Glass Ceiling, Part 1 (Male Exec to Businesswoman TG) (Patreon)

By FoxFaceStories

A Commission for Jack Mackenzie

Charles Porter is a wealthy Manhattan pharmaceutical exec who has it all, except good health. Succumbing to a rare terminal illness, he takes a highly experimental drug to cure his condition. Unfortunately, it painfully transforms him into a gorgeously attractive young woman, and that is only the start of her troubles.

Warning: Features Painful Transformation

Glass Ceiling

Charles Porter furrowed his brow. “Surely, something can be done? Chemo? Transplants? A vaccine or something?”

His personal doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid not. This is not cancer, which while deadly can be potentially treated with chemotherapy. And a transplant is impossible given that it is not located to one part of your body. This is a degenerative disease, and quite a rare one. Keogman’s Disease results in the breaking down of basic functions of the body over time because the cells themselves are decaying. Not mutating or clustering like with cancer, but simply . . . dying. It’s why you’ve been feeling so fatigued lately, Mr Porter, and why your strength is leaving you as well.”

Charles grit his teeth. “Surely . . . surely something can be done?”

The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid not. There is no known cure for such a condition. I’m told some potential genetic and chemical treatments are being tested - at your company, no less - but that will be a long way off from FDA approval, I’m afraid.”

“But - but if I could get on the testing list? I mean, for God’s sake, I’m the CEO of the damn company, after all!”

The doctor considered this. “That might help you. Yes. I can’t claim to understand the intricacies of pharmaceutical company workings or backroom corporate politics, but there could be a chance, yes. But I don’t want to offer you false hope. Again, these chemical treatments are just what has been reported, and I know companies such as yours, meaning no offence, like to advertise successes more than failures, and put forward each development as the ‘next big thing’ when they might just be a small step.

But Charles was not to be dissuaded. There was a path to victory. He knew that now. A way he could succeed. Or at least have a hope of success. He was forty five years old and already the successful multi-millionaire (going on billionaire in the future) CEO of Hyradyne, a massive pharmaceutical company based in Manhattan. He’d spent his whole life climbing the ladder, schmoozing all the right people and donors, and working hard into the night to make his success. There was a reason he’d been married twice and divorced just as many times: he was too busy to make a proper commitment and worked too long hours to even consider kids, even in his mid-forties. He always promised himself that could come later, even as his handsome features gained a few more wrinkles, and his black hair gained some grey and silver hair, particularly around the temples. Still, he cut an imposing figure, standing at an impressive 6’1 in height and with the broad-shouldered look of a man who knew the value of a gym.

But then it had all been snatched away. Just a couple of weeks ago he’d noticed he’d been feeling more fatigued than usual. Tired, exhausted, and damn angry. He was so irritable in fact that the board he answered to had to inquire about his health, particularly since his eyes were becoming oddly jaundiced, and his skin was starting to look a bit flaky and veiny. Charles may not have put much stock into what his secretary was saying, but he always listened to the board. They were the capital B Board really. The ones he had to answer to, and to please in order to keep his coveted position.

So he’d gone to the doctor, and they’d done some tests. Then some bloodwork. Some questions. More tests. Other samples. Stool sample. Urine sample. Liver sample please - sorry about the biopsy! More and more they took from him, little bite-sized chunks to see what was going on. It had boggled them all, despite the sheer expense of the many doctors and services his enormous check account could cycle through. In the end, the answer had come back in the form of a condition he’d never heard of: Keogman’s Disease. A genetic condition that was going to kill him in just a month.

To say it shattered his self-image would be an understatement. Charles had always been the alpha-male, the uberman, the superman, the overman, however you want to put it. The one who had strived for success, who had come from an ordinary working class family but managed to crest the hill of success to become a Manhattan exec of one of its largest and most powerful and wealthy companies. He had sacrificed free time, hobbies - hell, he used to love playing basketball and making model aeroplanes - and all manner of opportunities. He had torpedoed two marriages and more than a few flings and relationships with his late night calls and irregular hours and emergency business meetings.

And now all that effort was looking to be wasted. All that titanic struggle was starting to seem like it was merely a mockery of his existence, an ironic joke aimed at his entire being.

“No way,” he said to himself as he left the medical centre, hands shaking subtly. “No way am I dying, not after all this. I’m taking that drug. I’m the fucking CEO, I can pull a few strings. I’m sure the Board will play ball. They know exactly how good I am for them. They’ll want me around.”

***

“I’m sorry, Charles, but there’s just no way we can allow that,” Chester Harkins said.

Charles was thrown for a loop. The Board was assembled in the ritzy top floor of the Hyradyne executive building, overlooking the glorious sight of Central Park. The day was perfect, and he was in high spirits, confident. He’d had his secretary Marta find some supplements and skincare products to help him not look so flat, in order to present a good image. And now Chester fucking Harkins was throwing a spanner in the works. The decrepit old skeleton looked halfway to death himself, and Charles had a momentary desire to kick him the rest of the way. Instead, he kept his face calm.

