Chapter 1

The late afternoon sun slanted through the trees in the park, painting long shadows across the path. Fran kicked at a loose pebble, her usual restless energy humming around her even during a lazy walk. She’s always been like that – petite frame holding a surprising amount of kinetic buzz. Five-foot-three of lean lines, short brown hair framing a face that was more cute than conventionally beautiful, barely any curves to speak of beneath her usual band t-shirt and worn jeans. Me? I’m the counterpoint, I guess. Taller, but skinny, lacking any real muscle definition. We’re a pair of averages, blending into the background noise of the world, which suited us just fine.

Then, something glinted near the edge of the grass, half-hidden under a discarded coffee cup lid. It wasn’t just sunlight on dew; it was metallic.

“Hang on,” I said, stopping Fran with a hand on her arm. “What’s that?”

I nudged the lid aside with my shoe. It was a collar. Not a dog collar, though. This was ... different. Thick, maybe an inch-wide band of smooth, matte black leather. The fittings were a heavy-looking, dull grey metal, almost gunmetal, culminating in a solid D-ring right at the front center. It looked serious. Substantial. Not like some flimsy fashion accessory from a mall kiosk. It felt ... intentional.

Fran peered down at it, her head tilted. “Whoa. Kinda intense, right?” She nudged it with her sneaker. “Think someone lost their very kinky pet?”

“Or their very kinky ... not-pet,” I added, a smirk playing on my lips. I bent down and picked it up. It was heavier than it looked, the leather cool and smooth, the metal solid and unyielding. No tags, no identifying marks, nothing. Just this stark, anonymous object radiating a weird sort of ... presence.

“It’s actually kind of ... cool looking,” Fran mused, taking it from me. She ran a finger over the smooth leather, then tested the weight of the D-ring. “Like, hardcore.”

“On you, Fran?” I teased, nudging her shoulder. “The girl who considers spicy nachos an extreme sport?”

She stuck her tongue out at me, a familiar gesture. “Maybe I have hidden depths! Maybe I want to look hardcore.” She examined the clasp mechanism – a sturdy, clicking buckle. “Seriously though, what do you think it is? Movie prop?”

“Feels too real for a prop,” I said, turning it over in her hands. “Maybe custom?” We stood there for a moment, contemplating the strange find. Leaving it felt weird, like abandoning a mystery. Taking it felt ... slightly illicit, maybe?

“Well,” Fran declared, making the decision for us, “finders keepers. It’s too interesting to just leave here.” She tucked it into the depths of her perpetually cluttered tote bag. “Worst case, it’s a weird conversation piece.”

The conversation piece resurfaced later that evening. We were sprawled on my worn couch, the debris of a cheap pizza littering the coffee table, some brain-dead reality show flickering on the TV screen providing background noise. The apartment was our usual comfortable mess – my gaming stuff, her stray art supplies, a general vibe of relaxed chaos. Fran, bored with the show, had retrieved the collar from her bag and was fiddling with it again, the heavy metal clinking softly as she turned it over and over.

“You know,” I said, watching her slender fingers trace the lines of the leather, an idea sparking, mischievous and maybe a little charged. “You keep saying you want to look hardcore. Dare you to try it on.”

Fran looked up, catching my eye. A playful challenge flickered in her gaze. “Oh yeah? Think I can pull it off?”

“Only one way to find out, marshmallow,” I grinned, leaning closer. “Come on. Let’s see your ‘hidden depths’.”

She laughed, a light sound in the room. “Alright, alright, you talked me into it. But you have to put it on me. Make it official.” She turned slightly on the couch, presenting the back of her neck, tilting her head forward slightly to give me access. Her pale skin looked incredibly vulnerable right there, just below her hairline.

My fingers fumbled slightly as I took the collar from her. The cool leather felt strangely potent in my hands now, knowing its destination. I carefully wrapped it around her neck. It was a snug fit, resting right above the delicate bones of her clavicle. The black was stark against her fairness. My knuckles brushed the soft skin of her nape as I fumbled with the buckle. It was surprisingly complex, clicking together with a solid, definitive thunk.

There. It was on.

It changed her look instantly. Added an edge, a severity that was both jarring and ... undeniably intriguing. It drew the eye, highlighting the slender column of her throat.

“Okay,” she said, her voice slightly muffled as she reached up to touch it gingerly. “How do I look? Am I terrifyingly hardcore now?” She turned back to face me, striking a mock-serious pose, one hand on her hip.

Seeing it on her, knowing I’d put it there, sent a weird little thrill through me. It felt transgressive, playful but with a charge underneath. “Yeah,” I chuckled, leaning back, “totally intimidating. I’m shaking in my boots.” Then, carried away by the joke, the image of her wearing the collar, I pointed towards the floor beside the couch. “Now, prove your loyalty, minion. Sit!”

