The scent of fresh coffee and polished mahogany filled Charles' office as he adjusted his tie in the reflection of the window. To the outside world, and more importantly, to his clients, he was Dr. Charles Davenport: a calm, collected, and highly-regarded marital therapist with a reputation for mending even the most fractured relationships. The suit was tailored, a soft charcoal that complemented his sandy blond hair and kind, blue eyes. He was handsome in a gentle, bookish way, the sort of man who inspired trust. Beneath the polished leather shoes and the bespoke suit, however, something ancient and hungry stirred. An incubus, he walked the mortal plane, and this office was his hunting ground, his pantry, and his private stage. His own body was a carefully maintained secret; while he appeared of average build and height, his true form boasted a flaccid penis that was a solid ten inches and testicles the size of large plums. He kept it tucked, compressed, a constant, subtle reminder of the power he held in check.
His first appointment of the day, Mark and Lisa, shuffled in. Mark was a tense, wiry man in his late thirties, his shoulders perpetually hunched around his ears. Lisa, by contrast, was soft, though she carried her own tension in the tight set of her jaw. They were three sessions in.
"Please, have a seat," Charles greeted them with a practiced, soothing tone. "How was your week?"
Mark sighed, slumping into the plush leather armchair. "Better. The… homework you suggested. It helped. Lisa seemed more… receptive."
Lisa blushed, a pretty pink that bloomed across her cheeks. She'd started their sessions as a flat-chested, stressed accountant with a bun so tight it seemed to pull her face taut. Now, her hair was down, a glossy chestnut cascade that framed a face softening with a new, vacant sort of pleasantness. Her B-cup breasts had blossomed into a proud, round DD, straining the buttons of her sensible blouse. Her hips and ass had followed suit, swelling with a soft, womanly padding that made her simple pencil skirt look scandalously tight.
"It was… like, really nice," Lisa said, her voice gaining a breathy, melodic quality it had lacked before. "We just… talked. And I tried not to get all, like, hung up on stuff. And then, later, Mark gave me this massage… and it felt, like, soooo good." She giggled, a sound that was both new and utterly natural to her. The giggle sent a pleasant tremor through the room, a tiny morsel of pure, uncomplicated pleasure that Charles absorbed like a fine wine. He felt a familiar warmth spread through his own chest, a phantom echo of their contentment.
"Excellent," Charles said, making a note on his pad. The note was meaningless; he was merely observing. The changes in Lisa were textbook. Her thought processes were simplifying, her focus shifting from complex anxieties to immediate physical sensations. The bimbofication was progressing beautifully. He could feel the residual energy from their night, the sexual tension that had finally found a release. It was like tasting the appetizer before the main course.
"Mark, how did that feel for you?" Charles turned his attention to the husband.
Mark looked startled, as if unused to being asked about his own feelings. "Uh… good? I mean, she seemed to really like it. And she wasn't… criticizing my technique. So that was a plus."
"We're working on positive reinforcement," Charles explained smoothly. "Lisa, you're learning to express your desires in a way that's constructive, rather than critical. Mark, you're learning to hear those desires as an invitation, not an attack."
The session continued, a subtle dance of suggestion and reinforcement. Charles guided them through a visualization exercise.
"Mark, I want you to picture Lisa's anxieties. What do they look like?"
Mark frowned. "Like… a tangle of wires? All sharp and messy."
"And you, Lisa?" Charles asked. "What do you feel when you're anxious?"
A line appeared between Lisa's brows, a brief remnant of her former self. "It's like… a buzzy feeling. In my tummy. And my head gets all… full of like, static."
"Good," Charles murmured. His power coiled, ready to strike. "Now, Mark, I want you to imagine untangling those wires. But you can't use your hands. You have to use your words. Tell Lisa something you find beautiful about her."
Mark hesitated. His gaze fell on Lisa's chest, which had a sheen of perspiration between the impressive globes. His modesty still in tact, he averted his eyes upward to her pouty lips. "I… I've always liked your smile."
Lisa beamed. The line between her brows vanished. The buzzy feeling in her tummy was replaced by a warm, tingly one that spread downwards. "Really?"
"Yeah. And… your hair. Down like that. It's… soft."
