Hiros53
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Application Accepted (Bunny girl MILF Tg)
🕑 Added 2025-04-24 21:00:55 +0000 UTCThis is a 2am Story, that means the quality might not be as high as you are used to from me. Full info about 2am Stories here.
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The lobby of Trevor’s Textiles was painfully modern—too clean, too white, like it had been designed by someone who thought "personality" was a liability.
Owen Mills sat stiffly on a pale leather bench, trying not to sweat through his only decent shirt. His portfolio lay on his lap like a holy relic, his resume freshly printed and triple-checked.
It was just a clerical job. Filing, answering phones, scheduling things. Nothing fancy. But Trevor’s Textiles was big. Corporate big. Global reach, glossy annual reports, three different legal departments. The kind of place where your career could actually start.
He wanted this. He needed this.
The receptionist glanced up. Her smile looked like it had been stapled on.
“Mr. Mills? You’re early.”
Owen stood up too fast. “Y-Yeah. Sorry. Just wanted to be punctual.”
She didn’t respond. Just picked up a sleek, black phone and pressed a single button.
“He’s ready.”
Wait—he?
Before Owen could ask, the receptionist had already gestured toward the frosted glass door behind her desk.
“Down the hall. Last room on the left.”
He swallowed hard and nodded, clutching his portfolio like a lifeline.
The corridor was long and silent. Carpeted in gray. White walls. Recessed lighting that never flickered. No other employees. No sounds.
It felt... sterile. Empty.
There were nameplates on each door, but the text was oddly blurred, like someone had taken sandpaper to the lettering. Owen passed “Conference Room 2B” and “Legal Oversight”—or maybe it said “Legacy Overhead?” He couldn't tell.
The last door at the end stood slightly open.
He paused. Knocked gently.
“Come in.”
The office looked like a museum exhibit: perfectly symmetrical. One sleek black desk. Two chairs. No computer, no photos, no clutter.
At the far side sat a man in a tailored charcoal suit, his tie a muted burgundy. Hands clasped. Hair slicked back.
Trevor.
CEO. Founder. Face of the company.
He didn’t rise. Didn’t smile.
Just looked at Owen with eyes that had all the warmth of a security camera.
“Owen Mills. Sit.”
Owen obeyed before he even realized he was doing it.
Trevor opened a folder.
Inside was Owen’s application, printed on heavy cream-colored paper.
“Let’s begin with a simple question,” Trevor said, his voice smooth as silk.
“Is everything written on your application unquestionably the truth?”
Trevor leaned back slightly as Owen answered.
“Yes. Everything on it is accurate.”
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the paper began to glow—a soft, golden shimmer at first, then brighter, sharper, like heat under glass. The light pulsed, then steadied, and Trevor smiled for the first time. Not kindly.
“Good,” he said. “That’s good. I needed everything on this paper to be accurate.”
“Otherwise,” he added, uncapping a sleek fountain pen, “I wouldn’t be able to make real changes.”
Owen blinked. “Wait, what do you mea—?”
But Trevor had already crossed out a line near the top of the application.
His pen scratched once—clean, deliberate—and replaced “Male” with “Female.”
The moment the final stroke settled into the paper, Owen gasped. Sharp, involuntary. His body lurched like someone had yanked a string through his spine.
His hips shifted with a wet, aching pop, bone and muscle softening, widening against the arms of the chair. His pants tightened and then—did they shrink?—hugged new curves that hadn’t been there seconds ago.
A creeping warmth bloomed across his chest. Then pressure. Then weight.
His undershirt stretched, the collar straining as two full breasts pushed out beneath it, swelling rapidly until his coat could barely close over them. They rose and fell with each shallow breath, pressing uncomfortably against the tightened fabric.
A prickling sensation danced across his scalp. His hair, once short and unremarkable, spilled down his neck in loose waves, brushing his collarbone.
He gripped the armrests, knuckles pale. His jaw had softened. His shoulders narrowed. And the unfamiliar emptiness between his legs left him frozen, lips parted, blinking rapidly.
Trevor looked up for a moment.
“There we go,” he said, as if adjusting the thermostat. “Much better. Let’s keep going.”
The pen moved again.
He scratched out “Owen” and wrote, with careful, loopy handwriting: “Olivia.”
Something cracked inside her mind. She twitched—just slightly—as if a cold wind had swept through her skull.
Somewhere distant, a thought tried to form, but it was like chasing smoke in a wind tunnel. There was a name—a real name—but it was caught in a storm. A storm called Olivia. It roared through her head, sweeping every letter away. When it passed, there was only silence.