“Might I inquire as to why, Chester? After all, testing on human subjects is only a year or two away at most, and we’ve been able to speed these things along before. More importantly, I’d be willing to sign a legally binding waiver that absolves the company of any issue that would-”

“That’s just the problem,” Chester interrupted. “If there is an issue, our being absolved matters little. Don’t be daft, Charles. You know as well as I do that our competition is constantly sniffing out any mistake to publish through their hired press. If anything were to go wrong with the pill’s effects, and CureAll or Halix were to find out, then it could tank the entire treatment before it has even been properly readied. Let alone what the FDA would think! Hundreds of millions of dollars of vital aid for a variety of degenerative conditions down the waste chute, all for one man.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “It’s my life, Chester.”

“I’m sorry, Charles, but we have to think of the company line. You should know this. It’s your job, after all. I really am sorry.”

It was impossible to tell if the sentiment was genuine. After all, Chester had wanted to be CEO for a long time, and always missed his shot. He was likely jealous of the younger man.

“Well, I thank you for your time,” Charles said. “I’ll continue in my duties, but I hope the board reconsiders. We’ll table it for now, but I’ll keep bringing it up. I would like to remind everyone that under my direction our quarterly growth has continued to soar beyond all expectations.”

And with that, he turned and left the room, shaking furiously.

***

He snapped at Marta. The poor woman stood up as he approached his office. She was a young thing of Spanish heritage, and had gorgeous olive skin and a bright, if naive, smile. He’d hired her partly because of her prettiness - what powerful man doesn’t like the sight of a gorgeous gal, after all? - but she truly was a good secretary. Which was why he felt bad when his response to her simply asking “how did it go, sir?” was a rude “how do you think, you stupid woman? Clear my damn schedule for the day. I need to think!”

She mumbled a quiet, “sorry sir, yes sir.”

Normally, he would have apologised or at least made it up to her, but he was in too foul a mood to want to be kind. Instead, he left her to her work, instructed her to allow no visitors, and closed the door so he could lie down on the couch.

“God, I feel so fucking awful,” he said, rubbing his face. The flakiness in his skin was returning. It had taken all his effort just to steel himself in the meeting. He was certain that the closer board members had been able to see how increasingly bloodshot his eyes were. He was goddamn terminal, and wouldn’t last until the end of the month - the disease spread exponentially, apparently - and they were bickering about company ethics. As if the company had ethics! But he couldn’t deny he would have made the same arguments as Chester. That’s what irritated him.

He decided to do the rounds instead. Go see some of the underlings on the lower floors. Be seen. Be visible. Try to maintain a strong presence, if only for his own mental state. He left the office, simply waving at Marta to not even acknowledge him, and travelled down the floors.

***

It was an ordinary day for everyone but him, it seemed. Charles saw to the finance department, checked in with the marketing director, and talked to the human resources manager to ensure that a particular case was not proceeding anymore: it wasn’t, thankfully. He tried to keep his emotions in check, but Chester’s face was there in the back of his mind, mocking him. Dismissing him. Reducing him down to a dollar cost, just like they all cared about. It played on his mind more and more, and before Charles even knew it, he was suddenly in the testing department, an area he rarely went to. Despite his excellent memory, it took him some time to remember the name of the underling in charge there.

“Mr . . . Bradshaw, right?”

“Good memory, sir!” the young man said. He couldn’t have even been in his thirties yet, but he had a brightness in his brown eyes that Charles recognised. A drive. “Pete Bradshaw, acting head of pharmaceutical testing.”

“Acting?”

“Jill Habbard just had her baby. She’ll be on maternity leave for eight months.”

“Ah, I must send my congratulations then. You’ve got an opportunity to prove yourself, then?”

The younger man blushed. He was shorter than Charles, perhaps around 5’8, and he adjusted his glasses as he spoke. He wore a simply labcoat over a button shirt and slacks, but seemed to have a fitness and vitality to him. One to watch for promotion in this department, if Jill ever left. Evidently, Pete was well aware of this, as he was standing at attention like an army recruit.

“Well sir, I do hope to do my best for the company.”

“I’m sure you do. Yes, I’m sure you do,” Charles thought idly. “I need something from you, Charles. A particular pill, or chemical - I forget which - being tested by the company. It would be used for something like Keogman’s Disease and other degenerative diseases. Can you get me a sample?”

Pete stopped, and it was clear he was figuring out what to say next. Well, um, sir-” “Go on, spit it out! I haven’t got forever.”

“Well, it’s just . . . that would be a violation of protocol. I know you’re the CEO, but I can’t just provide you with an experiment injection without a proper requisition form.”

“No form needed, this is straight from the board.”