Each compliment was a snip of Charles' invisible scissors. The tangle of Lisa's anxieties didn't just loosen; it began to dissolve, transmuting into something else entirely. With every word, a button on her blouse seemed to strain a little more. The fabric, already stretched taut, looked seconds away from surrendering. Charles could feel the energy she was giving off, the sweet, syrupy nectar of a woman shedding her worries for something far more pleasurable. He took a small, discreet sip from it. A warm thrum started in his own groin, a pleasant tightening. His own suit trousers felt a fraction more snug than they had an hour ago. He gave a subtle adjustment of his position, masking the shift of his growing appendage.
At the end of the session, Mark stood to leave, looking visibly more relaxed. Lisa, however, rose with a languid stretch, her back arching. The movement was the final straw. POP. A button shot from her blouse, ricocheting off a bookshelf. Both Mark and Lisa froze, staring at the small, white projectile now resting on the Persian rug. A generous swath of lace from her peach-colored bra and the soft swell of her breast were exposed.
"Oh, my goodness," Lisa gasped, but her eyes held no panic, only a wide, doe-like surprise. "Like, my button just… went boing!"
Mark stared, his mouth agape. For a second, a flicker of the old, critical Lisa seemed to surface in his mind, but it was immediately smothered by a wave of raw, undiluted lust. The vision of his wife's expanding curves, combined with the potent, pheromone-laced energy Charles had been subtly cultivating in the room, was too much.
"It's… it's okay," Mark managed, his voice hoarse. He stepped forward and, instead of trying to cover her, gently traced the curve of her exposed flesh with a fingertip. "I like big tits."
The simple, accepting touch sent a fresh wave of energy through the room, a feedback loop of arousal and acceptance that was a feast for Charles. He absorbed it gratefully, feeling another surge of power settle within him. As he showed them out, he caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror. His shoulders seemed a fraction broader, the fabric of his jacket pulling just a little tighter across them. His jawline felt sharper. The changes were minuscule, indiscernible to anyone who hadn't seen him an hour ago, but to Charles, they were the sweetest of rewards.
His next client was waiting. Brenda and Tom. They were five sessions in.
Brenda sashayed into the office ahead of her husband, a stunning vision of platinum blonde hair and a body that defied gravity. Her original complaints had been about Tom's lack of ambition and emotional distance. Now, Brenda's ambitions rarely extended beyond choosing the right shade of lipstick to match her nails, and her emotional state was a near-constant state of bubbly, vapid bliss. Her transformation was nearly complete. She wore a hot pink minidress that looked like it had been painted on, clinging to an exaggerated hourglass figure. Her tits were enormous, a set of jiggling GG cups that jutted forward with the firmness of youth, and her ass was a perfect, bubbled peach that strained the Lycra of her dress with every step. Her IQ had plummeted, replaced with a cheerful, ditzy eagerness to please and be pleased.
Tom, her husband, had undergone a subtler, yet no less profound, transformation. The once paunchy, soft-spoken office guy was now a veritable adonis. His arms were corded with muscle, his chest a broad, solid plane, and his jaw was square and determined. He was a himbo in the making. His emotional distance had been replaced by a simple, protective possessiveness, and his lack of ambition had been refocused into a singular goal: keeping his bimbofied wife happy and, more often than not, deeply impaled on his cock. The transformation had, of course, affected his own body. His own package was now a formidable sight, a thick, eight-inch bulge even when soft, that he made no attempt to hide in his tight jeans.
"Dr. D!" Brenda squealed, flinging herself onto the loveseat opposite Charles' desk. Her huge tits bounced with the motion, threatening to spill out of her dress's plunging neckline. "I am, like, having the bestest day!"
"I can see that, Brenda," Charles said, his smile never faltering. He felt the familiar pull, the ambient sexual energy that rolled off her in waves. It was stronger now, more potent. "And Tom, you're looking well."
Tom grunted, settling into an armchair. His eyes were fixed on his wife's legs. "Yeah. Been gettin' swole."
"Tom has been, like, sooo strong lately," Brenda gushed, crossing and uncrossing her legs. The motion was a slow, deliberate tease. "He, like, carried all the groceries in. All by himself! With, like, one trip! My pussy got all tingly just watching him."
Charles felt a jolt of energy, richer and more potent than what he'd siphoned from Lisa. The transformation was more advanced, the energies less muted by lingering anxieties. He took a longer, deeper drink. The warmth spread through him faster, a delicious heat that settled in his groin. His ten inches throbbed, a slow, heavy beat against the confines of his underwear. His pants, already a little snug, now felt tight, a pleasurable pressure against the sensitive head of his cock. He had to fight the urge to adjust himself in front of them.
