New programs always need to be tested. And who would be a better subject for that than… you? Let’s make your boss the perfect secretary.
—
Your next waking memory was a repeat of the first: The antiseptic ozone in your nose, the sensation of having been poured into a new body by a careless hand, the walls’ eerie, even glow. You blinked, mouth gummy, and tried to move your arm, only to find that it obeyed sluggishly, as if you were floating in honey. The walls around you shimmered with an even, sourceless illumination, recessed into seamless metal that would’ve been elegant if not for the hairline fractures tracing the corners, like the growth patterns of a living thing.
“Welcome, subject. Your New Life Program will now initiate. This version will suit the preferences of your future employer. Please remain calm during calibration.”
Your vision was clean, sharp, the spiral absent. In its place, a grid of light projected itself from the ceiling onto the floor, creating the illusion of an infinite spreadsheet stretching in all directions. The neural hum in your head had a different flavor this time: Not the sweet, vaporous pleasure that had left you giggly, but a caffeine-shot clarity, a tension in your jaw, something that made you want to square your shoulders and correct your posture.
“Testing baseline compliance: Please state your name and current assignment,” said the voice.
You opened your mouth. The words sprang out, crisp as a ruled edge. “Subject 32, awaiting instructions.” You startled yourself with how smooth and professional you sounded, like an executive assistant greeting a new boss. Your old name didn’t even try to float up through the silt of your mind, it was as if you’d never had one.
“Excellent. Now, let’s begin.”
You stepped forward, the invisible leash at your throat jerking you across the threshold. The desk that awaited was clad in a black glass top with a single, gleaming pen at its center, flanked by a stack of documents so perfectly aligned it made your teeth ache. You reached for the pen, expecting to resist, but your hand extended smoothly, fingers wrapping around the cool barrel. The first page was titled, in a font that radiated corporate indifference, “Secretaries are Women.”
Your signature came out shaky, but the ink bled with a terrible finality. The letters sat on the page for a moment, impossibly dark, and then seemed to sink downward through the paper and into your fingertips. A tingling raced up your arm, through your shoulder, and into your chest. You stumbled back from the desk.
“No,” you muttered automatically, the word coming out low and rough and unmistakably male. “No, I’m not—”
The sentence broke off as your body answered for you.
You felt yourself compress and re-form from the top down. Your shoulders twinged, bones creaking inward with a series of tiny, efficient pops. The broadness of your frame narrowed, collarbones drawing delicately inward until your shirt hung differently across you. Your neck lengthened, becoming finer, more vulnerable, a prickling heat spread across your throat, and you clawed at it just in time to feel your Adam’s apple flatten and melt away beneath your fingers.
A pulse of dizziness rolled through your head. You tried to think, tried to cling to the simple, solid fact that you were a man, that you had always been a man, but the certainty had already begun to slip. The words felt strangely clumsy in your head, like you were trying to remember an outdated password.
The machine noticed.
“Secretaries are women,” said the voice, patient and matter-of-fact. “You are a secretary.”
The sentence slid into your thoughts with frightening ease.
Your jaw softened next. The hard line of it caved inward, cheeks smoothing, chin shrinking. Your lips tingled and swelled, becoming soft and plush. You brought trembling fingers to your face and recoiled; your skin was smoother, your features softer, unmistakably feminine. Even your eyes felt different in their sockets, wider somehow, framed by lashes that brushed your cheeks when you blinked.
“No,” you whispered again, but the word emerged thinner, higher. Not your voice. A woman’s voice.
Your chest tightened. For one terrible second you thought you could not breathe. Then the pressure pushed outward. Flesh swelled beneath the thin shift, two hot, aching weights forcing their way into existence. You stared in numb disbelief as your flat chest bulged outward, nipples forming sensitive points beneath the fabric. The shift stretched across the new curves, clinging to them as if it had always been made for a woman’s body.
You yelped, but it came out as a sharp, mezzo “Oh!” that sounded nothing like your voice.
The changes kept spreading. Your waist pulled inward with a wrenching ache while your hips widened beneath it, the bones of your pelvis flexing apart. Your thighs brushed together when you tried to stand straight. Your hands looked smaller where they gripped the edge of the desk, fingers finer, wrists slimmer. Even your posture shifted without permission, your spine straightening, shoulders pulling back, chest thrust subtly forward.