“Sir, KS-251 hasn’t even been properly tested on humans yet. In fact, because it relies on hormones produced by the same species as the treatment subject, there are a whole bunch of legal hurdles already that just doesn’t exist for things we can simply test with animals. In fact, we’ve only been able to utilise human female hormones because of a chromosomal breakdown issue that we’re still trying to overco-”

“Just get me the damn needle, young man. Trust me when I say it is for the company good. And trust me even more when I say that your future career path may very well depend upon it. If you can’t do that, then you’ll be lucky to remain acting head of anything, let alone the real deal, for the entirety of my future here. Do. You. Understand?”

Pete swallowed, and for a moment Charles thought he had him. And then, surprisingly, a determination came over him as he set his jaw.

“I’m sorry, sir, but it would still be a breach of protocol. I’d be happy to pass a sample along once it is properly requisitioned, or to give you a tour of the testing bay and the fridges that contain the sample, but I wouldn’t be able to open them. It would be a violation of company ethics. I’m sorry.”

Charles frowned. “Well, consider yourself disciplined, Mr Bradshaw. You have a long way to go in understanding office politics. Expect a dock in your pay regarding this matter, and consideration over your future career path.”

In truth, he wanted to strangle the kid right then and there, but that was possibly the Keogman’s Disease thinking for him. He could practically feel his body decaying out from under him, and this young man’s damned ethics were stopping him from potentially curing himself. Or at least trying!

“I understand sir. With further respect, I will be talking to human resources about this and making my case, before the Board, if need be.”

Charles sneered, stepping closer so that the man almost stepped back. “That is your right,” he said. “You my leave to take it up to HR right now. Farewell, Mr Bradshaw.”

He left the testing wing and took the elevator up to the HR level. Then, pretending he was continuing an inspection, he waited for Pete to arrive minutes later. Keeping out of view, he saw the young man head to the office to discuss this recent matter. Charles rolled his eyes. The man had no understanding of office politics. He was too principled.

“Almost admirable,” he said, smirking. And then he snuck into the elevator and went back down to the testing wing.

This time, he found an underling, and one who looked to have far less scruples and much more to lose. The lowest level employees were always the most desperate. A young tubby man practically sweated bullets when he realised he was talking to the CEO of the damn company, particularly given that Charles was seemingly holding both carrot and rod at once.

“I’d like to access a sample, please,” he said. “I believe it’s called KS-251.”

The employee, who was named Lee or something or rather, practically leapt to get him access.

“Of course sir, right this way, sir!”

Charles smiled. It was better, after all, to ask for forgiveness than permission.

***

Lee gave clear instructions on the maintenance of the injection and how to ensure it remained viable. That meant it had to be refrigerated until use and stored safely. Of course, Charles had no desire to store it at all. He took it straight from the refrigerator, swore Lee to company secrecy (and with the promise of a transfer of cold, hard cash) and then went up to his office. Marta was still in a flurry trying to sort out his new schedule, and gave him an awkward smile.

“You’re doing great,” he said, back in good cheer.

She looked relieved to hear it.

“No visitors,” he told her, and then entered the office once more. Even if the injection didn’t work, he was happy to have at least gone this far. And he had a good feeling about it. He hadn’t taken the company this far on good will alone. Hyradyne was the best maker of effective pharmaceuticals on the planet.

“This will work,” he said, as if the words would enhance the odds. And with that, he removed his suit jacket, unbuttoned his shirt cuff, rolled it up, and found a good spot on his upper arm. “Several hours to a day,” he said to himself, repeating what Lee had told him about the possible efficacy of the treatment and when results would be seen.

And then he injected himself. There was a sharp pain, a sudden soreness, and then his muscle relaxed, and the rest of the clear liquid went into his arm.

And then it was done. All that remained was to see if it would work.

***

The next day, Charles felt fantastic. It didn’t matter that Pete had lodged a complaint and been heard, or that the matter had been referred up to the Board given that said complaint involved the CEO. It didn’t even matter that Charles had been summoned up for a meeting to explain himself, or that, once he’d arrived at the meeting, Charles could see that Chester Hawkins’ was glaring like he was about to spear the man like a fish. None of that mattered, because for the first time in weeks, Charles felt perfectly fine. His skin was normal again, his eyes were no longer bloodshot, and he didn’t need to use anything but his standard moisturiser on his face. His energy was returned to him, and he almost felt several years younger. Hell, perhaps he was mistaken, but his hair even looked more lush and dark than it had in some time, the grey and silver at his temples barely present.

The injection had worked, and even if he got a tongue lashing from the board, it wouldn’t matter, because he’d damn well succeeded, and they’d just have to play along now, since he was a success story. Not that Chester Hawkins cared at that moment.

“Explain yourself,” he said.

Charles affected a confident, borderline smug grin. He’d chosen his best power suit for the meeting. “There’s nothing to explain. I requisitioned a miracle drug to test on myself, and it worked.”

“Requisitioned? Do you think we’re idiots, Charles?”

