Instruct Me

 

Brian hated his life.

Twenty-six years old, and he spent forty hours a week in a fluorescent-lit basement laboratory measuring chemical compounds for a pharmaceutical company that didn't know his name. His supervisor—a balding prick named Gerald who took credit for everyone's work—had made it abundantly clear that Brian would never advance.

"You're a good worker," Gerald had said last month, not even looking up from his clipboard. "But the senior positions require travel between facilities. Company car. You'd need a license."

Brian didn't have a license. Brian didn't have three hundred quid for lessons. Brian didn't have anything except a cramped bedsit, a chemistry degree that had led nowhere, and the growing certainty that he'd die in this basement.

But Brian did have access to the Elixir.

Everyone in pharmaceutical circles had heard rumours about it. The pink compound. The transformation drug. Supposedly impossible to synthesize without incredibly rare precursors—precursors that Brian's company happened to stock for an unrelated cardiac medication.

It had taken him three months of careful theft. A gram here. A millilitre there. Logging false wastage reports. Staying late when Gerald left early.

Now he had a full vial.

And a plan.

---

Jim had been Brian's mate since university. Good bloke. Solid. Worked as a driving instructor and had a habit of falling for women who treated him like shit.

His latest girlfriend had just dumped him for a finance bro with a Porsche. Jim was devastated.

Jim also gave free lessons to girlfriends. Everyone knew that.

Brian stared at the pink vial in his bathroom. Such a small thing. The research said the effects wore off after three to four hours. Plenty of time for a lesson. Plenty of time to establish... rapport.

"This is insane," Brian said to his reflection. A tired, forgettable man stared back. Brown hair going thin. Pale skin from too much time underground. The kind of face people looked through, not at.

He thought about Gerald. About the basement. About spending the next forty years measuring compounds for people who would never learn his name.

He drank.

---

The heat hit instantly.

Brian doubled over the sink as fire raced through his veins. His bones cracked—actually cracked, loud pops echoing off the tiles—as his skeleton compressed and reshaped. He was shrinking. Losing mass. His reflection warped and twisted as his shoulders narrowed and his hips flared.

"Oh god—oh fuck—"

His voice climbed. Cracked. Became something breathy and high and feminine.

His jeans sagged off suddenly curved hips. His shirt hung loose over a narrowing torso. But beneath the fabric, everything was reshaping. His ass swelled outward—round, tight, perfect—the kind of ass that existed to be grabbed and spread and fucked. His legs lengthened proportionally, becoming sleek and toned and endless despite his diminished height.

Brian clawed at his chest as two small, perky breasts pushed outward. Not big. Cute. The kind that looked incredible braless under a tight top.

His face was melting. His jaw softened. His lips plumped into a permanent pout—pink and pouty and built for wrapping around cock. His lashes thickened, darkened, fanning out dramatically. His brows arched into perfect bitchy wings.

His hair cascaded down, dirty blonde with that perfect lived-in beach wave, falling past narrow shoulders.

When it finished, Brian looked at his reflection and felt—

Nothing like Brian.

Bree tilted her head, examining the tiny sex doll in the mirror. Five-foot-two of pure fuck. Long legs. Perfect ass. Pouty little mouth. She looked like the kind of girl who'd never worked a day in her life—the kind who got everything handed to her because men were stupid and weak and so fucking easy.

"Hi, gorgeous," she purred to herself. "Let's go ruin someone's life."

She found clothes in Brian's sad little wardrobe—nothing cute, obviously, because Brian had no taste—but she made do. His smallest t-shirt became a crop top tied under her tits. His boxers became tiny shorts rolled at the waist. No bra. No panties. Why bother?

Bree grabbed Brian's phone and headed out.

She had a driving instructor to seduce.

---

Jim opened his door and his brain visibly short-circuited.

Bree could smell his desperation. His loneliness. His pathetic, needy hunger for female attention. It rolled off him in waves, and something inside her—something new, something predatory—responded with satisfaction.

"Hi!" She bounced on her toes, watching his eyes drop to her chest. Perfect. "I'm Bree? Brian's cousin? He said you might be able to help me?"

"I... uh..." Jim's mouth worked uselessly. His nostrils flared slightly as her pheromones hit him—that sweet, intoxicating musk the Elixir produced. "Help with what?"

Bree stepped closer. Let her hand rest on his forearm. Looked up at him through those dramatic lashes.

"Driving lessons," she breathed, making it sound like an invitation to bed. "I'm so bad at driving, Jim. I need someone patient. Someone... hands-on."

