already groping his breasts, his eyes alight with lust. I hand him clothes, if only for the satisfaction of seeing him remove them later.
"So about payment..." he croaks, clutching his throat at his new soprano. "How much?"
"'Any price', you said?"
What I’ve done is highly illegal. Not only is it outlawed tech, the charges of identity theft could put me away for decades. The sensible option is to take the money and run.
But he knows that too. The police are no longer a recourse for him.
“You won’t be paying with money.”

Jack Bounder, Ex-Superspy - Part 4

 

The Missing Backpacker

 

The Not-So-Great Shift - Part 2

 

When the Great Shift hit, it had been fifteen years since my retirement as an commercial pilot. One moment I'm sharing a meal in the south of France with my wife. The next instant I’m standing in a plane. The atmosphere is one of bewildered panic, turning to pandemonium as everyone starts talking all at once, staring around themselves in disbelief, and groping themselves en mass.

A lifetime of training tells me not to panic in a crisis and I try to remember that as I glance down and see the valley of my own cleavage bulging out of the low-cut uniform. The blue dress is pulled tight over broad hips. Perched atop a pair of glossy red heels, my slender ankles ache, as if they're 10 hours into a long shift.

Am I an… air stewardess?

The plane lurches. I'm tossed hard against one wall. Thankfully this body comes with plenty of padding. The passengers are screaming now. The tannoy dings.

“Uh. Um. Either I’m having one wild dream or this is your captain speaking,” comes the terrified voice.

The plane begins to bank alarmingly, the ground swinging into view on the left of the aircraft, blue sky to the right. Now the Captain is screaming. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck. That’s not meant to- Oh fuck. Does anyone know how to fly a plane?!”

Kicking away the heels, I ford my way through the people spilling into the aisles, racing for the cockpit.