Her brows knit, lips parted as if to ask something—but nothing came. Just a quiet:
“...That’s not... I…”
Trevor was already writing again.
“Preferred clothes: short skirts and blouses. Must show lots of legs and cleavage.”
The glow flared.
Her outfit shivered, threads twitching, seams writhing like snakes. The safe, modest button-up and slacks were devoured in an instant.
In their place: a tight white blouse, translucent at the chest, clinging to her curves and straining over her new breasts. The collar dipped low—too low—framing her cleavage like it was a feature display.
Her lower half burned.
Slacks shrank into a short pencil skirt, tight as paint, hem slicing halfway up her thighs. Her legs, now smooth and shapely, were left almost entirely bare. She shifted her knees together with a soft squirm, the cold air brushing against unfamiliar skin.
The skirt barely covered her. The blouse barely contained her. The shoes became heels—modest, for now—but still enough to tilt her legs into a practiced curve.
She let out a quiet, shaky breath.
“W-what is this...?”
Trevor glanced up, smiling faintly, and tapped the pen against his chin.
“Dress code policy,” he said. “We do things a little differently here, Olivia.”
Trevor turned another page in the folder, eyebrows slightly raised.
“What is this? Twenty-six and no prior work experience?”
He clicked his tongue. The pen was already in motion.
“That won’t do. Let’s say… thirty-seven. With fifteen years in clerical work. Experience, loyalty, and eagerness matter, after all.”
The glow returned, hotter this time—not just on her skin, but beneath it, as if something deep in her bones had shifted.
Lines etched into the corners of her eyes, subtle but undeniable. Her skin remained soft, but more mature, touched by time and long days in dry office air. Her lips gained a little fullness, her gaze a quiet weight. A woman who had spent years navigating the quiet cruelty of corporate life.
But it wasn’t just her appearance.
Memories she didn’t recognize began to slide into place.
Dates. Fax machine codes. Payroll systems. Awkward birthday parties in breakrooms. A three-month affair with a married manager that ended in polite silence. Schedules she could recite in her sleep. The name of every coffee blend in the office vending machine.
Her fingers twitched, and she realized she’d been air-typing, her hands mimicking keystrokes with casual grace.
She blinked, mouth slightly open, hands staring at her own fingers like they didn’t belong to her.
“I… know how to… format a quarterly report,” she mumbled.
Her voice was softer now. A bit husky. Familiar and foreign at once.
Trevor didn’t acknowledge the confusion.
He just tilted his head, frowning slightly, pen hovering above the page.
“Hmm. You still don’t look enough like eye candy. Let’s fix that.”
He wrote:
“G-cup breasts. Hips wider than her shoulders. Perky large butt. As any secretary should have.”
There was a snap—not audible, but felt—like her spine had just been given new instructions.
Her chest surged forward again, flesh expanding rapidly beneath the thin blouse. The buttons strained, one popping free as her breasts ballooned into heavy G-cups, full and soft and entirely obscene for an office environment.
Her skirt squeezed tighter as her hips flared outward, her thighs pressing together. Her figure took on an exaggerated hourglass shape, balanced precariously by a bouncy, proud ass that jutted out like it had never once known modesty.
The chair groaned beneath her.
This time, the change was too much.
She shot up from her seat, legs wobbly in her heels, her new breasts bouncing violently with the motion.
“W-Wait—no!” she blurted, voice rising in pitch and panic.
“You can’t just change my name like that! Or my… everything! I didn’t agree to—!”
Trevor let out a small, tired sigh. He didn’t even look up.
“Won’t ever complain to the big boss Trevor,” he said as he wrote.
“Will sit until Trevor allows her to go. Has a ridiculously fat ass.”
The glowing paper pulsed.
Olivia’s voice caught in her throat, choking off into silence.
Her knees buckled again, and she dropped into the chair like her spine had been magnetized to it. Her wide hips and thick thighs settled heavily, the fabric straining, the cushion disappearing beneath the sheer mass of her rear.
And then it started to grow.
Pushing outward. Filling more space. Warming. Softening. Her cheeks spread across the seat like dough rising in a hot oven. Her back arched involuntarily, heels sliding just slightly apart as her balance shifted with the weight.
She whimpered. Quiet. Muffled. Her eyes wide with disbelief.
But her body—oh, her body obeyed.
She wasn’t leaving that chair until Trevor said so.
Trevor finally looked up.
“Better,” he said, casually, as if commenting on a revised margin.
“You’re here to sit pretty and take notes, not throw tantrums.”
Trevor tapped the end of his pen thoughtfully against the paper. Now that Olivia was seated and compliant—physically bound by obedience, emotionally stunned into silence—he moved forward without pause.
