Chapter 2: Chain of Command
The bathroom door clicked shut behind Greg, the echo of his own heartbeat loud in the tiled silence. He turned and nearly collided with Angel, who was walking with a subtle, deliberate stiffness back toward the conference room. A knowing smirk played on Angel’s lips. "Sometimes they just come out of nowhere," he quipped, lewdly, his eyes dropping to Greg’s crotch before meeting his gaze with electric amusement. Greg did his best to look horrified and confused, his mouth agape in a perfect pantomime of shock, but inside he knew it was his own load churning inside Angel, a secret, molten claim that sent a thrill through his core.
The rest of Greg’s day unfolded with an unfamiliar smoothness. He drafted reports without frustration, nodded through meetings without feeling transparent, a quiet hum of potential vibrating beneath his skin. He didn’t care so much about being overlooked, enjoying the mundanity of his work, knowing that more exciting things were now on the horizon, new possibilities at any moment.
As he arrived home, the grey evening settling on his street, he saw Ivan loitering outside his own house, smoking aggressively. Ivan spotted him and bounded over, his broad face alight. "Greg! My friend! Your cousin," he said, the title dripping with implication. "She is a fucking miracle."
Greg stumbled for a moment, wiping his brow. "Oh, yes. Tina is going to be around from time to time. I hope she's no bother."
Ivan launched into a lewd and inappropriate retelling, his hands carving crude shapes in the air. "The sounds she made when I was pounding that tight little cunt! Like a fucking animal! And her mouth—christ, Greg, a talent like that should be registered!"
Greg felt a strange, cool power settle in his chest. He looked at Ivan, really looked at him, and saw not a formidable rival but a needy, predictable tool. "I'll send her round when she turns up," Greg said, his voice even.
Ivan grabbed his arm. "When?"
"Tina works on her own schedule," Greg said, gently removing the hand. "You'll have to be patient." Ivan slumped off, a frustrated child, and Greg entered his own home, the lock turning with a final, satisfying thud.
Inside, he needed to understand the necklace. He turned the heat up, drew the curtains tight against the world, and peeled off his unremarkable clothes. Naked, he sat on the floor before the full-length mirror, the black teardrop pendant cold and heavy in his palm. He closed his eyes, focusing on the memory of power, of transformation, of Angel’s choked gasps. "Please," he whispered, not knowing who he addressed.
"Hello, my darling boy."
The voice was in his mind, warm and clear, untouched by the hospice’s rasp. In his mind’s eye, his Grandad appeared, not as he last was, but vibrant, forty years younger, with a sly, secretive smile. "I'm so glad the necklace works for you. I wasn't sure it would."
Tears welled in Greg’s closed eyes. "Grandad? How?"
"A bit of me, stuck in the magic," the apparition said, its tone joyful and conspiratorial. "It’s sex magic, Greg. Pure and simple. Your excitement, your desire—that’s the key. And when you have sex, it charges the necklace. The more sex, the more powerful it becomes, the longer the changes last, the greater influence it has on your quality of life."
"The lip pump," Greg murmured inwardly.
"Exactly! The changes are only for sexual reasons, only to recharge the amulet. I’m sorry I couldn’t give it to you sooner. I wanted to, knowing it would improve your life." The vision of his Grandad shimmered, affection radiating from him. "But it must be passed on at the moment of death. Now it’s yours. Go on, my boy. Get yourself charged up and we'll speak more soon, my boy." The presence faded, leaving Greg alone, naked, and throbbing with understanding, the pendant now warm against his skin.
The presence faded, leaving Greg alone, naked, and throbbing with understanding, the pendant now warm against his skin. He closed his fingers around the teardrop crystal, its surface humming with a low, insistent energy. "Show me," he whispered into the quiet room, "where to go, what to do."
A current, not unpleasant, jolted from the pendant up his arm, a wave of warmth washing over him that softened his jawline and rounded his shoulders. He sensed the change as his body remoulded itself, his own familiar face smoothing into a softer, stranger beauty. When he opened his eyes, the face of Tina was looking back at him, her lips curled in a confident, knowing smile.
His hands, now her hands, rose to trace the curve of his soft, full breasts, the skin startlingly sensitive. He trailed his fingers down his stomach, through the dark, coarse hair, into the dark wetness between his legs, a slick proof of the transformation’s power. He descended into the basement, the air thick with dust and memory, and found a box of his grandma's old clothes.
He selected a conservative but not overly matronly navy blue dress, its fabric soft with age. He knew Ivan wouldn't care about underwear, so he pulled it on over his bare skin, the simple garment feeling like a weapon. Greg, as Tina, stepped out the front door onto the porch, appearing to simply take the evening air.
