A Fairy Day's Wage For A Fairy Day's Work

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   There was always a foreboding atmosphere in the office when an employee was nearing retirement. There were fewer of the aging millennials every year, and even the older zoomers were starting to look at each other like frightened animals being led to slaughter.
The boss’ office had thick walls but you could still hear their raised voices. My old mentor, Daniel, was on his way out. It had come as a shock.
“Look, Danny boy, profits are way down on last year. You understand this isn’t personal. The company has to downsize, make cutbacks.”
“Downsize? Is that some sort of sick joke?”
“We’re offering you early retirement. You should be over the moon!”
“‘Offering’?”
“Offering...mandatory early retirement,” the boss corrected himself carefully.
Daniel's voice became low and threatening, and the admin team leaned forward in their chairs to catch his words. “You smug bastard. I’ve worked here forty years on the promise of a comfortable pension and you parasites repay me like this? Early retirement you call it? Throwing me back into the food chain, that’s what I call it! How much money does the government pay you for this?”
“I fail to see what that has to do with anything.”
“How much?”
“There are… tax incentives if you must know. Oh, be reasonable, Daniel. You know the state the world is in. 12 billion mouths to feed, not enough resources. Nobody can afford to keep you retirees fed until you’re 180, or whatever the hell the lifespan is these days. We have to reduce our footprint somehow”
“‘Reduce our footprint’? One more joke out of you…”
“If you want to blame someone, take it to the government, not me. If you want to protest it, be my guest. But do it now before…”
“Before what? Before I’m ten fucking inches tall?!” Daniel roared
“There’s no need to get short with me- oof!”
That was the last thing he said before Daniel lamped him in the jaw and stormed out.
   He didn’t come in the next day, or the next. I packed up his desk and drove around to drop off the box and my sympathies at his house. His wife answered the door. She’d been crying. She had the air of someone at a funeral.
I didn’t see my old mentor again until the winter. It was snowing. I was half-asleep performing data entry when something tap-tap-tapped quietly at the window. I cracked the window and got him in from the snowy window ledge a moment before a crow swooped down to snag him. He perched on my lap, shivering, his ice-encrusted wings vibrating. I let him crawl under my shirt to get warm where he lay trembling against my chest.
“Retirement going well?”
“The wife found a new man,” he explained forlornly when he finally stopped shivering and emerged to stand on my knee. His naked left foot was perched right ontop of my dick but I politely pretended not to notice. “I couldn’t bear to stay in the house. I didn’t know where else to go.”
I fed him chunks of granola bar which he took with both hands, and gave him a bottle cap of pepsi. The government had found a way to reduce his footprint alright, as it had with 10 million other aging millennials, by transferring his consciousness into a vat-grown pixie body. At (generously) a quarter of his height as a man, he was expected to consume a 64th of the resources. It was one solution to the population crisis, and the animals that had taken to eating the retirees was the other solution. Most had spent their lives in the office environment, and had all the survival skills of accountants.
“Couldn’t you stay with your daughter?”
“She’s got a cat.”
“Oh. Well what about those retirement colonies they have?”
Daniel shook his head vehemently. “Not a million years. The only way they keep ahead of the death rate is their equally insane breeding rate, and I refuse to live in a fucking tree,” he snarled cutely, stamping his tiny bare foot. I wince. “Can I stay here with you? At least for the winter. I… I can be useful. I know excel… and… and powerpoint.”
I folded my jacket in the desk drawer as a makeshift bed and propped my phone against the side for him to use as a TV. How could I say no to those eyes? Or that tiny perky rack.

The War of Magni's Member - Part Two

 

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"Master Orim! Master Orim! Look what I found at market!”

   The elderly dwarf received quite the fright as I burst through the blacksmith door waving a stone phallus. I’d received incredulous looks all the way through my sprint through the dwarven district, though, as a human, it made a pleasant change from the looks of hatred these days.

The heat from the forge today was intense, and Orim had stripped down to a leather apron, as he had been wont to do before the… change. His nubile, naked ass perched atop a stool beside an anvil. I swallowed hard, trying to hide my body’s reaction within  my apprentice smock.

“The blazes do ye have there, boy?” Orim rumbled, his deep, gravely emerging erroneously from his diminished and delicate body.