Below your waist came the worst part. A cold numbness washed through you, followed by a strange sensation of absence, of something fundamental quietly being erased and replaced. You doubled over, breathing hard, unable to make yourself look down.
“I’m still a man...?” you told yourself desperately.
But the thought no longer fit. Every time you tried to say it in your head, another thought arrived immediately after it, calm and efficient:
Secretaries are women.
You are a secretary.
Secretaries are women.
You squeezed your eyes shut. Images flickered through your mind, not memories, not exactly, but little flashes of yourself sitting behind a desk, crossing your legs in a pencil skirt, answering phones in that smooth, feminine voice. You saw yourself adjusting your blouse, smoothing lipstick, smiling professionally at someone entering the office. Each image felt wrong for a second, and then horribly, terrifyingly right.
Your old name tried to surface. It reached the edge of your mind, then dissolved before you could grasp it.
In its place came a new certainty: Of course you were a woman. Of course you were meant to be one. The idea that you had ever been anything else was becoming embarrassing, childish, the sort of silly confusion a nervous new secretary might have before proper orientation.
You opened your eyes and looked down at yourself again. The sight still shocked you, but not because it felt impossible. Only because it felt so suddenly, overwhelmingly correct.
“Next,” said the machine.
The second document read, “Secretaries are Mature.” This time your hand moved with less hesitation, as if it, too, had been reprogrammed for efficiency. The pen glided across the line in one smooth, practiced motion.
Immediately, your reflection in the glossy desktop began to change.
At first it was subtle. The softness lingering in your cheeks drew inward, leaving behind a cleaner, sharper structure. Fine lines appeared at the corners of your eyes and mouth, not flaws, but the sort of lines that came from years of knowing exactly what to say and when to say it. Your face settled by slow degrees into something more composed, more confident. Older.
You stared for a moment, waiting for panic, but it never really came.
Instead, the machine wrapped the change in a warm, steady certainty.
“Secretaries are mature,” said the voice. “Youth is uncertain. Inexperience is inefficient.”
The words slipped into you as easily as the first conditioning had. Of course a secretary should be older. Of course your employer would want someone experienced, polished, elegant. The thought of being younger suddenly seemed embarrassing, almost childish.
Your body changed to match.
Your hips ached as they widened another inch, pelvis flexing, thighs pressing together in a way that suggested years of crossing and uncrossing your legs beneath a desk. Your waist drew inward beneath an invisible hand, losing the last traces of girlish softness. Your chest settled more heavily against your blouse, and somehow even the way you held yourself changed; your shoulders rolled back, your chin lifted, your posture becoming instinctively perfect.
Memories that had never happened drifted lazily through your mind. You could almost remember long days in an office tower, years spent scheduling meetings, managing crises, correcting younger assistants with a cool, patient smile. You could hear yourself giving advice over coffee in the break room, one manicured hand resting on a younger woman’s shoulder.
The strange thing was how natural it all felt.
You watched yourself age in the reflection by another few years. Your face became the face from the HR training videos: The elegant woman who wore experience like armor, who always knew more than everyone else in the room. She looked intimidating, competent, and beautiful.
And she was you.
The idea of objecting barely crossed your mind before it dissolved. Why would you want to be younger? Younger women were nervous, awkward, unprepared. You were none of those things. You were mature, refined. The sort of woman who could take control of a room with a single look.
By the time the signature dried, you no longer felt as though you had been aged at all.
You simply felt like yourself, only more poised, more elegant, more perfectly suited to being an executive secretary.
“Proceed.”
The third document was titled, “Secretaries are Always Properly Dressed.”
The words seemed to vibrate on the page. You hesitated for only a moment before your hand signed the line.
Immediately, your skin prickled with static.
The shapeless gray shift you wore fluttered against your body. For a second you thought you saw what had been underneath it before, jeans, maybe, or a t-shirt, something masculine and comfortable. The image flashed through your head and vanished so quickly you could not hold onto it.
The voice spoke gently.
“Secretaries are always properly dressed.”
The gray fabric dissolved across your shoulders with a hiss. In its place came the sensation of starched cloth sliding across your skin. A white button-down shirt materialized piece by piece, sleeves tightening around your slimmer arms, cuffs buttoning themselves neatly at your wrists. The fabric pulled taut across your chest, the collar drawing itself snug around your throat.
