Jon admired the beautiful figure in the mirror, still digesting how she was him. How he could feel actual boobs tightly pushing at his hoodie, vying to burst out. How his hips jutted just so, so far, bringing extra mass into even the slightest of movements. Jon was curvy, but he never thought he’d actually feel curvy, that his body would be squishy and heavy and jiggly in ways well beyond his control.
It was pretty neat.
But also lacking something. Jon looked and felt hot, sure, but so what? For now, he was just a milfy blob with no interesting details; the body needed an identity. Traits, goals, and a history he’d be forced to experience no matter how much he’d struggle against it.
A stay-at-home mom, perhaps? That'd be a fun idea. He could compel himself to do all her chores and responsibilities, make himself unconditionally obedient to a beefy new husband, and even stick himself with the mannerisms and vocabulary of a fifties housewife. Jon giggled, imagining having to shout ‘fiddlesticks’ whenever he was angry.
Or… Jon paused. A thought. The fun kind of thought, half-baked and impulsive, yet gripping in that way all good-bad thoughts were.
“Stop!” He rocketed back to his old height.
“Stop!” No visible difference—not that there would be. But the geas he put on himself, preventing any sort of complaining, was undone.
“I wish I would grow to exactly six feet.”
A shockwave rippled through his body. Jon toppled forward, planting his hands to his desk in some attempt to maintain balance. The sensation was odd, unlike his past two height changes. He could feel his shapely legs, his arms, his everything elongate, his curves adjusting ever-so-slightly to maintain their proportional absurdity.
"Oh, uh, wow. I got even bustier. But that’s fine! Probably."
He looked to the mirror. The body was still a clutter of exaggerated femininity, but didn’t look as vulnerable as before. The opposite, actually; it was intimidatingly tall.
Perfect.
“I wish I had all the mannerisms of a determined, cutthroat, sexy-and-she-knows-it businesswoman. No, wait, not just mannerisms. I wish I had to move this way, no matter how hard I try not to—eep!”
The body jerked before Jon could even catch himself. Back straight, chest puffed out, hips cocked ever-so-slightly to the side. The figure in the mirror held a poised confidence that felt utterly foreign, far removed from anything close to his own typical gangliness.
He tried relaxing to a more comfortable slouch. The reflection stayed steadfastly in place. So he attempted shaking, hopping, anything even remotely unprofessional—nothing. The same force was keeping him stonily bound. In a final attempt, he stepped forward, and was relieved to see the long and shapely leg drift accordingly. Yet the motion carried an elegant quickness; just enough to show off how perfect and sensual he was, but not so much to waste any precious time.
Jon let out cheeky grin. This was getting kinda fun.
“I wish I had an extreme case of resting bitch face. No matter how I feel, I’ll appear cold, callous, and calculating. I also wish to only speak as a cruel-but-capable businesswoman when around others, that any attempts to be friendly or casual be twisted to snide remarks or back-handed complements.”
The smile suddenly tore away. Jon frowned—though not entirely willingly—and looked to the mirror, gasping when… Well, no, this wasn’t right either. He tried to gasp, but the reflection gazing back in icy-cold contemplation felt no need for such pointless endeavors.
Holy cow he was scary.
Jon couldn’t tell if the stone altered him in some way, raising his cheekbones to absolute arches, adjusting his eyes to hold such predatory composure… Or if his new face was naturally capable of being so regal. Either way, it sent chills down his spine. Still the visage of a beautiful older woman, but clinical and dispassionate, as if judging Jon solely in terms of usefulness. There was an arrogance to it, a sense of “I know what I’m doing and you’re in the way.”
This is so not where I was expecting to take the fantasy.
To be in a position of power. Correction: To be trapped in a position of power, to have access to unbelievable wealth, authority, and talent… Without the freewill to govern any of it. To be given the role of an absolute bitch who saw everyone else as either tools or insects, and having to perfectly act it out no matter how much it deviated from his typical sense of morals. The very idea sent a bizarre twinge of excitement through Jon.
“I wish this body would belong to a big name, hyper intelligent ice queen of a CEO and sole owner to some notable company. I wish she’d be incredibly successful, with the wealth and property to show for it. I wish, for as long as I’m in her body, I’d be compelled to live her life just as she would. Similarly… Uh.... I wish to be compelled to dress and present myself just as she would, which would be sexy and feminine enough to be well outside my comfort zone.”
The stone flashed.