She sensed Ivan on his porch before she saw him, the orange tip of his cigarette glowing in the dimness. Tina stretched languidly, arching her back and tracing the curves of her body for him to see before she finally looked his way. Ivan's eyes were boring into her, his hand already down his track pants, rubbing the outline of his massive cock.
Tina faced him directly, both still on their porches, and without a word, she gathered the hem of her dress. She raised it slowly, exposing her wet pussy to the cool evening air, then pushed two fingers deep into herself. She pulled them out, glistening, and brought them to her lips, sucking them clean with a loud, deliberate smack.
She turned and walked into the house, not looking back, the screen door slapping shut behind her. Ivan was there in seconds, his breath ragged, filling the small living room with his bullish presence. "On your knees," Tina commanded, her voice a cool blade, and the big man dropped to all fours.
She made him strip completely, his clothes a heap on the floor, his thick cock already dripping. She twisted his nipples hard, making him gasp, and landed a sharp slap on his fleshy ass. "You like that, you filthy little boy?" she asked, and though he protested with a grunt, the gleam of debauched enjoyment in his eyes was her answer.
She sat on the worn armchair, spreading her legs, and ordered him to smell her cunt but not taste. When his tongue flicked out instinctively, she slapped him hard across the head. "I said smell, you animal," she hissed, and his cock throbbed, a pearl of precum forming at the tip.
Knowing not to push too far too soon, she finally granted permission. "Alright, lick it clean, baby." Ivan buried his face between her legs, his tongue working furiously until her body tensed and a gush of fluid soaked his chin. "Now fuck my tits," she ordered, pushing her breasts together.
He shuffled forward on his knees, his slick, hard cock sliding between her soft cleavage. He came almost instantly, hot streaks of semen painting her neck and chest. As he dressed, shamefaced and hurried, Tina rubbed his cum into her skin with a slow, possessive circular motion.
The moment the door closed behind him, the transformation reversed, the feminine form dissolving back into Greg’s soft, familiar body. He was clean, free of cum, standing alone in his quiet living room. The necklace was warm and thrumming against his chest, and Greg felt a profound, unshakable happiness he had never known before.
The warmth from the charged necklace spread through Greg’s chest like a drug, a palpable energy that demanded to be spent and replenished. He found himself drawn back to the mirror, its surface a dark portal, the ritual of transformation becoming as necessary as breathing. Closing his eyes, he whispered the now-familiar command, "Show me where to go, what to do," and felt the pendant sear his skin as his body began to swell and thicken.
When he looked again, a stranger stared back: a beefy college wrestler with a thick neck, broad shoulders, and a heavy, pale cock hanging between firm, smooth balls. On the floor before him lay a pile of clothes—a gym membership card, obscenely fitted shorts, and a loose muscle vest. He dressed quickly, pulling sweatpants and a hoodie over the revealing outfit, his new body moving with an unfamiliar, powerful grace. The car journey was a blur of anxious anticipation, his large hands gripping the wheel, worrying about looking like a fool in a place he’d never dared enter.
The 24-hour gym was nearly silent at 9 p.m., a temple of polished steel and rubber. His card swiped him through, and he walked into the locker room, a space of expensive wood and faint chlorine. A single man was there, tan and meticulously muscled, drying himself with deliberate, showy strokes, his own decent cock seeming smaller next to the image Greg now projected. "Quiet night," the man said, his eyes lingering on the bulge in Greg's shorts, not even trying to be subtle as he turned to give a full view.
Greg, armored in this body of pure anonymity, sat on a bench and simply watched, his own thick finger tracing the growing hardness in his shorts. "Place is empty," the man said, stepping closer, now fully erect. "I'm the manager. Phone will tell me if anyone comes." He stood directly in front of Greg, naked and offering himself. Greg leaned forward, taking the man's cock into his mouth, the salty taste exploding on his tongue as he learned the rhythm, his own desire a roaring fire.
The man then pushed him onto all fours, spreading his cheeks and burying his face between them, his tongue probing deep without a hint of resistance or mess, the amulet’s magic ensuring perfect, slick cleanliness. "So fucking ready for me," the man grunted, and then he was pushing inside, the thick head of his cock stretching the ring of muscle, a sensation that should have been pain but was only a wave of intense, overwhelming fullness. Greg groaned, pushing back against him, taking every inch as the man gripped his hips and began to pound into him, each thrust a jolt of raw, debauched pleasure.
