The Life Of Lydia

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   I’m sorry, Lydia. I know what you're thinking, I’m a terrible father. But you had such a perfect life, such a perfect body, that I couldn’t resist taking it. I felt terrible casting that spell but, on the plus side, nobody will ever know. You wouldn’t have any objections if I removed these clothes to examine my prize, would you?
Mmm perfection.
Here, let me retrieve you from where you’ve fallen. ‘The Life of Lydia’, what an amusing title! You don’t mind if I just flip through to the last page. Ah, it’s still being written! More magic! Let's see here... *clears throat*
“Lydia stared up in horror at the figure - her figure! It was her! Her own father within her body, while her soul had been evicted into this vessel of paper and glue. He stooped, picking her up from the flooor. She felt tiny within his hands. He was a giantess! Her leather spine creaked painfully as he spread her wide open, riffling roughly through the thin parchment that was now her entire being. ‘This can’t be happening’, Jessica screamed, though no sound could be heard. ‘This isn’t happening. Give me my body back!’”.
You make for such fascinating reading. I’m afraid your body is my body now, and reversal is quite out of the question. I suppose the kindest thing would be to burn you to free your soul from these pages but, alas, if I’m to take over your life, I need all the secrets written in these pages, access to your innermost thoughts. You don’t mind if I read through these memories, do you? I simply need to know how you and your husband first met.
Oh my, these pages are quite erotic. And with illustrations too! You naughty girl! Is this what I have to look forward to?
Hmm, what’s this you're writing now? “Lydia watched, hope kindling within her as her husband slipped quietly into the room. Unknowing of the theft of her body and life, the man’s dark eyes glittered lustfully at the sight of her father’s exposed, stolen ass. With amorous intent, her husband approached her father, and she saw the same dark lust alight in her father’s eyes as he read her thoughts, as he considered what was to come - his acquired womanhood impaled over and over on his own son-in-law's cock. Too late, Lydia realized her mistake, tried to mask her mind even as her father read it, but the hope of freedom intruded over all other thoughts. The hope that if her husband were only to catch a glimpse of the writing of her book-bound form -even just her title! - he would realize the deception and rescue her from this tor-”
*snap*
Don’t think I don’t see you creeping back there, dearest, admiring my ass. Hmm? 'What was I reading'? Oh, nothing important. But you’re welcome to watch as I put it away. Far, far away.

Caught Bronze Handed

 