Charles simply grinned. “Not at all, Chester, but as you can see, I’m looking a lot firmer and fitter than yesterday already. The treatment worked. Of course, we still have the FDA and so forth, and multiple rounds of testing, but you cannot deny the results. And can you imagine the great PR that’ll come out when the CEO of this company steps forth and says, ‘yes, I have had this treatment. It saved my life. And now it can save yours too.’?”

Chester ground his molars. It wasn’t a good look. But the deed was done, and provided Charles could patch things up with that Pete Bradshaw fellow, then -

“Ngh!”

Charles clenched his gut with one hand, for just a moment.

“Something the matter, Charles?” Chester asked.

Charles wheezed for a moment, concentrating on his breathing. He could feel an intense bubbling in his gut, and it was damn painful. Like lots of little knives were scissoring him up and stitching new formations in his lower intestine.

“J-just fine,” he managed to stammer, though his limbs were starting to ache. The muscles in his arms stiffened, pulling tightly, like a bad cramp. He kept them ramrod straight by his side, nearly crumbling his teeth from gritting his jaw tight.

“Really?” Janson, one of the other board members asked. “Charles, you’re sweating.”

“You look in pain,” another said, and in the delirious headache he was suddenly experiencing, Charles didn’t even know who was talking.

“I’m f-fine. I’ve just - ughn!!”

He nearly doubled over again. He gasped: the pain had spread to his hips. Beneath his professional blue suit he could feel . . . changes. It didn’t make sense, but his skin was pulling and threatening to rip apart. His genitals felt like they were on fire, and it took every ounce of willpower not to scream. It felt like they were receding. Pulling back into himself. His thighs burned, and when he scratched his left one it felt as if the muscle was actively boiling into fat. His leg was warm, damn it! It didn’t make any sense, but the very flesh was softening.

“Charles.”

“Mr Porter!”

“CEO!”

“Charles,” Chester said, looking quite alarmed instead of his usual curmudgeonly self, “what’s happening with your face?”

“N-nothing,” he said. The pain was passing, or at least crossing over the crest of its power, so that it was slowly receding to a discomforting background ebb. “Nothing at all.”

“Your eyebrows . . . they’re thinner. And your lips - you look like you’ve been stung by a bee!”

Charles bit his lip. To his shock, it really did feel fuller, especially the lower one. He felt his eyebrow, but couldn’t make out a great difference. Less bushy, perhaps? His much greater concern was whatever the hell had happened between his legs and at his shoulders, where the pain still came in fresh stings. The suit certainly felt a little ill-fitting.

But he had to rally. He was in good health. This had to be just a side effect. He couldn’t lose face in front of the board.

“Don’t worry,” he said casually, “I was told of this. Perfectly normal, it happened last night. I was simply - ahh!”

His spine seemed to click, and he paused for a moment, terrified. It was almost like he had just lost height, even if just by a half-inch. He swallowed, rallied again.

“Sorry, side effect of the chemical. Again, I was told of this. It’s simply part of the healing process. My nerves were degenerated. The process of growing new ones is not always fun, but is literally healing me.”

“He does look younger,” someone whispered.

But Chester didn’t look totally convinced. He raised a white eyebrow, staring deep into Charles. But the healed man just wanted to get out of the room as soon as possible: the pain was returning in his hip, and it was getting worse.

“Well, I need to go. Rest up. I’ll keep you informed of my, aha, progress. It - ngh! - is experimental, after all!”

With that he turned and left, making sure to swallow every few seconds: there was an awful pressure on his Adam’s apple, as if someone was pressing down on it with their finger. It was making it hard to talk without his voice spiking like that of a pubescent teenage boy.

He strode straight for his office. Marta looked up at him with her pretty smile. It was always good to appreciate it, but between his concern over the pain and whatever else was going on, it didn’t have the same attractive quality he usually coveted.

“Hello Marta,” he said, the last syllable rising up in pitch accidentally. He coughed, trying to cover the faux pas.

“Hello sir, you seem in much greater spirits today!”

“I feel it, but I still need some space. Cancel my next couple of appointments and tell them I’m sick. I’m - nggh! - recovering from something.”

Marta’s eyes went wide.

“Something the matter?”

“Sorry sir, it’s just - your nose! It looked like . . . sorry, I must be imagining things. But your makeover looks excellent sir. You look ten years younger!”

“Makeover?”

She smiled further. God, he loved latina women. They had such a look, even if it wasn’t doing it for him now, despite the fact that she was wearing that pink dress of hers that was his favourite. It clung to her well, something he normally appreciated.

“Your eyebrows, sir. You’ve had them teased! A woman can always tell. And your face is so much smoother. You must recommend the place you used so I can pass it on to my husband.”