"And how did that make you feel, Tom? Being so strong for Brenda?" Charles prompted, his voice a smooth, hypnotic balm.
Tom's gaze dragged away from his wife's thighs and met Charles's. There was a simple, honest pride in his eyes.
"Good. Real good. Like I was… supposed to be like this."
"And you, Brenda?" Charles turned back to the blonde bombshell.
"When Tom is strong for you, what does that make you want to do?"
A vacant, blissful smile spread across Brenda's face. "It makes me wanna… like… thank him. With my mouth. Or my titties. Or my pussy." She said the words with the cheerful simplicity of a child naming her favorite ice cream flavors. "He just feels so big and hard and it makes my little pussy all wet and gooey."
The admission hung in the air, thick and sweet. Charles could practically smell her arousal. It was intoxicating. He fed on it, feeling the energy course through him, strengthening him, reshaping him. He felt another seam in his jacket straining, this one across his back. His deltoids were definitely bigger. The soft bookishness of his appearance was gaining a harder, more potent edge. The fabric of his trousers, now under serious pressure from his engorging cock, scraped against the sensitive glans with every tiny shift of his body, a constant, tantalizing friction.
"This connection you're feeling is wonderful," Charles said, his own voice a fraction deeper than it had been that morning. "It's about recognizing each other's roles. Tom provides strength and security. Brenda, you provide beauty and pleasure. It's a perfect, primal exchange."
"Primal exchange," Tom repeated, testing the words. He liked the sound of it. It made sense. It was simple. It was right.
"Exactly," Charles purred, leaning forward slightly. The movement caused a button on his waistcoat to pull, the thread groaning in protest.
"Now, I want you both to close your eyes. Brenda, I want you to focus on the feeling of Tom's strength. Imagine it surrounding you, a shield against all the bad, boring thoughts."
Brenda's eyelids fluttered shut. A soft, happy sigh escaped her lips. "Mmmmm. No more boring thoughts."
"And Tom," Charles continued, his power flowing into the room, a warm, invisible current. "Focus on Brenda's pleasure. It's your reward. Your purpose. Feel the heat from her body, the eagerness in her touch. It's all for you."
Tom's breathing deepened. A visible bulge began to swell in his jeans, growing, pressing against the thick denim. The energy between the couple was now a palpable thing, a feedback loop of burgeoning lust and devotion. Charles drank deeply. It was a heady vintage, pure and uncut. The heat in his own groin became an inferno. His cock, now fully and achingly hard, pressed insistently against his zipper. He felt a pressure in his chest, not of emotion, but of physical expansion. His pectorals were swelling, pressing against the fine cotton of his shirt. He felt broader, denser. More… real.
A faint tearing sound made Charles's eyes snap open. It wasn't from him. A seam on Brenda's dress, high on her hip, had given way. The pink Lycra split with a soft hiss, revealing a sliver of tanned, flawless skin and the strap of a minuscule thong. She didn't notice. Lost in the haze of Charles' suggestion, her hips were gently rocking, a primal rhythm of anticipation.
The tear was the spark that lit the fuse. The sudden, raw exposure of flesh, combined with the pheromonal miasma Charles had cultivated, shattered the last of Tom's restraint. With a low growl, he surged to his feet, crossing the small space in two strides. He didn't speak. He simply hauled Brenda into his arms, one hand gripping the meat of her ass, the other tangling in her platinum hair.
Brenda's eyes flew open, but they weren't startled. They were wide, dark pools of pure, unadulterated need. "Oh, Tommy," she breathed, her voice a husky whisper. "You're so… strong."
He crushed his mouth to hers, a kiss that was all possession and hunger. Charles watched, feeding on the explosive burst of energy. It was a geyser, a waterfall of pure sexual force pouring into him. The power was immense, intoxicating. He felt it flooding every cell of his being, accelerating his own transformation.
The sound was sharp, loud in the quiet office. One of the buttons on Charles's waistcoat had finally given up the ghost, pinging off the wooden front of his desk. The sudden release of pressure allowed his chest to expand fully. His shirt, suddenly too tight, gaped open, revealing a chest that was no longer merely bookish, but sculpted, dusted with a few stray, dark hairs. The skin felt hot, stretched over newly formed muscle. His own breathing hitched. He could feel the fabric of his shirt straining across his broadening lats, the sleeves pulling tight around biceps that had swollen with a new, dense power.