His ex had been gone two weeks. Bree could see the hunger in his eyes. The desperate need.

"I could probably fit you in," he managed.

Bree smiled. Slowly. Wickedly.

"I bet you could."

---

The first lesson happened in his car.

Bree was genuinely terrible at driving—jerky with the clutch, nervous at junctions, prone to drifting across lanes. But she made up for it by touching Jim's thigh every time she changed gears. By leaning forward so he could see down her top. By making little gasping sounds whenever she braked too hard.

By the end of the hour, Jim was sweating.

"Same time Thursday?" he asked, his voice strained.

Bree kissed his cheek. Let her lips linger. Let her breath ghost across his ear.

"Can't wait."

She walked home with a new sway in her hips, feeling powerful and predatory and utterly alive.

Three blocks from Brian's flat, the heat started again.

Not the building heat of transformation—the draining heat of it ending. Her bones began to ache. Her skin felt too tight. She ducked into an alley just as the first crack sounded.

Growing. Stretching. Losing curves, gaining mass.

When it finished, Brian was slumped against a brick wall, swimming in clothes that no longer fit, breathing hard.

He felt... wrong. Heavy. Clumsy. Like wearing a meat suit that didn't quite fit right.

"Fuck," he breathed. His voice was too deep. "Fuck, that was..."

He didn't have words for what that was.

But already, some part of him was counting the hours until he could do it again.

---

Thursday came. Brian synthesized another dose at work—easier this time, now that he knew the process—and transformed in the bathroom of a McDonald's near Jim's flat.

The change felt better this time. Faster. More natural. Like his body remembered where it was supposed to go.

Bree emerged from the stall, checked her reflection, and grinned at the bratty little fuck doll staring back.

"Miss me, gorgeous?"

The second lesson was better. Bree's muscle memory was developing—or maybe it was something else, some knowledge that belonged specifically to her. She handled the car more smoothly. Took corners with confidence.

Afterward, in the car park, she kissed Jim properly.

He melted. Absolutely fucking melted. His hands went to her tiny waist and he pulled her into his lap in the driver's seat and she could feel how hard he was, how desperate—

"Bree," he groaned. "Fuck, Bree, I—"

"Shhhh." She ground down against him. "Just feel."

They didn't fuck. Not yet. She wanted him hungry. Starving. So desperate he'd do anything she asked.

But she let him feel. Let him want. Let him understand exactly what he wasn't getting until she decided to give it.

The transformation wore off on the bus home. Brian hunched in the back seat, trying to make himself small as his bones cracked and reshaped, praying nobody noticed.

He spent the night thinking about how good Jim's hands had felt on Bree's waist.

---

The third lesson, she fucked him.

Bree rode him in his bedroom, her tiny body bouncing on his cock, her small tits jiggling with each thrust. She knew exactly what to do—how to roll her hips, how to clench, how to moan his name at the perfect pitch.

"Fuck, Bree—you're so tight—"

"Mmmh, that's it, baby." She planted her hands on his chest, grinding down. "You like this pussy? You like how wet I get for you?"

She was a spinner. A fuck doll. Built to be thrown around and used. And Jim—desperate, lonely, pathetic Jim—was completely under her spell.

"I'll teach you anything," he gasped. "Free lessons—as many as you want—"

"Good boy."

She came twice before he finished. Screaming, clawing, her tiny body shaking apart on his cock.

When it was over, Bree lay beside him, flushed and satisfied, and felt no urge to leave.

Three hours passed.

Four hours.

Five.

She was still Bree.

"Huh," she said softly, looking at her small, manicured hand. "Interesting."

The change finally came at hour six—two hours longer than it should have. Brian gasped back into existence in Jim's bathroom, gripping the sink, his body stretching and cracking into masculine proportions.

He stared at his reflection. Tired. Forgettable. Wrong.

Something had shifted. He could feel it.

Bree was getting stronger.

---

Lesson four. Lesson five. Lesson six.

Each time, Bree lasted longer. Each time, the driving came easier—to her, specifically. She was learning. Growing. Developing skills that belonged to her.

Each time, Brian came back feeling more like a stranger in his own body.

"Parallel parking," he muttered to himself in his bedsit, trying to remember. "She learned parallel parking. How do you... which way do you turn when..."

Nothing. Just fog. The knowledge was there—he could feel it—but it was locked behind a door he couldn't open.

Because it belonged to Bree.

Bree's skills. Bree's lessons. Bree's provisional license.

Brian was just the guy who made the Elixir.