He hated being reminded of her husband, but he was hating this moment even more. Did he really look that different? He was about to form a reply when a sharp pain down his side and across his waist made him reconsider. He muttered a quick, “uh, thanks Marta,” and then proceeded into his office, clutching his side and trying not to limp. His temples throbbed, and lances of pain dug into his waist. He quickly made sure he had total privacy and then found a mirror. It was a full-size office suite, after all; he had all the perks.

“Dear God, what the world of fuck!?”

Charles stared at the reflection, unable to form words for a moment. He was sweating again, and the lances of pain were stabbing ever deeping, forcing him to breath heavily. He nearly choked as that pressure on his Adam’s apple renewed itself, and his next words were spoken almost in a falsetto.

“What is h-happening to m-me!?”

His face had indeed changed. It was younger, with less wrinkles, but it was also softer and had fuller lips and feminine eyebrows. His nose, which normally had fairly obvious pores, was noticeably smaller and had clear skin. His Adam’s apple was tiny, barely present. Worse than that, he had somehow lost height. Charles could barely believe it, but somehow his entire body had shrunk, and it must have been over an inch in height already. He quickly took off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, moving to the personal restroom he had as part of his office. He lost the pants while in there, and could only gape in the brief respite between the pangs of pain.

“Shit! Aghhh! NGH! Shit shit shit SHIT!!!”

He was indeed shrinking, and not entirely in ways that made sense. His waist was pulling in visibly, with each wire of torment around it causing it to become ever tinier, daintier. He scratched at his stomach and chest feverishly, overwhelmed by the horrible itch as the hair on his body began to literally push out of the skin and fall to the ground.

“NNGHH!! AGhhhh!!”

He grunted in agony as he scraped his nipples at the same time. He tensed, nearly smashing against the sink in response to the anguish. They were swollen up like little pink cherries, and expanding to look almost feminine. No, definitely feminine. They were visibly throbbing, as if still in a state of expansion, and they were so damn swollen already that he was hit by a horrific, nauseous agony when touching them, and a brief undercurrent of pleasure that made no sense at all.

“This isn’t h-how it was s-supposed to go. It was meant to fucking cure me, not kill me!”

But even as he said that, lost in the pain, he could see that whatever was happening to his body didn’t seem to be fatal. At least, not yet. While the terrible pain almost made him want to jump out of the thirty seventh story window, the suffering seemed to paradoxically occur in places where he was becoming more vital, or at least younger. The wrinkles on his stomach disappeared, and it became slimmer, losing some of the fat that he had been unable to lose at the gym due to his age. The process was not kind, nor was the fact that his waist continued to thin, even as the fat from his stomach seemed to shift impossibly to his hips.

“Eeuughgh!! F-fucking p-painful! God, what did that Bradshaw fellow do? What d-did he say? Something to - ahhh - do with a f-fucking chromosomal error or - NGHH!!”

He doubled over again. His chest was in pain, and it was swelling as if bruised, each of his pectoral muscles softening. His face continued to look younger, and the same went for his hands and legs, but it was no true comfort: the sensation of muscle seemingly melting to become soft reserves of fat was unbearably insufferable. His bones seemed to collapse in on themselves, limbs reducing in length, even as the hairs on his arms and legs likewise pushed out of his skin in an endless morass of skin-piercing agony. The only upshot was that it left the skin looking young and smooth, but even that was too smooth.

“I’m l-looking like a f-fucking hermaphrodite! AGH!!”

He pulled at his hair, which was also pushing from his scalp. It was horrendous, and slow: he sat back on the toilet gasping for air and struggling to grab some water from the sink as it extended and extended, longer and longer, over what had to be at least twenty minutes. All Charles could do was take it: even getting out and running to the car was an impossibility, because his feet felt like they were being compressed in a trash compactor, shrinking and warping until they were almost dainty. The same was starting to happen to his smooth, unwrinkled hands. He was almost starting to worry he was aging in reverse, Benjamin Button style, except he’d never had long hair, nor so lush.

The pain in his feet let up, and he managed to stand after what had to have been half an hour of agony. He realised he could hear his secretary trying to call for him: his phone had numerous messages from her asking if he was okay. Had he really been that loud? He thought he’d only screamed once.

Charles quickly set to work dressing himself again, as there was a thankful lull in the pain. Unfortunately, something he’d said returned to him as he moved to pull up his trouser pants, which were now too long. He’d made a mocking comment about looking like a hermaphrodite, and he’d had that awful pulling sensation in his genitals before. Slowly, carefully, and with a great deal of dread, Charles Porter lowered his underwear. What he saw made him choke back a high-sounding sob.

“N-no. Fuck no. You can’t be fucking serious!”

His manhood, which was a not unimpressive specimen, had noticeably shrunk. Hell, it looked barely two-thirds its regular size, and his balls were small too, his sack nestled up closer against his skin as if it had been vacuum-sealed.

“FUUUCCK!!!”