It was meant to be funny. Just banter.

But Fran ... sat.

One moment she was striking a pose, the next her body just ... folded. No hesitation, no conscious decision apparent in her eyes. She simply dropped from the couch onto the rug, legs tucked neatly, looking up at me with an expression that wasn’t playful anymore. It was blank. Confused.

My chuckle died in my throat. The air suddenly felt thick. “Okay,” I managed, my voice sounding a bit thin. “That’s ... uh ... committing to the roleplay, Fran. Very convincing.”

She blinked slowly, looking down at her hands in her lap, then around at the floor, as if trying to figure out how she got there. “I ... huh?” Her brow furrowed. “Matt, that was ... weird. I didn’t ... I didn’t decide to sit.” She shook her head slightly, a flicker of unease in her eyes, but she didn’t elaborate, maybe trying to rationalize it away, dismiss the strangeness. She stayed sitting, looking slightly lost.

My heart started doing a weird, irregular beat. That wasn’t acting. The confusion in her eyes was too genuine. But ... it couldn’t be real, right? Maybe she zoned out, maybe it was a weird reflex? Trying to regain control of the situation, keep it light even though a knot of unease was tightening in my stomach, I pushed the joke, mostly to convince myself it was just a joke. “Good girl,” I said, forcing a grin. “Impressive obedience. How about a bark for your master, hmm?”

Fran opened her mouth, probably to tell me exactly where I could shove my ‘master’ routine. But what came out was, “Woof!”

It was quiet, hesitant, almost bewildered sounding. But unmistakably a bark. Her eyes flew wide the instant the sound left her lips, sheer astonishment warring with a rising tide of fear.

Okay. Not a joke. My forced grin dissolved. Laughter felt impossible now, lodged somewhere in my tight chest. “Jesus, Fran,” I whispered. “You’re really ... you’re really doing this.”

“Matt!” Her voice cracked. She scrambled to her feet, her hands immediately flying to the collar, fingers scrabbling desperately at the buckle I’d fastened just moments before. “Stop it! Stop laughing! This isn’t funny!” Panic flared in her eyes, raw and real. Her breathing quickened. “I didn’t mean to do that! Either time! It just ... it happened! Like my body moved on its own! It won’t come off! Matt, get this fucking thing off me!” She twisted, pulling frantically, but the buckle held firm. “I think ... I think it’s the collar! I think it’s making me obey you! You have to help me!”

Her genuine terror sliced through my own disbelief. This was real. Somehow, impossibly, this strange object was compelling her. Seeing her so distressed, my own confusion curdled into a sharp spike of alarm. “Whoa, hey, Fran,” I said quickly, standing up, holding my hands out in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay, just ... calm down. Seriously, take a deep breath. Calm. Down.”

The effect was instantaneous. And utterly chilling.

Like a switch being flipped, the panic vanished. Her frantic movements ceased. Her ragged breathing smoothed out into slow, even inhales and exhales. The terror drained from her eyes, leaving them wide, pupils slightly dilated, but eerily serene. Her shoulders slumped in sudden relaxation. She lowered her hands from the collar, letting them fall limply to her sides.

“Whoa,” she breathed out, the word soft, almost detached. She looked down at her own now-steady hands, then back up at me, her expression one of profound, unsettling calm. “Matt. That’s ... incredibly weird.”

“What is?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. The room felt unnaturally quiet.

“The calm,” she explained, her voice steady, devoid of the panic that had consumed her seconds before. “You told me to calm down, and ... I just did. Completely. Like ... my brain knows this situation is terrifying. I know I should be freaking the fuck out right now, trying to rip this thing off my neck. But ... I can’t. The feeling just isn’t there. It’s like ... peace. But it feels wrong. Forced.” She touched the collar again, not frantically, but with a strange, detached curiosity. “Okay. So it reacts to commands. Even instinctive ones like ‘calm down’. Wow.” She wasn’t fighting it anymore. The immediate threat felt neutralized by my accidental command, replaced by this imposed serenity that allowed for a disturbing level of analytical thought. She was still Fran, thinking, processing, but the emotional filter of fear had been forcibly removed.

My own mind was reeling, struggling to catch up. Magic? Hypnosis? Some kind of fucked-up alien tech? It didn’t matter what it was. It was real, and it was wrapped around Fran’s neck, keyed to my voice. “Fran...” My voice was shaky. “What the hell is this thing? What do we do?” A cold dread mixed with a strange, unwelcome flicker of ... something else. Power?

She looked at me, her calm gaze unnervingly direct. “I have no idea. But ignoring it isn’t going to work, is it?” She gestured towards the collar. “We need to understand what it does. What are the limits? What kind of commands work?” Her voice was level, logical, the imposed calm overriding natural fear. “Maybe ... maybe we should test it? Carefully. Something simple.”