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   Prying open the junction box on the gallery roof, Jeffrey checked, double checked and triple checked the jumble of cables within before clipping a dozen of them. He was a perfectionist, the only way to avoid prison as an art thief. Some of the pieces he stole were worth millions, and the security reflected it. But he was confident he’d cut every wire. The security system could send all the alarms it liked to the outside world but they’d never get reach beyond this junction box.
He crowbarred open the fire escape and sauntered down the gallery corridors. He’d scoped out the guard’s schedule and knew it’d be an hour before this wing was patrolled again. Plenty of time to swipe the Picasso. Silent alarms rang as he approached the painting but, as long as they were silent, he smugly sauntered through the laser trip lines.
As he reached for the painting, a hatch slid open in the wall, extruding a nozzle. The words Nanite Encapsulator 5000 was stenciled on the side. He had just enough time to raise his hand before a focused blast of liquid fired from it, hitting hard enough to send him stumbling back.
Jeffrey stared at his arm in horror. It was frozen, coated in undulating liquid metal that was squirming up to his shoulder like something alive, consuming his clothing as it went. The cold, living liquid poured down his chest and up his neck. He pinched his lips shut but a metallic taste entered his mouth as it forced its way inside, filling his insides. He felt his nose, his ears, even his eyes being similarly invaded. He felt he should be unable to breath, see or hear, but somehow the liquid was taking care of that.
Similarly the wave of metal consumed his pants and thief tools as it ventured south, a thick tendril of it forcing its way inside his ass, squirming up his intestinal tract to paint his insides.
“Bmphhh!” Jeffrey gurgled through the liquid congealing within his lungs. Desperately he tried to crawl for the exit but the metal was hardening. Robotic arms gripped his encased form, lifting and depositing him on a pedestal.
Neon green computer text filled his vision.
[Nanite Encapsulator coming online…]
[Target immobility at…97%...98%...]
[O2 transmission nanites coming online. O2 saturation at 100%]
[Target immobility at 99%... Target fully immobilized]
[Waste reprocessing nanites coming online… metabolic support nanites coming online… metabolic support battery estimate - 487 years 3 months 3 days 23 hours 9 minutes 9 seconds]
[Informing law enforcement agencies of apprehension… Transmission failed… Retrying… Transmission failed... Retrying...]
[Adopting aesthetically appropriate containment template… searching database… template selected - “Eve Hearing the Voice" by Moses J. Ezekiel (1904)... Enforcing template…]
   There came a crack from Jeffrey’s ribs as the metal contracted about his waist, forcing the last air from his nanite-coated lungs as a pained groan, his final breath. He felt the nanite liquid rippling over him… crawling inside his flesh… twisting his insides around… resculpting him. His body reshaped like hot candle wax as a pair of budding breasts were pushed out from within, his thighs plumping, his hips cracking and forcefully stretched apart from inside. The cartilage inside his face crunched and snapped into a frozen female mask. An irresistible pressure began to build on his cock and suddenly he felt the resistance give as it was forced up and inside him, the nanites sculpting a delicate vagina between his thick thighs in its place.
[Template Enforced… Updating gallery catalog. “Eve Hearing the Voice" by Moses J. Ezekiel (1904) added to gallery catalog.]
[Recording Template - Intruder #001. Transmitting Intruder #001 template to law enforcement agencies for reversion following incarceration… Transmission failed… Retrying… Transmission failed… Retrying…]
The remodeling nanites completed their work, sealing into an inert, impenetrable copper skin just as the door to the wing opened. A guard stepped in, swinging his torch from side to side. The beam came to rest on Jeffrey, glittering off his broad, metallic backside. The guard paced slowly towards him, his gaze surveying the assets of the new item on display.
Had that been there on his last patrol? He shrugged. Surely it had. His torch swung away.
“I’m right here!” Jeffrey screamed, his voice echoing within the metal skin. “You caught me! You win! Arrest me! Let me out! Let me out!”
The guard searched the entire wing. He could find no reason for the triggered alarms and so disabled them, neglecting to inform the next shift, and forgetting all about the event by the time he got home.
The unexpected appearance of the item was noted as strange by the gallery curator, but she was a busy woman, items were bought and sold faster than she could keep track of, and a search of the catalog confirmed its ownership. Unsure of what to do with the piece, it was placed in storage for thirty years before finally being sold into private hands.
The Encapsulator never managed to contact the police. Its messages never got further than the junction box, its transmission nanites trying and retrying, their batteries depleted days before the sabotage was found and repaired.

Amazon Packaged

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"Show time! Girdles on, boys!” my wife crows excitedly. She’s already whipping together the plaster of paris.

   My sons help each other with their corsets. I struggle with mine until she comes over and pulls hard on the strings, cinches it tight enough to force the air out my lungs. I wince and look down. It hurts to laugh, and I try not to chuckle at how my crushed male waist creates the illusion of a flaring, female pelvis and jutting behind. The corset comes to just below my pectorals, forcing the flesh of my chest up into two modest breast-shaped mounds. The corsets would hold us in the desired shape and, once covered in plaster, would be blended seamlessly with our bodies.

Jessica was a sculptor and the city council had commissioned her to create a showpiece to decorate a gala celebrating International Women’s Day. They wanted an eye-pleaser, something amazonian, something strong and fierce exemplifying the female ideal. And they wanted it in two days.

“Is using men as ornaments antithetical or in-keeping with the ideals of Women’s Day,” I muse as my wife tightens the corset a little more, cupping and pushing up my chest to form a facsimile of a B-cup.

“If they wanted a real statue, they should have given me months to make it, not days. Besides, what they don’t know, won’t hurt them.”