“Physical appearance,” he mused aloud, as though choosing a font.
“Let’s make it something a little more exotic.”
He began writing:
“2.2-meter tall Amazonian bunny girl. Natural bunny ears. Natural bunny tail. Always looks like a MILF. Yet still single.”
The glow flared white-hot, and Olivia let out a muffled whimper as her body convulsed—not in pain, but in sheer helpless adaptation.
Her legs lengthened beneath her, calves stretching taut, thighs thickening further as her entire frame surged upward, proportions warping as her chair creaked under the new height and mass. Her skirt rode higher. Her blouse strained louder. She was now absurdly tall, built like a statue of soft curves and overpowering femininity.
Then came the fur.
A velvety white coat crawled up her lower back, just above the waistband of her far-too-small skirt. A fluffy bunny tail puffed into existence, twitching once before settling.
From her scalp, something prickled—then twitched.
Two long, plush bunny ears unfurled from the top of her head, flopping gently over her shoulders. They felt heavy, sensitive, alive.
Her face adjusted again. Softer. Fuller. Wiser-looking—but always alluring. Her eyes had that unmistakable mature sparkle—the kind that made people stare without knowing why. The kind of look that whispered, “I’ve been around, and I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Her breath trembled. The seat could barely contain her now.
Trevor glanced over her, satisfied.
“Now,” he said, turning the page, “let’s get to the important part.”
He lowered his pen.
“Mindset: absolutely, unquestioning and loyal towards Trevor.”
“Goals: work so hard that Trevor sees her as special.”
“Relationship goals: get Trevor as her husband.”
The words glowed red-hot on the page.
And Olivia—what was left of her—arched in her seat, every muscle in her body locking as if being pulled by wires.
Her eyes rolled back for just a second, and then—
She breathed out. Slow. Gentle. Obedient.
Gone was the panic. Gone was the fear. She sat up straighter, still squirming slightly in her ill-fitting, hyper-feminine outfit, but now with a smile tugging at her lips.
She looked at Trevor like he was the sun and the sky and the reason she ever existed.
She didn’t understand what had happened. Not anymore.
She only knew she was here now. She was Olivia.
And Mr. Trevor was everything.
Trevor gave the paper one final flick of his wrist, and the glow faded. The pen clicked shut.
“Alright,” he said, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. “You may speak again.”
Olivia sat up straighter, perked and attentive.
“But I don’t need much from you—just a simple yes sir, and a few signatures. Then you’ve got the job. Understood?”
“Yes sir,” Olivia said immediately, her voice warm and bright, like a loyal retriever awaiting praise.
Trevor slid the first paper across the desk.
“Contract of employment. You’ll be serving as my personal secretary. Dressing according to our company’s bunny girl policy—thankfully, still full of holes. Overdressing will result in a pay cut. Understood?”
Olivia didn’t hesitate. She signed with a dainty, practiced flourish.
“Yes sir.”
The next page slid into place.
“Waiver stating that your employer—me—may call upon you at any time, day or night. You will respond to all calls and execute all tasks as soon as possible. Applies to work hours and off-hours. Understood?”
Pen to paper. Another flowing signature.
“Yes sir.”
Trevor smiled, the edge of amusement curling his lip.
“Final waiver. This one swears you to absolute secrecy regarding everything that happens within this building. No word of it escapes your lips. Not now. Not ever. Are we clear?”
She didn’t even glance down this time.
Scratch.
“Yes sir.”
Trevor gathered the papers into a neat stack and gave her a small, satisfied nod.
“Awesome,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Welcome to the company.”
“I am honored, sir,” Olivia said, beaming with pride. Her ears perked. Her tail twitched. Her voice sounded like syrup and sunshine.
Trevor didn’t dismiss her.
He didn’t need to.
She stood, towering and curvy, posture perfect, smile immaculate. The chair let out a relieved groan as she lifted her massive frame.
Then she turned.
Her skirt barely clung to her hips, riding scandalously high on her thick, bouncing rear as she strutted toward the door. Her heels clicked with practiced rhythm. Every step sent her plump backside swaying hypnotically, her massive chest bouncing in joyous sync, like her body had been trained to celebrate obedience with every motion.
She walked like someone who had won something.
Her smile said she believed it.
And as she reached the door, her voice floated back—soft, chipper, blissfully unaware:
“Thank you again for the opportunity, sir. I’ll be here early tomorrow~!”
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Trevor didn’t look up.
He was already reaching for the next folder.
“Next applicant.”
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Corporate needs you to find the difference between this picture (a mirror) and this picture (a hot bunny girl MILF).
