Employee of the Month, Part 2 (Patreon)

A Story Tier Prompt for Jack Mackenzie

Francis Howard is a young, cocky alpha male who is heir to his father's business empire. Promoted to head of marketing, he quickly earns the ire of his team for his chauvinistic and oppressive management style. But one day Francis discovers he has Lumin's Syndrome, a rare genetic condition that means his body is turning into a woman's. Francis races to fight the changes, before his reputation within the office takes on a very different dimension.

• Previous Part 
• Next Part 

Employee of the Month, Part 2

Francis looked in the mirror, visibly sweating. It had been over a week since he had last seen  Doctor Green for his Lumin’s Syndrome, and still no response from him. Meanwhile, his body was changing. Subtly, sure, but changing nonetheless.

It had started with the hair growth - hair he was now obsessively making sure remained its usual length, gelled over to one side in a slick businessman’s cut. But then there was the slight swelling of his nipples, and the fatty build up around his hips and buttocks. It was small, but it was happening, and it was getting worse. Just yesterday in the office he’d heard Derek have the sheer fucking temerity to make a comment about ‘Francis Coward’ for not showing up to brief the team in the morning. This was because, in their mind, a rumour was spreading about their leader having put on weight ‘in a way his trousers weren’t appreciating.’ And while that was embarrassing enough, to be insulted behind his back, to be called a coward, was unforgivable. A minnow was a coward, a shark was a damned predator.

He’d cut Derek loose. He’d had to, as a demonstration to the rest. But as the man was marched by security from his office, Francis had caught the man’s hopeless expression, heard his pleading for his two weeks.

“I have a family! Kids!” he’d said.

And for some reason Francis couldn’t figure out, the man’s words had touched him. Even made him feel a strange tugging in his heart. His breath was a little short, and he had to turn around as not to face him.

“Fine,” he’d said. “You get one more chance, Derek. But it’ll be your ass that’s mine if you don’t shape up.”

He stepped back into his office, wiping his eyes. Dust must have flown into them or something. Harvey, his idiot project lead, looked stunned at this development, so did the pudgy figure of Elijah. Clara wasn’t present. The temp had taken a small leave of absence which had been right by him. Her contract was nearly over anyway.

But still, as he stood in front of his bathroom mirror, he couldn’t help replay the events over and over in his mind. The way he’d actually showed weakness and felt sorry for Derek, the sad little middle-aged divorcee with nebbish glasses and an off-colour brown coat.

“This Lumin’s Syndrome shit has me off my game,” he said, breathing steadily, “I need to get my head back in it. You can beat this thing, Francis. You’re paying the docs the big money, and got researchers all over the globe sucking on the Howard family dime. Become some bitch? I don’t think so.”

He adjusted his figure in the mirror, and frowned. The changes were occurring slowly, and it was hard to tell what was actually different about his body versus what he was simply anxiously imagining. Still, his hairless torso just looked that little bit more petite than it should have been. His gym-toned abs were discernibly less visible, and his waist seemed to have shrunk in a little also. Even his shoulders; broad, commanding, authoritative, were noticeably slimmer than they had been a week ago. His pecs were still a big swollen; he refused to entertain the notion that they would ever become breasts. He’d groped and fondled and sucked on plenty a pair of tits as a successful alpha male, and what was on his chest was just a bit of swelling of his nipples and pecs, they were not nascent breasts. His light brown hair was looking a little lighter than usual, and certainly thicker, but that at least was something easier to control.

It was his hips and ass that were the issue. The changes seemed centred around them, and they were by far the most feminine aspect of his body. So far. Anyone looking at Francis now would undoubtedly view his body as unusual; he did not have the thin hips of a man but identifiably a wider, womanly shape. They had spread apart somewhat rapidly, and accompanying that had been the slow growth of fat that had clearly come from his melting muscle and shrinking figure elsewhere. And it left him with an almost hourglass-looking figure when not dressed. The skin, being perfectly smooth and a little fatty round the hips, meant that if viewed from the side or with his impressive member covered, one would easily view his lower half as female. Even his thighs had gained some more curve and flesh to them, losing their toned muscle.

"I look like a fucking freak," he muttered, clenching his increasingly slender fists. Tears welled in his eyes, and it only made him more angry, that all the estrogen being dumped into his system was making him hormonal. Making him emotional.

"Control yourself, Francis," he said, settling himself. "Remember, you're not just a man, you're the man."

***

It was the next day when Francis held his project meeting. He'd adjusted his wardrobe, taking care to wear a looser cut of pants and longer jacket, despite the fact that the heat of summer was just getting started. He’d had the latter padded, in order to maintain the air of authority inherent in his usually broad shoulders, and it did well to disguise his thinning waist. Still, he felt a little uncertain as he spoke before the assembled marketing division.

“Okay, everyone. Our product will hit the shelves in six months, and it’s our job to pave the way for its arrival. We are the trailblazers, the ones who light the way for the product, who make it known so that the masses of consumers on the market will know to the make the right purchase. Which means we have to make Howard Enterprises and our esteemed CEO and his Board proud of us. We’re going to get our campaign ready ahead of deadline . . . by two weeks!”