“It’s me I’m worried about. If they realize Hippolyta is a dude, they’ll kill me.”

“They’re not going to realise. You’re going to be beautiful. I’ll make sure of it,” she smiles. She cups my manhood but, rather than a fun fumble, she pushes my package back between my legs, tucking it out of sight between my asscheeks before taping it firmly down. That too will be smoothed over with plaster, merged seamlessly with my ass and obliterated from sight. She pats my flat crotch in amusement.

“Okay, now hold this,” she says, thrusting a bronze spear into my hands. “And wear this,” she says, handing me a helmet. “And these.” She gives me a pair of bronze-coloured, mirrored lenses that fit snugly over my eyes, intended to allow me to see out of my statue-body without looking like a scooby doo painting. She ushers me to a pedestal where my sons are already crouching in position.

She spends 20 minutes posing us - shoulders back, head back, breasts thrust proudly forward - while shouting contradictory advice at us about how to look both ‘feminine’ and ‘fierce’.

“I feel so stupid,” says Albert, crouching beside my right calf.

“Well if we don’t get this perfect you’ll spend the next 24 hours feeling stupid,” my wife chides him. She sighs, picking up her plaster. “That will have to do,” she says, as she begins to paint us.

The first coating is only a thin veneer, yet it hardens like stone as it sets, immobilizing me from neck to foot. I try to move even a finger. I can’t. “That stuff has quite a hold on it.”

“Don’t talk until it's fully set.”

The veneer tightens as it dries. It feels like I’m being vacuum-sealed inside it, though it isn’t too painful, and actually provides a pleasant amount of support, allowing me to relax out of the stance. Even fully relaxed, I remain standing, frozen in position.

   Jessica mixes the next, much thicker layer before daubing it onto my shoulders, smearing it down my torso in long lines that smother the outline of the corset. She rubs the clay in slow circles around my ‘breasts’. There’s  just enough mobility left to crane my neck to see her sculpting extra volume to my chest, and etching in the details of my nipples.

“Do you really need to make my tits so big?”

“Stop complaining or I’ll shove a water feature up your ass,” she snaps.

My sons receive the same treatment. She adds big handfuls of clay to our buttocks and hips, adding volume at first before smoothing it out to construct feminine asses and childbearing hips.

I feel her fingertips rummaging around near my ass and yelp as her finger pokes my puckered asshole. “The hell are you doing back there?!”

“Making a hole for your ass.”

“Why? You’ve had us on a liquid diet for three days.” The last thing my wife needed was her centerpiece taking a dump all over the gala.

“Duh, for the farts. Unless you want your farts just bouncing around inside your shell for the next 24 hours?”

Ugh. That hadn’t occurred to me. Was it too late to reconsider this?

It takes her a while to craft it in such a way that nobody is likely to ever notice it, but at last she’s satisfied with my asshole-hole. She steps back.

“Oh my god, this is amazing! You look incredible! Hold that pose, I’ve got to get a picture!”

“‘Hold that pose’? What else am I going to do?” I yell, cringing as she snaps picture after picture - my male head perched atop a the body of a female clay statue. “These better not be going anywhere near Instagram.”

“Relax, they’re just for my own personal enjoyment,” she teases. “Hold that scowl too, it's perfect! I need to do your face next!”

I’m frowning all the way until the veneer has been painted over my jaw and face. “How long does it take to dry?” I try to ask. My jaw doesn’t move. My entire face is rigid. I stare out at my wife, silent and completely immobile. Only my eyes move behind the lenses stuck to my face.

“Finally a bit of peace around here,” she chuckles after completing the same procedure on the two ‘amazons’ at my feet. She moves out of my line of sight before returning with the thicker clay, which she begins to thinly layer over my face, molding and shaping it. “I promised I’d make you beautiful and I will,” she croons, as I feel my face becoming a feminine mask.

The last step is the spray-on bronze. She slips on a mask, lays down a tarp, and comes at us with the cans of metallic paint from all ankles, making sure to get every nook and cranny. Gradually the plaster of paris is buried beneath a layer of metal. She wheels out a mirror for us to see the statue we’ve become. The illusion is perfect. We might be a thousand years old relic for all the world knows.