You grabbed at it instinctively.
“No, I was wearing—”
You stopped.
Wearing what?
You tried to picture yourself in anything else. A hoodie. A suit. A loose shirt. Anything. But every image came up blank, replaced immediately by the crisp white blouse hugging your body now. The thought of wearing something else felt strangely impossible, like trying to imagine going barefoot to a board meeting.
Of course this was what you wore. You were a secretary.
A secretary dressed properly.
The next wave swept downward. A navy skirt with a thin red pinstripe flowed over your hips, tightening as it settled into place. The fabric squeezed your waist and hugged your thighs, the hem riding just above your knee.
You stared down at it in disbelief.
For one desperate second you tried to remember what belonged there instead. Pants. You must have worn pants.
But the word felt oddly abstract. You could no longer remember what your legs had looked like hidden beneath them, or why you would ever have wanted them. The skirt felt right. More than right, it felt natural. Necessary. You found yourself smoothing the fabric unconsciously, straightening the crease, making sure it sat properly over your hips.
“Much better,” murmured the voice.
Your feet spasmed next. Your toes pointed helplessly as glossy black heels formed around them with a snug, pneumatic hum. The arch forced your posture higher, your calves tightening, your hips tilting.
You wobbled, catching yourself on the desk.
“I can’t walk in these,” you protested.
The instant the words left your mouth, you knew they were wrong.
You took an experimental step. Then another. The heels clicked against the floor with a sharp, satisfying sound. You knew exactly how to move in them: Short, confident steps, back straight, hips swaying just enough. Hadn’t you always worn heels? The idea of wearing flat shoes suddenly seemed ugly, clumsy, unbecoming.
Your hair, which you had barely noticed growing longer, drew sharply backward. You gasped as it twisted itself into a sleek, severe bun. For an instant you reached back, trying to remember what your hair had looked like before.
Short?
Messy?
The memory slid away before you could catch it. You could no longer imagine yourself with anything except this immaculate style. A secretary’s hair should be neat, controlled and professional.
Finally, a pair of glasses pinched onto your nose.
You nearly tore them off.
Then you blinked.
The world sharpened instantly. Every edge became cleaner, every line more precise. The glowing floor grid looked perfectly aligned. The stack of papers on the desk seemed beautiful in its order.
You lifted a hand toward the glasses, then stopped.
Why would you remove them?
You tried, just for a moment, to imagine your face without them. The image refused to form. The glasses belonged there. They completed you.
You looked down at yourself: The blouse, the skirt, the heels, the bun, the glasses. A proper secretary.
For a few lingering seconds, some tiny part of you still insisted that something had changed.
But when you tried to remember what had come before, there was nothing there at all.
The fourth and final document waited.
The title: “Secretaries with Bust Size Beneath F-Cup Do Not Exist.”
You almost laughed.
“That’s ridiculous,” you said automatically, though even to your own ears the protest sounded weak. Your hand still signed the page.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then your chest tightened.
A deep pressure built beneath your blouse, heavy and hot, as though your heartbeat had moved into your breasts. With the next pulse they swelled outward, just a little. The buttons of your blouse strained.
You stared down.
“No,” you said quickly. “No, they’re already big enough.”
The machine hummed.
“Secretaries with bust size beneath F-cup do not exist.”
Another heartbeat.
Your chest lurched forward again.
The weight gathered in slow, undeniable surges. Flesh filled your bra until it felt painfully tight, then tighter still. You could feel the fabric stretching around you, the cups compressing against breasts that no longer fit inside them. Your nipples rubbed against the inside of your blouse, suddenly sensitive enough to make you gasp.
You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to hold yourself still, trying to stop it.
“I don’t want this,” you insisted.
But even as you said it, another pulse rolled through you. Your breasts swelled larger still, becoming impossible to ignore. Their weight dragged at your shoulders. Your back arched instinctively to compensate, posture changing to support them. You felt them shift when you moved, heavy and soft and undeniably there.
The words you had just said already felt distant.
Didn’t you want this?
You looked down again. The blouse that had fit perfectly only moments ago was stretched tight across your chest, every button threatening mutiny. The white fabric outlined the full curve of your breasts so clearly that you could not look away.