He clasped his hands over his mouth, trying to ignore how soft and small his hands were, and how soft and full his lips were. He’d just been very, very loud. He finished dressing himself, working around the pants legs which were now over an inch too long and the cuffs that went too far over his hands. His clothes looked too baggy, but not at the point of ridiculousness and unprofessionalism. At least, not yet.

“Gotta get out of here while there’s a break. Go see Bradshaw. He’ll know what to do. Fuck, he better be at work right now! That fucking complaint of his! I’ve got a complaint for him!”

It wasn’t Pete’s fault, of course, but it wasn’t like Charles was thinking rationally at that point. His body was warping and changing, and there was still that low simmering heat in his system, like there was more muscle to burn, tendons to shorten, and fat to redistribute. He grabbed a pair of scissors and made a hack job of his hair in a manic rush. It didn’t look good, but he always had hair gel on hand. He slicked it back, making it look as much like a change in style as possible. Hopefully it would fool someone if he was in a rush. Then, when he was done, with those series of terrible pressures slowly making themselves known again, he left the bathroom and flung open the door to head to the elevator.

Only to run into a crowd of interested office onlookers, at the head of which was a terribly nervous Marta.

“Sir! Are you alright? We - we all heard you screaming! It sounded painful. I called an ambulance!”

Charles went red in rage and humiliation at the semicircle of several dozen office workers all rubbernecking on their way to other business.

“Perfectly fine! I just . . . stubbed my toe,” he said, lowering his voice as much as possible.

“Sir, you sound a bit odd. Are you sure you’re al-”

“I’m fine! Cancel the damn ambulance, Marta, I didn’t ask you to get one. I’m heading for an inspection.”

He barrelled past her, even as she gaped at him. Others seemed to notice some of the changes too, because he could hear them start to murmur.

“Is he limping?”

“Looks shorter.”

“What’s up with his hair?”

“Is Mr Porter going through a middle-age crisis or something?”

“Seriously sounds like a woman pretending to be a man. What? I’m just saying out loud what we’re all thinking here!”

He’d almost made it to the elevator across the hallway when suddenly a pain began in his buttocks. He groaned, unable to catch himself in time as that searing heat starting up in his left cheek, then his right.

“Goddamn it!” he cried, voice cracking once more.

Several heads turned his way, and he could only face them for a few moments. “Get back to work, damn you! This is - uugh! - none of your business! Cancel all my shit today, Marta!”

His hair grew a little longer, and someone squeaked in shock, but then the doors to the elevator finally opened and he fell in, almost tripping over thanks to his legs reducing in size once more. His spine snapped again on the descent, making him howl in private. He rubbed his back, screaming every cuss word he could think of and a few new ones, as his height audibly clicked downwards, reducing him by another full inch.

“Just g-get me to the floor!” he cried. But the pain reached his head, and it was like his brain was being rewired. Neurons fired off like crackers in his brain, exploding and disconnecting and reforging in different directions all over the place. He clutched his mind, genuinely afraid his skull was going to actually split open.

“AAAARGGGGHH!!!!!”

Instead, he passed out mid scream.

***

When Charles woke up, he was on the floor of the testing wing surrounded by the various eggheads who made the work possible. He scrambled up onto his feet, unsure of what had happened or how much time had passed.

“Whoa, easy there, mister! Don’t worry, help is on the way.”

He recognised the voice. He twisted around, ignoring the pain in his neck, and the even worse pressures in his groin and chest. His hair had grown longer, but not too much so. He must have only been out of for a few minutes or so, but long enough for a new crowd to form and try to see to his health. And their leader, evidently, was Pete Bradshaw, who was trying to caution him to sit back down.

“Bradshaw?” he rasped, voice a little dry.

“Easy there,” Pete replied, handing him a plastic cup full of water. “Drink.”

He gulped the water down greedily. That, at least, did not hurt too bad.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Pete said. “Can you tell us your name? I’m sorry, I don’t know many people on the upper floors. Were you sent, uh, by HR?”

Charles blinked. “You don’t . . . you don’t recognise me?”

There was a pause, and then Pete’s eyes went wide. His jaw fell. And he dropped the plastic cup that Charles had passed back.

“Mr Porter? Mr Charles Porter? Sir?”

“The one and - ngh! - only.”

“But how . . . my God, you didn’t, did you? The serum?”

“I had no f-fucking choice, did I? You wouldn’t give it t-to me, and I had a goddamn terminal illness!”

Pete took a step back. Several of the other members of staff did too, murmuring to themselves. The humiliation of allowing himself to be recognised like this, in front of day-to-day employees, was in the extreme. Pete simply looked astonished. He reached out to take Charles arm as he stumbled, and only just managed to catch the transformed man as an overwhelming searing pain scorched his insides. Charles fell backwards, accidentally pulling Pete Bradshaw with him.