“It’s a… it’s a… well. It’s a thingy…” I blurted, feeling suddenly sheepish. “I know things haven’t been easy for you since the emperor stole all your… thingies and- and, well… there was this man selling dwarven…. thingies at the market. And I’ve saved up the money you gave me so…”

Orim sighed wearily and set his hammer aside. “Bring it here, boy."

I set the stone cock down on the anvil. Orim wiped his sooty hands off on his pert, forge-bronzed breasts before lifting the phallus to his eye, squinting at it. Then he fixed me with a withering stare.

“First of all, this isn’t mine. Mine is longer and thicker. Second, this is carved. Yer’ve been scammed, lad. I hope ye didnae spend too much on this ornament.”

My face fell. “Uh. No. Not a lot… Uh. Five gold pieces.”

Orim spluttered. “Five gold?! By the Gods, my cock wasn’t worth that much when I had it, let alone now.” He shook his head in disbelief, long tresses of hair dancing about his slender shoulders. “Yer a good lad - for a human- but too trusting. I’ll beat that out of ye if I have tae.” He handed the false phallus back to his young apprentice. “Find a soldier’s widow. She’ll give ye a few silver for that thing.”

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Alone in his forge, Orim was unsettled. He’d lied. The thing the young man had held was undoubtedly a dwarf’s manhood. It might even have been his own. But such an object was contraband with the death penalty attached for any dwarf found possessing it.

In disposing of it, he'd consigned one of his brothers to eternal, humiliating womanhood. A fate worse than death for any self-respecting dwarf. A choice he'd have to live with.

He wanted no part in this dwarf-human war. All he wanted was to keep his head down and focus on his work.

'Keep my head down'. His mind drifted to the unmistakeable tent in the young man's. There were rumours already that some of his dwarven brethren had learned to 'keep their heads down' or part their legs in exchange for preferential treatment from their human overlords.

Orim licked his lips as he considered his apprentice's human cock, wondering how much more of himself he would be willing to sacrifice for the sake of an easy life.

The War of Magni's Member

 I should probably clarify in advance that I don't support the brutal subjugation of any peoples, real or imaginary, before I get pitchforked to death by an internet mob.

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   The dwarven district was the industrial heart of the human empire. Dwarves had been allies since humanity took its first steps into the world, and dwarven smiths and artisans churned out armor and armaments in huge quantities for the security of all. In any other war, they'd have been indispensable. In this war, with the united dwarven clans marching on the borders, they were a liability. Rumors of the sacrilege a human had inflicted upon their vaunted God-King were spreading in the district, turning it into a literal and figurative powder keg.

As master of the guard, I’d been given instruction by the emperor himself to contain the situation. He’d chosen me for my benevolent and diplomatic nature. It was vital the forges remained open - he needed control, not a slaughter.

I assembled 15,000 guardsmen and entered the district in full battle array. The air was mutinous, wizened dwarven visages glaring out from the windows. My soldiers took the two main thoroughfares, dividing the district into quarters, and dealing with each quarter at a time.

At the business end of 15,000 crossbows, the dwarven workers were ordered to down tools and gather into lines within the foundries, where they were made to strip away their overalls and turn into their stone forms. Some disobeyed and ran, only to be cut down by crossbow bolts. The majority of them obeyed. One foundry foreman, so bent, gnarled and twisted as an old oak tree that he couldn't be any less than 600 years old, spat at my feet, though all dwarves will naturally slip into stone after a few whacks from a truncheon.

Taking a masonry chisel and mallet, I went along the line, removing each of their thick, petrified cocks with a single hard blow each to the base of the shaft. Their fallen manhoods were gathered up and thrown in a pile.

   Human sculptors followed behind, utilizing carving chisels for the finer work; grinding wheels, files and rasps to scrape away the brutish masculine physiology, erasing the ropy bands of muscles of their biceps and abdominals; while a team of men wielding rock augers finished up the job by working the crudely broken lumps of their former manhoods into delicate, dainty, tight little holes.

Their chosen form was a shrewd and calculated one - slender and petite, so as to be less danger in the event of an uprising. Human, as how better to instill loyalty than to make them appear as one of us? Feminine, and fuckable - the dwarven invaders lusted just the same as any other race, and things didn’t end well for women in a failed siege. What better incentive for the feminized workers to keep the walls standing?