Greg awoke with a start, the phantom sensation of being filled still tingling in his muscles, but it was quickly replaced by a vibrant, humming energy that made his fingertips buzz. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting stripes across the bedcovers, and for the first time in years, he didn't hit the snooze button. His body felt light, capable, and a restless need to use this new strength propelled him from the sheets.
He descended into the basement's cool, dusty silence, where memories lingered in cardboard boxes, and unearthed the old set of cast-iron weights his grandfather had left him. The cold metal felt solid and honest in his hands as he carried them upstairs, setting them on the living room rug with a purposeful thud. A quick search on his phone yielded a simple beginner's routine, and he followed the instructions with a focus that felt foreign yet exhilarating. His muscles burned and protested as he pushed through the repetitions, each lift a struggle against his softness, but the burn was a welcome feeling of progress. Beads of sweat traced paths down his temples and chest, and he reveled in the simple, physical proof of effort, something earned purely for himself. Finishing the last set, he collapsed onto the rug, his heart pounding a victorious rhythm against his ribs, and he actually smiled, panting in the morning light.
The shower that followed was a ritual of cleansing, hot water sluicing away the sweat and the lingering psychic residue of the night's anonymous encounters. Afterward, he sliced a banana over Greek yogurt and sprinkled it with almonds, eating the wholesome breakfast at the small kitchen table without rushing. He checked the clock; he still had a full thirty minutes before he needed to leave for work, a pocket of time that usually evaporated in anxiety.
Drawn irresistibly to the full length mirror, he saw his own face, but the eyes looking back held a new, unsettling confidence. The black teardrop pendant rested cool against his sternum, and he closed his hand around it, feeling its dormant power. "Grandad?" he whispered into the quiet of the apartment, clearing his mind as best he could.
"My boy," came the immediate, warmth-filled response in his mind, the voice tinted with a sly amusement. "You are keeping yourself busy, aren't you?"
"It's incredible," Greg thought, the words tumbling out. "But I'm... worried. Is this all it's for? Will it just take over everything in my life?"
"What life, dear boy?" his grandfather's voice responded, not unkindly, but with a piercing clarity. "You go to work, you come home, you are ignored. I was the same. The necklace doesn't dominate a life; it provides one where there was nothing."
He explained that the initial intensity was natural, a period of adjustment where the amulet's hunger was most acute. "Give it time," he soothed, "and a balance will find you. It will always protect you." Then, with finality, he added, "Now, go to work."
The disembodied voice of his grandfather faded, leaving Greg with the mundane command echoing in the silent apartment. He glanced at the clock on the microwave and his stomach lurched; he was suddenly, inexplicably, seven minutes behind schedule. A cold dread, familiar and acidic, washed over him—he hated being tardy almost as much as he hated being noticed for the wrong reasons. He grabbed his keys and briefcase, hurrying out the door with a uncharacteristic haste.
The morning traffic was a solid, unmoving river of steel, and Greg’s fingers drummed a frantic rhythm on the steering wheel. He made a rash decision, swinging the car onto a quieter, tree-lined bypass, pressing the accelerator a little harder than he should. Almost immediately, theflash of blue and red lights erupted in his rearview mirror, a silent accusation that made his heart hammer against his ribs. He guided the car onto a gravelled layby shrouded by overhanging oaks, the sudden quiet feeling like a trap. As he rolled to a stop, the teardrop pendant against his chest flared with a sudden, insistent heat that was impossible to ignore.
A sharp rap on the window made him jump. Turning, he found himself staring into the crisp uniform of a policeman, a man in his early twenties with a clean-cut jaw and eyes that held a surprising softness. Greg’s panic began to morph into something else as the amulet’s warmth spread through him, a dizzying sensation of silk and softness replacing his starched shirt. He took a breath and lowered the window. "Is there a problem, Officer?" The voice that came out was a warm, confident alto, and he saw the young man’s gaze instantly drop from his eyes to the generous cleavage that had somehow appeared beneath a low-cut blouse.
The officer flushed, his professional demeanor cracking. "Uh, yes ma'am. Your left brake light is out." He struggled to maintain eye contact, his gaze repeatedly drifting downward. "It's completely dead. You need to get that seen to."
"Well, goodness," Greg said, fluttering his eyelashes slightly. "Could you show me? I wouldn't know what to look for." He pushed the car door open and stepped out, smoothing down the pencil skirt that now hugged his hips. The officer, visibly flustered, led him to the rear of the car. "See?" he said, pointing a trembling finger. Greg leaned over unnecessarily, giving the man an unobstructed view down his blouse.