Francis savoured the collective gasp that rippled out through the crowd of four dozen individuals. He knew they wouldn’t like it; workers always hated longer hours and heavier workloads. But that’s why they were workers. He idly scratched at his chest, trying to ignore the soreness in his nipples as several spoke up. The office was gazing at him like a dread God issuing dark commands, and he relished it . . . until he noticed Clara looking at him a little oddly. She was whispering

“But our deadline is already unrealistic!” Harvey shouted.

Francis eyed the tall, dark-haired man, sensing a challenge. And a challenge had to be put down. Elijah was at his project lead’s side, and he sensed weakness there. His father had always told him to probe the weakest point in any social group.

“Is that so? What do you think, Elijah? You’re our brilliant programmer who’ll be putting it all together, do you think it’s unrealistic? Or are you capable?”

The larger set man brushed a curly string of hair away from his glasses, and seemed to almost shuffle on the spot. Harvey was trying to say something to him, and Elijah mumble.

“Speak up, Elijah.”

“I said, we’re capable, boss.”

Francis smiled, avoiding licking his lips. They felt a little puffy today. “See Mr Eickerman, it can be managed! And don’t forget that we’ll be awarding hard workers with the Employee of the Month award, with all its bonuses!”

“Are you saying there’ll be crunch on this project?”

Francis resisted the urge again to scratch his chest. Damn, it was sore.

“There’s crunch on every project, Harvey.”

He tried to give a self-satisfied smirk, but once again noticed that Clara was chatting with another female employee and trying to not giggle. Something about it was infuriating.

“Something you wish to share, Miss Jarvis?”

The pretty brunette woman eyed him, and he could see the betrayal in her eyes. The hurt. The anger. Ordinarily, he cared little for such things, but something about her expression now seemed to wound him, somehow.

“Oh, nothing sir, it’s just . . . were you wearing lifts until now?”

Francis creased his brow. “I’m sorry, what do you mean?”

She snorted a little, and several of the woman tittered.

“It’s just . . . you look shorter today, Mr Howard.”

Francis blanched, frozen momentarily in shock. He had no idea what to say in response, and yet the comment demanded a response; a wave of commentary was already flooding through the department before him as the crowd murmured. He needed to regain control.

“Miss Jarvis, thank you for your concern, but I’m as tall as I’ve ever been. And we’ll all feel a lot taller when we’ve met our new deadli-”

The room went briefly silent and Francis turned red. His voice had gone up a whole octave, cracking as if he were a boy in puberty. It had sounded humiliating. Already he could feel a slight gurgle in his throat, and his hair was starting to irritate him again. The damned Lumin’s Syndrome wasn’t letting up.

“Meeting dismissed,” he managed, his voice still high and reedy. He made a coughing sound to indicate it was just a bug in his throat, and waved the team off as he returned to his office. He was blushing red and incapable of stopping it, and needed some privacy to recuperate. But the walk back had to be dignified and assured, like a true alpha male’s. Only, a trail of whispers followed him.

“I knew something was wrong, but you’re right, he is shorter!”

“Dude needs to get a looser shirt; did you see his nipples against it?”

“Did he get lip fillers? Or is the pouting some new ‘how to impress and dominate your workers’ shtick he’d been reading about in douchebags monthly?”

He made a mental list of everyone who had made these comments. Once his syndrom was cured and his body restored to normal, there were going to be some vacancies advertised. He flipped his mirror, and indeed his lips did look a little puff. A little girly. His hair was also lighter, and somehow was already longer from this morning. He rifled through his desk and took the pill bottle of testosterone the doctor had prescribed for him, downing another tablet. He was a man, and he was going to make sure that for every ounce of estrogen in his system, there was a gallon of testosterone. He couldn’t have his employees viewing him as feminine. Not again.

He eyed Clara at the desk, just visible from his office, as she talked with the other ladies. She seemed happier than she had in weeks since he’d dumped her. He couldn’t deal with her. Not just yet. After her comment that would just make him look weak. But she was skating on thin ice, and he’d be waiting for her to fall through, the moment she made her next mistake.

Like a shark.

***

“Progress? You’ve made progress?”

Dr Greene nodded. The little dark-skinned man indicated to a series of medical charts that were completely impossible for Francis to interpret, but right now seemed like the stone tablets from the mountain.

“Indeed, though it is an experimental treatment that will need to go through a series of trials. Essentially, through a process of live genetic treatment in a single session, involving flooding your system with specially-enhanced testosterone, we may be able to stop any further changes, and even begin reversing the changes that have already occurred to you, by allowing your XY chromosome pattern to re-stabilise, and your brain to ‘instruct’ your body to correct your XX chromosomal development.”

Francis could have kissed the man. He could barely contain his excitement. He stood, and was aware once more of the reducing gap in height between him and the shorter man.

“That’s fantastic, doc! Well, what’s the wait, let’s get this done!”