One by one, the ex-dwarves shifted out of their stone shapes, staggering and collapsing at the changes wrought upon them.

“Consider these hostages, stored at his majesty’s pleasure,” I stated, pointing with my chisel at the pile. My soldiers began shoveling them into sacks for the Emperor’s vaults. “When this war ends in our favour, they’ll be returned. Cause trouble, and your cocks will be ground to dust to become mortar for the city walls. Get back to work.”

Before today, there had never existed a dwarven woman. After today, there would be 40,000.

One maiden caught my eye as I left, her look of loathing transformed into the most delightful sultry sulk on her new face. It was the foreman. I appraised his comely figure.

“Nothing more to say? No more spit?” I leered, gesturing to my guards. “Perhaps we can find a more fitting use for that mouth of yours.”

Celebrity Culture - Olivia Munn TG/TFPD

 

On the trail of a smuggler known as Janik Schaper, we'd tracked stolen genetic material from Hollywood, via LAX, all the way to a warehouse on the outskirts of Berlin. The air was thick with the meaty tang of cellular broth as we kicked in the door. A dozen-over-the-counter hot tubs had been installed, each a body-temperature bath of bubbling stem-cell infused liquid. Our torches focused on the sole occupant of the warehouse.

"Wenn Sie wegen der Party hier sind, sind Sie früh dran, meine Herren," the girl said.

"TFPD. Hands where we can see them."

"Americans? You have no jurisdiction here.” She had Olivia Munn’s voice, albeit thickly accented in German, as well as her body.

"Mr Schaper, I presume," stated Donovan, my partner.

"I'd like to see you prove it. No fingerprints.” She seemed only mildly annoyed at our intrusion. “Look, Americans, there is 40 thousand euros in my satchel over there. Take it and go. Or if you prefer, wait around an hour and I can provide you an Olivia or two. Or three? Eight? And the girls are so eager when they're fresh.” He gestured to the other hot tubs. “We have Scarlet Johansen if you prefer. Over there we have the Olsen twins… soon to become the Olsen quintuplets. Now there's an orgy I am excited to see.”

"Afraid we only got eyes for you, Herr Munn,” retorted Officer Thompson. “Go call in the locals, rookie, I’ll keep an eye on this one.”

   I was outside, still half-way through explaining illegal stem-cell infusions to the emergency services in my best high-school German, when Donovan came waddling out of the warehouse buckling his pants, a blissed smile on his face. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looked €40,000 heavier, and his balls a little lighter.

“He got away.”

“He WHAT?!”

“The money too.”

“You son of a-”

“Stow it, rookie. The man was right. We’re way out of our jurisdiction. We’d never have nailed him - heh- for it. The best we can do is flush the material and get a list of his clients when they show up. And you can sleep easy in bed knowing there’s a hundred less Hollywood starlets in the world, and a hundred more German perverts.”

“Great,” I snarled through gritted teeth, half-tempted to punch that smile off his face.

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.”

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.

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. 

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.

The Missing Backpacker

 

For The Man Who Has Everything - Part Two

 

Maid in Dubai

 

After multiple scandals and with most of the world barring their own people from traveling to the Middle East to work, the people of Dubai turned to americans for their overseas labor force. They found an eager pool of young men fresh out of college looking to spend a gap year abroad, earning life experiences and a generous paycheque at the same time. And they had enough money to make sure their new au pairs looked the part.

I was one of the first men to take their offer. They collected me from the airport and drove me straight to the surgery. I’d already surrendered my passport, not realizing they never intended to return it.

Only as the surgeon pressed the mask to my face and the anesthetic began to knock me out, did I realize something was wrong.

When I awoke, they had already castrated and feminized me. They explained I’d have to work for them until I paid them back for the cost of my surgery! And if I tried to escape… they described the severe punishments for women that disobeyed.

Please help me. You have to get word to the American embassy. Tell them I'm here. My master and his wife, they call me Kadijah and keep me locked away in this house. They force me to wear these disgusting clothes. They treat me like a slave. And the way my master, Khalil, looks at me…

*shudder*

It will be years before I work off my debt as their maid. He’s offered… other ways for me to repay him.

Cultural (S)exchange - Part 3