Jessica clambers up, giving me a lingering kiss on my frozen, bronze lips. “You’re so beautiful. I think you might be my finest work. A pity you’ll only last 24 hours.” She sighs. “The delivery men will be here to pick you up in a few minutes. You girls have a fun time at the gala, and I’ll break you out of there in the morning, okay?”

Florida Man(?) - Chemical Leak Sexchange

 Didn't dare upload this one over on DeviantArt yet as pretty sure they'll run me out of town with pitchforks :S All the best to everybody currently in the situation over in Florida,

HEALTH ADVISORY FOR PALM BEACH COUNTY

   A Florida man has reported severe itching and swelling of the chest and buttocks following contact with flood waters in Palm Beach County. Storm surges struck the nearby Agrigenex chemical plant in the early hours of Wednesday, and there are fears that 10 thousand gallons of the concentrated compound estragene-412, a potent synthetic estrogen analog used in the chemical castration of livestock and manufacture of dairy cows out of superfluous bulls, may have leaked into the surrounding water supply.
While Agrigenex has released a statement assuring Floridians that the leak was a minor one and poses no threat to human health, local hospitals have been inundated with a 1000x fold rise in cases of gynecomastia and acute facial and bodily hair loss in the last 24 hours alone. Emergency personnel working in the area have reported symptoms such as diminished muscle mass and strength, confusion, and distracting impulses.
Wildlife experts at the J.W. Corbett Wildlife Management Area, where work is being done on flood defenses to limit damage to the area, have reported the sudden and almost total absence of male fish, frogs, amphibians and water-dwelling birds.
A provisional advisory by the FDA has advised all local Floridians, but especially men, to avoid contact with flood waters wherever possible, to avoid drinking non-bottled water, and to attempt to reach higher ground as the water levels continue to rise.
We will bring you more on this story as it develops.

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.”

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

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.

We Can Rebuild Him. We Have The Sorority - TG

    When I went and got myself blown up by an IED in the line of duty, the army scraped up what was left of me and shipped me home to my girlfriend, fully expecting me to expire on the way home. They were already measuring me up for a coffin and, let me tell you, it wouldn’t need to be a long one.

Yet somehow I held on. And if I wasn’t about to give up, neither was my girlfriend. She got me the best medical care she could afford, setting up charity drives to raise further money. Yet the organ transplants required to replace my damaged body were too much. The damage was just too extensive. My arms and legs were salsa, I’d suffered deep tissue burns across 80% of my body. Liver, kidneys, everything was failing.

As I lay there dying, she gathered all her friends together and made one last, incredible push for donations - not money this time, but organs. Skin, fat, bone and marrow, a kidney here, a chunk of lung there. Not much each but enough to form a mostly complete human. I was a Frankenstein’s monster, a mashed up jigsaw of a hundred different people, but alive. It was just a pity that all her friends were girls.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked my sorority for so much,” she’d said nervously when the bandages were first peeled away from my breasts.

Rehab was lengthy. Learning to walk again - new legs, who dis? More surgery, cosmetic this time to make the face look less of a patchwork, though they made it far too pretty if you ask me. My squadmates are already making fun of it. The visit whenever they’re on leave, as if I don’t see straight through their intentions. I’ve already overheard one of them making a crass remark about the appeal of fucking an entire sorority at once.

I knew I was healed when the army rang, asking when I’d be ready to be redeployed. I told them I’d think about it.

My manhood was gone, reduced to atoms - our sex life changed, though certainly hasn’t stopped.

“Does it bother you?” I asked as we lay in bed entwined in each other's arms. “When you kiss me, it’s like you’re kissing your friends.”

“It’s wonderful,” she said, kissing me passionately. “Every time I look at you, I see the precious gift they gave us.” She hesitated a second. “Kinda wish my sister didn’t donate though.”

“Why? Which part is she?”

“You don’t want to know.”

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.

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.

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.

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

 

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.

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.”