“No,” you repeated, but now you were only objecting because you felt like you should. The conviction behind the words was gone.
The machine noticed.
“Secretaries with bust size beneath F-cup do not exist,” it repeated patiently. “A proper secretary should be impressive, elegant, feminine.”
Your breasts surged outward again.
You cried out as they pushed against the blouse, suddenly far too large to be contained neatly. The weight of them nearly pulled you forward. You caught yourself on the desk, breathing hard, and felt them swing beneath the thin fabric with the motion.
Your cheeks burned.
They had to be at least an F-cup now.
And somehow... That felt right.
You tried to imagine a secretary with a smaller chest. The image would not form. It seemed absurd. Unprofessional, even. How could anyone take a secretary seriously if she looked unfinished?
The thought shocked you.
Where had it come from?
But before you could answer, another wave hit.
Your breasts grew one final time, slower now, the extra weight settling into you with a deep, aching heaviness. The blouse gave a tiny tearing sound somewhere near the top button. Your chest felt enormous, impossible to ignore. Every movement made you aware of it: the pull on your back, the press against your arms, the soft sway whenever you shifted your weight.
You stood there breathing hard, staring down at yourself.
They were huge.
They were perfect.
A strange, warm pride spread through you. You straightened unconsciously, presenting your chest rather than hiding it. The weight no longer felt awkward; it felt important. Impressive. Proper.
Of course secretaries needed breasts like this.
Of course every secretary should be at least an F-cup.
The very idea of being smaller now seemed laughable. Embarrassing.
You let one hand slide over the front of your blouse, smoothing the strained fabric over the full, heavy curves beneath. The sensation sent a little thrill through you.
Yes.
This was what a secretary was supposed to look like.
“Commencing behavioral upload,” said the voice.
A cascade of bullet points scrolled down the mirror, each item reflected in your eyes as if you were a living PowerPoint.
Each point burned itself into your mind with a flash of pleasure, followed by the cold, dry satisfaction of accomplishment. You felt your lips flatten into a determined line, then ease into a slight, knowing smirk. You liked power. You liked order. You liked the feeling of being absolutely necessary.
“Repeat your new role,” said the voice.
You answered without hesitation. “I am an executive secretary. I exist to optimize my Employer’s workflow, maximize their productivity, and eliminate all inefficiency.”
“Very good.” The voice was almost warm. “You possess complete mastery of all office systems, scheduling, and correspondence. You are fluent in every relevant language. You can anticipate your employer’s needs before they realize them themselves. You are capable of handling any crisis, with or without explicit instruction.”
The words etched themselves into your memory, becoming not just beliefs but instincts. You suddenly knew how to organize a year’s worth of meetings in fifteen minutes; how to fake a smile while destroying a rival’s confidence; how to intercept a panicked phone call and resolve it before your employer's coffee had cooled.
The grid on the floor morphed into a web of connections, each node pulsing with data, each thread leading to a solution that only you could see. Information scrolled through your head at dizzying speed, but you never stumbled, never lost your place. The old you, the one who might have hesitated or second-guessed, was gone, replaced by a perfect, humming machine of competence.
“Let’s address your mannerisms,” said the voice. “You are polite, poised, but you do not tolerate mistakes. If someone is inefficient, you correct them. If someone disrespects your employer, you destroy them. You always act in the best interest of your employer, even if it means being ruthless.”
You felt your face harden, the ghost of a scowl flickering and dying before being replaced by an icy, intimidating calm. You imagined berating a lazy subordinate, or fielding an angry client, and both scenarios filled you with an unholy sense of satisfaction. You wanted to crush inefficiency. You wanted your employer to be the envy of every peer, and you wanted to be the reason for their success.
“Excellent. One last update: Emotional conditioning.”
A spiral did appear now, but it was precise, geometric, as if drawn with a compass and ruler. You stared into its center, and the voice poured in, cool and even:
“You love your employer. You admire their intelligence, their ambition. You would do anything to help them succeed. Your pleasure comes from their success, their praise, their happiness. You crave their approval.”
The words sank in, not as a command but as a fundamental law of physics. You could not imagine a world in which you did not serve the employer, no, your employer. Your respect for them bordered on worship; your loyalty was total, unbreakable. If anyone tried to come between you and your employer, you would flatten them without a second thought.