“WOAH!!” the younger man yelled, though there wasn’t as much visible age difference between them anymore, as Charles’ skin was rapidly tightening, losing the last remaining wrinkles of even his early thirties. The clock spun backwards, and he felt the horrid sensation of years reversing in real time: his eyes de-crinkling, the corners of his mouth becoming smooth as a thousand little nerves fired agonising little pulses. He gasped as the wind was knocked out of him, both from colliding with the floor, Pete colliding onto him, and the unbearable pressure in his groin and chest. He couldn’t help but cry out in pain, his voice breaking and lifting yet another octave. He clutched Pete, pulling his head against his chest, unable to let go, clinging to him like Charles was hanging from a tall scaffold and Pete was the one outstretched beam keeping him from falling.

“UGGHH!! M-MY CHEST! IT B-BURNS! IT’S S-SWELLING UP!!”

Pete tried to say something, but he was too busy being pulled against Charles’ chest. It gave him a front row seat to the pair of changes that were occurring: more gym-formed muscle was melting horribly into large fatty deposits, and causing the CEO’s chest to balloon. It was undeniable what was happening by this point, especially since his hair was already writhing from his scalp, causing the most terrible itch he could imagine.

“N-NO! I’M NOT B-BECOMING THAT! NOT BECOMING A W-OHHHH!!!”

Another pulse. Another swell. Left side first, then right side. They were not enormous, but they were noticeable, especially to Pete who was pressed up against them.

Breasts.

Charles Porter, the CEO of Hyradyne, was squealing in pain as he was growing breasts. To his unmitigated horror, the various scientists and testers and staff of the wing were looking on in shock, and some were even reaching for their phones to make calls or - far worse - to record the changes.

“Get a-away from me!” he cried.

It was then that he realised he was still holding the acting head of the department against his chest. Against his breasts. He let go of him, and Pete came up for air: literally, he breathed in a lungful, then stared straight into Charles’ eyes. The transforming CEO could feel a defined weight on his own chest - two weights, really - that were not supposed to be there. They were overheated, and there was still a godawful pressure in them, like they were threatening to painfully expand at any moment. Grow bigger at any moment. Just as bad, his buttons had come undone at the top in all the fuss, letting him - and Pete - see a line of slight cleavage formed from his upper arm positions causing the new tits to squeeze together.

“Mr Porter,” Pete said, looking at them for longer than either was obviously comfortable with. “Are you becoming a woman?”

The young man looked straight into Charles’ eyes, and the CEO did not like how his body responded to that. Perhaps it was the painful rewiring in his mind from the elevator, perhaps it was something hormonal, perhaps he was simply going insane, but . . . Pete Bradshaw looked cute. Very cute. To die for, really. His brown hair, tousled over to one side playfully, and his wire frame glasses gave him a guy-next-door vibe that was making his body react very strangely. His shrunken penis began to harden, and his nipples - strangely - began to stiffen on his chest.

“No! FUCK NO! NOT THAT!!”

Pete’s eyebrows went up, though whether it was because he could feel an erection beneath him or simply was unsure over what Charles was barking on about was unclear Instead, the older man wrestled off the younger, batting him aside: it took far more strength than he would usually require.

“You’ve got to fix me!” he whined.

“I - I can’t. It’s an experimental drug. I told you there was a chromosomal problem. But we never expected this! This is fascinating!”

“I’m not your g-goddamn science experiment! FIX ME! UGHH!”

More pain, and his hips cracked, spreading wider. Becoming more womanly.

“I can’t! The amount of trials alone - it wasn’t meant to be tested on human subjects for literal years, Mr Porter! And even then, only women if we hadn’t cracked the chromosome issue!”

Charles backed away, his brief arousal at the sight of Pete giving way to panic again, though perhaps one had led to the other. He backed all the way into the elevator, shoulders trembling, his new breasts bobbing beneath his far-too larger suit. They had to be B-cups at the least, though he didn’t want to find out.

“Get away from me!” he cried. “I can fix this!”

“Mr Porter! Sir! We need to get you to a -”

But the doors had already shut, and out of instinct he’d already hit the button for his floor. He only realised the mistake when he stumbled out again, utterly misshapen and still in excruciating pain, a crowd of spectators already present from his previous embarrassing display.

“It’s Mr Porter!”

“No way, as if!”

“No, it is. He’s mutating or something.”

“I heard he had some rare disease.”

“Why does he look way too short?”

“I saw him shrink, right before my eyes!”

“Is that why he was screaming in his office? That was a horrible racket.”

“Someone should call the board, he looks seriously weird.”
“He looks like a woman!”

Pete screamed. “I AM NOT A DAMN WOMAN!!!”

His voice betrayed him. He sounded very much like a woman, in fact. A number of the spectators gasped hearing that voice coming from him. Marta was back at her desk, but her eyes were glued on him, jaw dropped.

“Marta, get th-these people back to their jobs!”