"It's very dark back here, Officer," Greg purred. "Perhaps we should check the boot? I have a torch in there." The young policeman, mesmerized, simply nodded. Greg popped the boot, and as the lid swung up, a large, open bag tipped over, spilling its contents onto the carpeted floor. Five neon-bright dildos of various sizes and textures rolled into view. "Oops," Greg said with a light laugh, watching as the officer’s mouth fell open and a noticeable bulge strained against his uniform trousers.
Without breaking the charged silence, Greg turned and perched on the edge of the boot, hiking his skirt up to his hips. He selected a thick, veined silicone dick from the pile, spat on the tip, and without hesitation, began to press it against his wet, gleaming pussy. He maintained unwavering eye contact with the paralyzed officer as he slowly pushed the artificial length inside himself, letting out a theatrical moan that echoed in the quiet grove. "Mmm, that's better," he growled, his rhythm already building. "But it's a bit... cold. Got something I can use instead?" He pulled the glistening dildo out and, holding the officer's stare, took the head into his mouth and sucked on it lewdly.
That broke the spell. The young policeman strode forward, fumbling with his belt buckle, his cock springing free, already fully erect and leaking. Greg spread his legs wider, pulling his blouse open to free his heavy breasts. The officer positioned himself between Greg's thighs, the head of his cock pressing against Greg's stretched opening. With a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, pinning Greg against the edge of the boot. Greg wrapped his legs around the man's waist, meeting each frantic thrust with a groan of pure, raw pleasure, the sound of their bodies slapping together the only noise in the secluded layby. The officer’s movements became jerky, his breath hitching, and with a guttural cry, he emptied himself deep inside, his body shuddering against Greg’s.
He pulled out, staggering back, his face a mask of stunned confusion and exhilaration. Greg smiled, a motherly, knowing smile. "Thank you for your concern, Officer." The young man quickly tucked himself away, muttering something about getting the light fixed, and almost ran back to his motorcycle, speeding off without a backwards glance.
Left alone, Greg rested for a moment in the boot, then reached down between his legs, gathering the officer's warm cum onto his fingers. He brought them to his lips, sucking them clean with a contented sigh. He then saw the clock on the car dashboard. "Shit," he muttered, the feminine voice now laced with his own genuine panic. He was really late for work now.
He slid into the open-plan office, a ghost sliding through silence. A couple of heads nodded in his direction, their eyes glazing over before they even registered his face, making him feel like a first-time visitor in his own life.
He sank into his cubicle, the panic a live wire in his chest. His hands fumbled with the keyboard, rushing to log in and catch up with the morning’s demands. As his breathing steadied, a cold clarity dawned on him; the work only took so long because he triple-checked every single thing, a compulsion born from a fear of being noticed for a mistake he never made.
He was calculating how quickly he could actually finish if he just trusted himself when a voice cut through his thoughts. "Sorry, mate, can I bother you a sec?" Greg looked up to see a lanky, tattooed man in his thirties wearing maintenance overalls. "I'm new here and a bit lost—which way to the maintenance room on this floor?"
Greg was about to point down the west corridor when the necklace warmed slightly against his skin. "Let me show you," Greg said, the helpful words feeling foreign yet right. "Nice one, bruv," the man almost growled, falling into step behind him.
Greg led him through a maze of beige corridors until they reached an empty corner of the floor. He pointed to the marked door. "There you go." The man thanked him, and without thinking, Greg heard himself ask, "Can I get you a drink? I was just going for a coffee." "Yeah, mate, nice one. Milk, two sugars, thanks."
Greg made only one coffee. As he returned to the maintenance room, the amulet’s effect surged through him, a dizzying rush of silk and bone. Before he pushed the door open, he looked down and saw a slender, young man's body clad in smart, tightly-fitted clothes. He entered without knocking.
The guy was slouched on a plastic chair at a plastic table, on his phone, one hand down his pants. "Thanks, mate, just leave it there, cheers," he said, not looking up. Greg put the coffee on the table and perched on its edge. "Greg told me you wanted something hot and wet," Greg purred.
The man looked up from his phone, a predatory grin creeping onto his face. Greg walked around him to look at the screen, where a twink sat in an office chair, white shirt unbuttoned, trousers around his ankles, one hand on his small, hard erection, the other creeping under his butt cheeks, fingering himself. "Why look at a picture," Greg asked, his voice a low challenge, "when you have the real thing here?" The man leaned back, his grin widening. Greg pulled a spare office chair from the corner and began to recreated the image from the phone perfectly.