The doctor made a placating gesture. “It’s not that simple. We’ll need to assemble the equipment; some parts will need to be specially made in Oslo, for instance, and some of the special chips for the treatment bed will be shipped from Taiwan. We’ll also need to run some genetic trials on paid participants first, or else we risk not only ethical boundaries but health ones as well.”

Francis balled his fists, his increasingly slender fists.

“I don’t have time! It’s been over three weeks since I discovered I had Lumin’s Syndrome, and these changes are only getting faster.”

The doctor rubbed his chin. “The cascade effect, yes, I can see that. Your chest and hips, for instance. And the hair.”

Francis seethed. It was humiliating to be in a hospital gown where his increasingly feminine body was obvious to see. Over the course of the previous week, his body had become positively androgynous when viewed naked. His waist had increasingly cinched even as his hips had flared out further, a change he thought had been finished, but evidently Lumin’s Syndrom was intent on giving him a ridiculous hourglass figure. Moreover, his body hair was now completely gone: he couldn’t even grow a respectable five o’clock shadow, and his legs were now as smooth and bare as a lady’s. His skin had become remarkably smooth, and to his astonishment, many of the muscle gains he constantly toned and refined in the gym were melting away, replaced by curvy deposits of fat around his buttocks and thighs, and a slender upper torso. It was getting to the point where his ass actually bounced, just slightly but noticeably, when he walked now. His hair continued to betray him, just as Dr Greene noted; it was clearly a dark blonde now, and lightening all the time. Francis had tried to abate the change by dyeing it darker, but because his hair growth was also out of control, it just made its roots look strangely discoloured and even more ridiculous. His hair had gained a natural wave to it, and was thicker all the time; he’d had to visit several different barbers across town to avoid odd comments. To all his staff, they just assumed he was dying his hair, which made him seem insecure about his looks. It was all thoroughly humiliating; he even had to wear eye contacts now; his normally brown eyes were becoming paler, and Greene had all but stated they were going to be blue if left unchecked.

But all these changes, as utterly shameful and repulsive to his alpha male sensibilities as they were, had nothing on the changes he was so far successful at hiding. For one, his penis was shrinking. It was roughly a little over half its proper size, now somewhere around the average or - God forbid! - below-average size for men. His testicals were also shrinking, as if his own masculinity was giving up on him, and it was getting harder for him to get erect: per Greene’s suggestion, he had been watching a lot of porn and jacking off to it, in order to maintain the flood of testosterone in his system. But it was getting harder and harder to stay harder and harder, and sometimes the busty bimbos onscreen had no appeal to him at all. He attributed this to the stress of the change, and nothing else.

“Doc,” he said, “I need this treatment ASAP, or I’m going to end up looking like some whore secretary at this rate. Have you seen my fucking chest? I’m growing tits!”

It was true, that was the other major change he’d managed to keep undercover. His chest had continued to develop, and he would often wake to find it sore and enlarged, and his nipples widened and sore. It was difficult not to massage the flesh, but Dr Greene had warned that doing so may have the side effect of potentially stimulating growth, making them even bigger than they would end up ‘naturally.’

There was nothing natural about this. He was wearing a goddamn chest wrap, for Chrissakes! He had developed itty bitty A-cup titties, small enough that if he ever saw a woman sporting them, he’d chuckle with his buddies at her looking too much like an underdeveloped little boy than a full-bodied woman. But, as he’d realised too late, from the perspective of the owner, a set of A-cups could be very noticeable, especially when they gave a little jiggle. He indicated this very change as he looked to the doctor.

“Look, you can have whatever blank cheque you want. I’m fucking rich, doc, and I know my father won’t miss a few extra million of company money for a good cause like this. I’m good for it. Cut whatever bureaucratic corners you have, slice through whatever red tape, tell me who needs a bribe - I’ll keep your name out of it. Just get me. That. Treatment.”

Dr Greene seemed to consider this.

“Very well, Miss - sorry, an unfortunate slip of the tongue. Mr Howard. I will make the necessary calls, but the treatment is still some weeks out, I’m afraid. But I will do the best I can to speed it along. Your transformation is still continuing; a lot of your DNA is losing its Y chromosomes and instead becoming Double-X, as you are no doubt well aware. You will simply have to keep taking your testosterone in the meantime. May I suggest a leave of absence?”

He’d considered it, but his father had put a lot of pressure on him for this job, and he needed to be there for the victory lap. To show the world that he was a big dog, a player at the high stakes table. He’d just have to be crafty and conceal his changes.

“Can’t doc, but I’ll keep taking those pills. I can beat this. I know I can.”

But even as he left, he couldn’t help but think on what Doctor Greene had almost said to him.

Miss Howard.

He refused to become Miss Howard for life. He was Francis goddamn Howard. Heir to Howard Enterprises, favoured son of the Percy Howard. In no future was he going to end up some blue-eyed, blonde-haired, hourglass-figured bimbo in the office. He was a thoroughbred all-male winner, and once this temporary condition was cured, he’d be back in the old boys club, where he belonged.

He left the building to the carpark, idly massaging his sore chest without a thought. The compression wrap seemed tighter than when he’d first entered. He hope it was nothing more than his imagination.

To Be Continued . . .