But her jaw remained dropped. She was frozen in shock, unable to act. In a fit of rage and humiliation, Charles turned to get back in the elevator and get the hell out of the building, hire a cab if need be. But the doors were already shut: someone else had called the elevator from another floor. The CEO practically drooled with anger, and instead decided in a split second to run through the crowd and into his office. At least that would afford some privacy. Unfortunately, he only made it halfway before the final, and worst, tremors of pain began to ripple through his body.

“No! N-not now! NOT NOWWWWWW!!! AGHH!!!”

But the universe wasn’t giving Charles Porter a break today. Instead, he fell upon the ground and began to writhe. Several hands reached to help him up, only to pull away as his body began to crackle and wrench in unnatural ways, and his form shifted and changed yet further. Charles screamed as his hair sprouted out once more, growing long and dark and thick and lush. It fell down over his shoulders, and as he clenched his eyes shut they too changed, losing their dullness and becoming a piercing, unnatural violet. His hips cracked, expanding wider, and this time it was visible to the astonished crowd, who whispered among themselves, taking in this odd side.

“H-help m-meeee! NGHH!!”

But no one was willing to touch him while he was apparently mutating. His chest burned, and the remaining masculine build upon his shoulders and arms dripped away, the searing, bubbling flesh moving to his tits and making them expand yet further. He rolled onto his back, still writhing. This elicited a cry of astonishment from the crowd, because all of a sudden they were able to see his expanding, and very obvious, chest.

“Stop l-looking!” Charles cried, but this only made them want to look more, especially because his Adam’s apple finally finished its disappearing act, pushing painfully down to leave his throat smooth and feminine. It also meant that his voice now sounded not just exactly like a woman’s, but a very sexy woman’s voice at that. It had a seductive edge even as Charles wailed.

“S-stop g-growing!” he whined in that attractive, helpless voice.

But his chest didn’t listen. They pumped up and up and up, growing well past B-cups, to a lovely handful of C’s, to an impressive crop of D’s and then Double-D’s, only to expand one final, agonising time to become ripe, melon-like E’s that wobbled on his chest. His nipples stung, fully erect and painfully aroused, and he couldn’t help but rub them furiously, hating every moment of his suffering and yet unable to stop.

“Holy shit, Charles Porter is growing breasts! Big ones!”

“Jesus, he’s got bigger tits than Mary Anne on the third floor.”

“Mary Anne is obese as hell, look at him: he’s only getting thinner!”

“Jesus, the CEO is looking hot.”

“Shh, he’ll hear you!”

“Too bad he doesn’t have a - never mind, there it is!”

Charles didn’t know what the last voice was referring to, until his ass practically exploded outwards. Combined with the growth of his hips which had already strained the waist of the slacks, his growing ass took it over the edge. He tried to rip the fabric as it constrained him, but instead it simply gave way, ripping at the back to reveal his male underwear, and a very female derriere. Very female, in fact.

“Oh G-God! When will it s-stop! When will it - OHHHH! SSHHIIIITTT!!”

He now had a very good idea when it would stop, because at that moment, there was one last shuddering expansion of his hips, and then the pain retreated entirely. Except, that was, for the most important place of all. Charles clutched his manhood, gasping again and again, sweating all over. His huge E-cup tits flopped in his shirt, the top buttons undone so that his deep cleavage was there for all to see. The Board members were arriving at that very moment, and Chester Harkins led them, shooing members of the crowd aside so that they could see.

They arrived just in time for Charles to howl in pain, despair, and utter shame as his cock pulled back inside his body inch by terrible inch, until it dug a hole right through him, leaving a wet, oddly aroused passage in its wake.

“Nooooooooooo,” he moaned, eyes wide, his mind almost catatonic. He didn’t know what he looked like, but if the big tits, wide hips, and itty bitty waist with the slender legs was any indication, he was probably a damn drop dead gorgeous bombshell. He quivered, boobs jostling in his top, and it was obvious he’d shrunk further, because he was practically lost in his own clothing.

“Dear God, Charles,” Chester said, looking over the catastrophe. ‘What the hell have you done to yourself?”

Charles could only wheeze in and out, still unable to accept that he had just gone from a mid-forties alpha male executive to an early twenties woman with a set of tits he would have had wet dreams about as a teenager. He looked down at them, holding them in his hands, and it made him moan, though not in pain this time. They were ridiculously sensitive, as if his body was erotically charged. It reminded him, briefly, of Pete Bradshaw, though he couldn’t say why, and as if his very thoughts had summoned him, the young man was emerging from the elevator and running to the scene, pushing aside the crowd.

“Mr Porter! Mr Porter! Are you okay?”

Charles fell back, lying in front of everyone, covered in loose male clothing but his beauty undeniable to all. Pete put a hand on his arm, checking him over as if he were a medic and Charles the patient. It sent strange tingles up Charles’ arm.

“Mr Porter, can you hear me? We need to make sure you’re okay, and that you’ve stabilised.

“P-Pete,” he managed to say, unused to his new voice. “H-help me!”

And then the new woman fainted, right in front of everyone.

To Be Continued . . .