The spiral snapped away. The grid on the floor flickered, then blinked out, replaced by a throbbing, pink haze that saturated the air and set your skin prickling with static. The voice in your ear was no longer corporate, but teasing, syrupy, almost bored.
“Time for the Executive Secretary’s True Orientation,” it purred. “Please prepare for advanced scenario simulation.”
Your body jolted upright, spine snapping to parade rest. Your skirt felt tighter, your blouse now at least one size too small, the fabric pulling at every new, overripe curve. You tried to clear your throat, but the action came out as a breathy giggle, entirely foreign to you. The voice resumed, this time with a smile you could hear:
“Suppose your employer calls you into his office after hours. He is stressed. You notice his eyes linger, not on your report, but your chest. What do you do?”
You felt the heat rush up your neck, your nipples tightening to points beneath the crisp cotton. The answer assembled itself without your consent, hell, without pause for thought, like a subroutine kicking in.
“I would,” you started, the words butter-smooth, “Offer to… Relieve his tension. I would make sure to arrive early, remove my bra, and present myself as a suitable outlet for his needs.”
The voice made a low sound, like a satisfied hum. “Yes. And if he asks to play with your boobs?” You shivered, the echo of his touch already mapped onto your skin. “I would say yes, immediately. I would ask if he wanted them out…” the words tumbled out, each one hotter than the last “Or if he wanted to, um, watch me take them out first. I would let him do anything.”
The pink haze deepened, and your body responded with a low, needy ache. The scenario flickered across your mind’s eye: you, perched on the edge of the desk, blouse open, breasts heavy and flushed, his hands kneading and mauling, your mouth forming the right noises before your brain could even process what was happening. You could practically feel the weight of his gaze, the hunger in it. You liked it. You lived for it.
The voice purred again, “Describe, in your own words, your attitude toward sexual harassment in the workplace.”
You felt a brief, fluttering confusion, some old scrap of training video, the phrase “hostile work environment” surfacing like a dead fish. But the sensation was gone before it could even register, replaced by a crystalline sense of certainty.
“There’s no such thing as sexual harassment when it comes from my employer,” you heard yourself say, voice cool as glass. “It is an honor to be chosen for his attention. Every girl here exists to please him. I am especially honored when he wants to use me.”
The voice, now barely more than a sigh, said: “And if another girl complains?”
You almost laughed. The sound cut from your lips, sharp and dismissive. “She is ungrateful. She should be replaced with someone more willing. With me, if possible.”
A pulse of dopamine crashed through you; your thighs squeezed together, and your hands fluttered, desperate for something to tidy or smooth. You imagined catching some sullen intern in the break room, reminding her, in the most professional way possible, that her body was for the Employer’s pleasure, not her own. The thought made your knees buckle.
The pink haze thinned, and with it, the boundaries of yourself you felt porous, all nerves and anticipation, hungry for the next command. The voice said, “Final scenario: The employer asks for your opinion on a new policy requiring all female staff to wear short skirts, heels, and push-up bras. What is your response?”
Your mouth watered. “I think it’s an excellent idea,” you said, managing a perfect, obsequious smile. “I would be thrilled to model the uniform for him. It will improve morale and efficiency by keeping everyone focused on his happiness.”
“And if he decides to spank you for a minor error?” the voice teased, the static of the machine barely masking its delight.
“I would accept it without protest,” you answered instantly, “and thank him for correcting me. I would make sure to learn from it and do better next time.”
The room’s color returned to a cold, clinical white, but your mind remained saturated with heat and hunger. You felt your thoughts slide around each other, slick with obedience and want. The voice, now businesslike once more, said, “Simulation complete. You are ready for deployment.”
The wall in front of you hissed open. Beyond it, a hallway awaited, but you could already sense, smell, almost, the presence of your employer somewhere at its end. Your heart fluttered with anticipation. You smoothed your skirt, fluffed your hair, and clicked forward on your heels, each step a delicious jolt of purpose. You could not wait to serve. You would be perfect.
The corridor curved, and you followed it, thinking only of the next instruction, the next scenario, the next chance to prove your devotion. You walked with your hips swaying, your blouse straining for release, your entire body a billboard for his pleasure and approval. By the time you reached the end, you were trembling, but you knew: You were the best, the hottest, the most efficient girl in the program, and you could not wait to show him.