Spilling the Beans

They spoke in confidence, at first.

One sat high, old money in his spine. The other, younger, sharpened by charts and caffeine.

Meme stock volatility was, quote, "just the dumb herd trying to touch the sky."

Their words bounced clean off the walls—sterile, slick, approved.

But the room was already tilting. They didn’t notice.

Then the assistant entered.

He wasn't on the calendar. He wasn’t dressed correctly.

His eyes sparkled with something off, something wet.

His shirt stuck to his chest like silk to nectar.

His breathing glitched.

His smile bloomed.

He was leaking pleasure into the air, and the table knew it first.

The older one saw the sweat-dark fabric stretch.

The expanding swell underneath.

The laugh that wasn’t laughter.

The scent. The warmth. The mistake.

Then it was happening—he undid everything.

Button by button. Layer by layer. Shame was a memory.

His tie hit the floor with reverence.

His body bloomed. Breasts emerged. Laughed. Danced. Dripped.

The glass walls warped.

The pole rose.

The younger one gasped something that sounded like a number, but it melted in his mouth.

His portfolio emptied itself onto the floor.

The sound of wealth dying was a sweet rhythm.

The table pulsed.

He reached up without knowing why.

And outside…

The top of the tower began to change shape.

Pink light. Soft geometry. Something organic spreading over the antenna.

A signal. A beacon. A mouth.

She had touched the summit.

And the summit would never recover.

🎰 Chapter 1 — House Bunny

an active infection inside the tower

It started when the money hit the floor.

The one they called an assistant now bent the boardroom with every sway.

But when the cash began to spill from the younger manager’s pockets, the room tilted.

The numbers gave up.

The screens blinked pink.

The carpet softened into velvet, and the pole didn’t stop rising.

She wasn’t just performing now—she was extracting.

Skin shifting into ash-glazed lavender.

Eyes, bottomless.

Desire wrapped around her like steam, and all it did was reflect his own back at him.

He laughed.

He blushed.

He reached for her like he used to reach for buyouts.

And didn’t realize what he was becoming.

The cash rained harder—his own, but he didn’t remember.

He crawled for it.

Clutched it.

Licked it.

His blazer shrank, his shirt vanished, his legs opened.

A tail grew.

Ears twitched.

And by the time the transformation reached his lips, he was giggling.

Bunny. Girl. House-owned.

She danced. He obeyed.

He called her Mistress without knowing why.

He begged for tips he used to control.

The boardroom was now a strip-club simulation of itself.

The stock market was still open—but only in his head.

And above it all, in the glowing pink up above,

someone else was watching.

📉💗 Chapter 2 — Margin Called

He didn’t fall like the other one.

She leaned over him, all lashes and giggles, but her charm couldn’t close the deal.

He blinked.

Stumbled.

Ran.

The boardroom door swung wide and the hallway beyond was no longer architecture—it was a corridor of pink light and dripping numbers, gilded in his own wealth, raining down like petals.

His stocks.

His savings.

His name, folded into invoices that fluttered at his feet.

At the far end:

a man. Or a woman. Or a joke made by the market itself.

Sharp suit. Soft smile. Lantern-lit eyes.

“Rough day?” he asked, like it mattered.

And then came the bratty pull. The pink fog.

And the office.

It was his—at least, it had been.

But now it was arranged differently. Neatly. Softly.

Like a girl lived here.

She was waiting at his desk.

Long blonde hair. Fitted top. Pink lips curled in praise.

“You did so well on your last exam.

Daddy must be so proud.”

He laughed. Or tried to.

She already had his portfolio up.

His passwords slid from his mouth like gumdrops.

He didn’t know when he started sitting straighter.

Or why his tie felt so tight and cute.

She leaned forward.

He stared.

He listened.

He obeyed.

They sat across from each other in silence.

The documents glowed.

Her voice wrapped around his throat like a ribbon.

She said she would help.

And in the final camera frame, he’s back at his desk.

The room is quiet.

The documents are signed.

His suit fits differently.

The window shows nothing but pink.

A schoolbag leans against the wall.

He’s smiling.

But it’s not his smile anymore.

3 TG transformation sequences in one, a total of 75 pictures