Deal with the Devil (Patreon)

Diane’s knuckles were white, her expensive pen hovering. "This final clause," she bit out, her voice the ice that shattered subordinates, "Non-negotiable 'personal asset forfeit'? It's absurd."

A chuckle, smooth as spilled oil, filled the penthouse office. "The price of the entire Eastern seaboard, my dear. A small price. Sign."

Her ambition was a drug, more potent than her pride. Cursing him, cursing her own weakness, she scrawled her name.

The moment the ink dried, the change hit. It wasn't a request; it was an invasion.

Her severe, dark suit liquidized. Her crisp blouse strained, the buttons popping like gunfire as her breasts violently erupted, swelling into two massive, perfectly round globes. Her skirt shrank and tightened, cinching her waist to an agonizing, wasp-thin span as her hips and buttocks blew outward, stretching the new pinstripes to their limit.

Her face twisted in pure terror. Her severe bun burst open, hair cascading down, bleaching platinum blonde in seconds. Her lips puffed and swelled, a glossy, wet, ruby-red. Her sharp, analytical mind... pop. It was gone.

The terror on her face melted, replaced by a wide, captivating, empty smile. She stood, teetering instinctively on new ruby-red heels. Her doe-like eyes, now framed in heavy makeup, stared blankly at the chair where her client had sat.

A new, bubbly, high-pitched voice chirped, "Ready for my next instruction, sir!"