Mark and Lisa were completely oblivious to the change in their therapist, their entire world narrowed to each other. Tom's hands roamed over Brenda's body, squeezing the impossible curve of her ass, palming the heavy weight of her tits as they pushed out further into his chest. The dress was a lost cause, another seam ripping along the side as he manhandled her.
"Wanna fuck you," Tom grunted against her neck.
"Yessss," Brenda hissed, writhing against him. "Wanna feel your big, hard cock stretching my little pussy out."
The raw, explicit words were a direct injection of energy. Charles felt it hit him like a shot of pure adrenaline. His own cock, a rigid bar of iron trapped in his trousers, gave a powerful throb. The pressure was immense, painful in the most exquisite way. The seam along his inner thigh began to groan, the threads straining. Professionalism. He had to maintain professionalism. This was a breakthrough, a positive expression of their connection. But the incubus within him roared, a beast scenting blood. He needed to get them out. Now.
"I think… we've made significant progress today," Charles managed to say, his voice a strained baritone. He stood up, the motion a monumental effort. The shift in position put new pressure on his straining pants.
A long, tear opened from groin to mid-thigh. The cool air of the office on the overheated skin of his leg was a shock. His cock, now impossibly swollen, fought for freedom, the head of it peaking out from the torn fabric of his boxers and the ragged opening of his trousers. It was angry, purple, and already drooling precum.
"Remember what we discussed about channeling this new energy constructively," Charles said, his words aimed at the couple but mostly a mantra for himself. He kept his desk strategically between them and him. "Your home is the appropriate venue for this level of… expression. I'll see you next week."
Tom, with Brenda still wrapped around him like a second skin, seemed to barely hear. He gave a curt, dismissive nod, his focus entirely on the woman in his arms. He palmed the heavy swell of her ass with his large hand as he lifted, groped, and guided her out the door with him. Every step she took with her wide hipped saunter was a shadow away from sending her swelling tits out of her top. Brenda's giggle trailed behind them, followed by the click of the door shutting.
Charles slumped back into his chair, the leather groaning under his new weight. He was sweating, his shirt sticking to him, the damp fabric highlighting the new contours of his chest and abs. He looked down. The destruction was impressive. His trousers were shredded. His cock, finally free of its prison, stood up from his lap, a magnificent, terrifying column of flesh. It had to be fourteen, maybe fifteen inches long now, and as thick as his wrist. His balls, heavy and swollen, rested on the torn fabric of his pants, looking like a pair of ripe lemons. The sheer, raw power thrumming through him was dizzying. He'd overindulged. He'd feasted. And now, he was paying the price. Leaning over he paged his secretary to come in.
He'd specifically chosen Margret for her older, frumpier appearance to help stifle his tendencies. As she walked in the door her outdated and bland office attire hung from her aging frame.
"Did you need something Dr. Davenport?" she asked plainly. His form not concealed but not made aware to her senses as magic and pheromones flooded her.
"Yes. I'm afraid we're going to need to take a long lunch today," he said a bit begrudgingly.
"We, sir?" Margret asked perplexed as she unconsciously thrust her once modest chest out, causing the buttons to strain and her bra to pinch.
"Unfortunately I overdid it and we need to... work through lunch. And after we're done I need you to put out an ad for a secretary," he stood up allowing his enhanced form and demonic cock to be presented. "I'm terribly sorry. You were really good at your job but I'm afraid after this you'll be quite changed."
Two buttons launched across the room yet Margret seemed unphased. A vast swell of youthful and overly round tit swelled through the opening. Her bobbed hair had lengthened down her shoulders and was bleaching from the tips a bright peroxide blonde. "I don't really get it doctor. I seem to be distracting you with my big tits. Would you like me to wrap them around you cock?"
His cock twitched and drooled on his desk at being acknowledged. "I think that would be a good start Margret."
A smile spread across her plump lips as she locked onto his rod. "Like, call me Maggie sir. Maggie's got real big titties," she giggled as she bounced causing her bra to finally snap. Fat jiggling tit meat swelled through the gap in her top with a whole nipple breaking free.
"That you do Maggie. That you do. Now get over here you bimbo."
That was all she needed and she was instantly on her knees worshiping and smothering his cock.
"I work entirely too hard," he moaned as Maggie took him into her soft mouth.
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