At work, Gerald yelled at him for mislabelling a compound. Brian barely heard it. He was too busy watching the clock. Counting the hours until his next dose.

Until he could be her again.

---

Lesson eight.

Bree didn't even think about changing back.

She was curled against Jim's side, naked and satisfied, his cum still warm inside her. The sex had been incredible—it always was, now that she knew his body like a map. Knew exactly where to touch, how to move, what sounds to make.

"You're amazing," Jim murmured, stroking her hair. "I've never met anyone like you."

"Obviously." She stretched, catlike. "I'm one of a kind."

Six hours passed. Seven. Eight.

Still Bree.

Somewhere deep inside, something that might have been Brian whispered: You need to change back. Work tomorrow. Gerald will notice. You need—

Bree yawned, snuggled closer to Jim, and closed her eyes.

Brian could handle it.

---

He couldn't handle it.

Brian materialized in Jim's bathroom at hour ten—four hours late for his shift. His phone showed seventeen missed calls from work.

Gerald fired him over voicemail.

Brian sat on the cold tile floor, still aching from the transformation, and felt... nothing.

No panic. No despair. Just a strange, hollow relief.

He didn't need that job anymore. Not really. Once he had his license—once Bree had her license—everything would be different.

He'd find something better. Something worthy of her.

He went home, synthesized more Elixir from his remaining supplies, and drank.

---

The changes were lasting longer. Feeling more natural.

Brian surfaced less and less frequently. Sometimes just for a few hours. Sometimes just long enough to realize he'd lost another day—another week—to Bree.

She was taking driving lessons. Fucking Jim. Building a life that had nothing to do with him.

"I passed my test," she announced one morning, admiring the license in her hand. Her license. Her name. Her photo—bratty and gorgeous, pouty lips curved in a smirk.

Brian didn't remember the test. Didn't remember any of it.

But Bree did. And Bree was the one who mattered now.

---

She looked at Jim differently after that.

Not with affection. Not even with hunger. Just... assessment.

He'd served his purpose. Given her what she needed. But now that she had her license, now that she could drive anywhere, be anyone—

What did she need him for?

"We should celebrate," Jim said, pulling her close. "Dinner? My treat? I know this great Italian place—"

"Actually." Bree stepped back. "I'm busy tonight."

"Busy? With what?"

She looked at him—really looked—and saw everything that was wrong. His average face. His average body. His desperate, needy eyes.

Brian had picked him because he was easy.

Bree deserved better.

"With not you," she said sweetly. "Thanks for the lessons, babe. You were... adequate."

She left him standing in his doorway, mouth open, heart breaking.

Bree didn't look back.

---

His name was Tyler.

Six-four. Jaw like a cliff face. Arms that could bench-press her without breaking a sweat. The kind of man who owned rooms just by entering them.

He was leaning against a Range Rover outside a club, watching her approach with predatory interest.

"Nice car," Bree purred. "Yours?"

"Obviously."

No apology. No explanation. Just ownership. Just power.

She liked that.

"I'm Bree."

"I know." He opened the passenger door. "Get in."

She got in.

His hand landed on her bare thigh as he drove—possessive, hot, claiming. Bree shivered. Pressed her legs together. Felt that familiar heat building.

Somewhere, buried deep, a tiny voice that might have been Brian whispered: This wasn't the plan. The license was for a job. For a better life. This isn't—

Tyler's hand slid higher. Bree's breath caught.

"You're going to be fun," he said. Not a question.

Bree smiled. Leaned into his touch.

"You have no idea."

Brian's voice went quiet.

Then silent.

Then gone.

---

She never changed back.

The Elixir had done its work—rewritten her completely, permanently, perfectly. There was no Brian anymore. Maybe there never had been. Just some sad, forgettable man who'd been smart enough to get out of the way.

Bree had Tyler's credit card now. Tyler's penthouse. Tyler's massive cock stretching her out every night while she screamed and came and forgot anything had ever existed before this.

She didn't need a job. Didn't need to drive anywhere. Didn't need anything except Tyler's attention and Tyler's money and Tyler's hands on her body.

Sometimes, late at night, she'd catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror—bratty and gorgeous, pouty lips and perfect eyeliner—and feel a flicker of something. A ghost of a memory. A basement laboratory. A balding supervisor. A life that had been too small, too grey, too boring to survive.

But then Tyler would call her name, and she'd forget.

Bree stretched out on silk sheets, admiring her manicured nails, and smiled.

She had everything she wanted.

She had always deserved everything.

And Brian?

Brian had never been very good at anything anyway.