Testing it felt like playing with fire, but she was right. We couldn’t just pretend it wasn’t happening. My thoughts raced. Simple. Harmless. “Okay,” I agreed, swallowing hard against the dryness in my throat. “Uh ... right. Stand on one leg.”

Instantly, she lifted her left leg, balancing perfectly on her right. There was no conscious effort, just smooth, immediate compliance. “See?” she said, her voice holding a note of pure astonishment beneath the calm. “It just ... happens. My body obeys before my brain even catches up. Wild.”

My pulse hammered against my ribs. This level of control was staggering. “Okay ... um ... talk with a Japanese accent.”

Her eyes widened slightly in anticipation. She opened her mouth, and out came, “Matt-san, zis is tlury, tlury bizarre.” The accent was exaggerated, almost comical, yet flawlessly executed. She covered her mouth, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and something that looked disturbingly like fascination. “Oh my god! I can’t stop! I am thinking in my normal voice, trying to say the words normally, but zey come out like zis! It’s like my vocal cords have been hijacked! How is zat even possibru?” Even through the accent, the sheer wonder and disbelief were palpable.

This was insane. Utterly, terrifyingly insane. And yet ... a dark, insidious part of my brain was starting to whir, connecting dots, seeing possibilities that were both horrifying and intensely stimulating. Fran watched me, her gaze steady, the imposed calm creating a strange feedback loop where she seemed almost receptive to further experimentation, driven by a need to understand the phenomenon controlling her.

The air crackled with unspoken tension. We had crossed some invisible line. Simple tests weren’t enough anymore. We needed to know the depth of this rabbit hole. “Okay,” I said, my voice dropping, becoming rougher. “You can talk normally again. Time to ... see what else it can do.” I met her gaze, the strange calm in her eyes reflecting my own morbid curiosity. “Fran ... let’s try something ... internal. You are now incredibly, overwhelmingly horny.”

The effect wasn’t just physical this time; it felt like I’d dropped a bomb into her psyche. Her balance faltered, her raised leg thudding back to the floor. A sharp, choked gasp escaped her lips. Her eyes widened dramatically, pupils blown wide, fixed on me with sudden, startling intensity. A deep flush bloomed across her neck and climbed her cheeks. She shifted her weight, her hands balling into fists at her sides, then unclenching, her knuckles white. Her breathing hitched, turning shallow and rapid.

“Whoa,” she whispered, her voice low, husky, the accent vanishing completely, replaced by raw, vibrating need. “Matt ... oh my fucking god. That was ... instantaneous. Like ... like you reached inside me and cranked a dial to maximum. One second, calm curiosity ... the next...” She shuddered, a full-body tremor. “It’s ... Jesus, it’s everywhere. This aching, throbbing heat ... centered low, deep inside, but radiating out ... fuck, my nipples are hard, my skin feels hypersensitive...” She squirmed subtly, pressing her thighs together almost unconsciously. “It’s ... so intense. So sudden.”

Witnessing that transformation – the calm mask shattering, replaced by raw, undeniable arousal that I had summoned with a few words – sent a powerful surge straight to my groin. My cock leaped against my jeans, painfully hard. The power was dizzying, terrifyingly seductive.

I had to know more. Had to push deeper. My voice was thick, barely controlled. “And ... you want me to fuck you. Doggy style. More than you have ever wanted anything in your life. You need it.”

Another strangled sound tore from her throat, half-moan, half-whimper. Her eyes glazed over, locking onto mine with a desperate, pleading heat. “Oh god, Matt...” she panted, her hips giving a small, involuntary thrust forward. “Yes. Fuck, yes. Don’t stop ... It’s ... it’s completely consuming. My brain ... it knows, Matt, it knows this is artificial, it knows you just said it ... but it doesn’t make a fucking shred of difference to how it feels!” Her voice was ragged, desperate. “Every single nerve is screaming for it. Screaming for you to grab me, turn me around right now, shove my face into that damn couch cushion and just ... just pound into me like an animal until I can’t see straight, until I forget my own name ... It’s the only thought in my head. Nothing else matters. God, I need it, Matt, please...” She took a shaky step towards me, her body radiating pure, undiluted want – a want she simultaneously understood was manufactured and felt with every fiber of her being. The conflict was visible beneath the surface, a terrifying battle between awareness and compulsion.

The sight of her, the sound of her raw need, the knowledge that I was the source ... it was almost too much. My own control was fraying. But seeing that flicker of her true self struggling beneath the overwhelming command brought a necessary dose of reality. This was dangerous. We were playing with something immense.

“Okay! Okay!” I said, louder than intended, holding up a hand, my own breathing ragged. “Command rescinded! Cancelled! You are not horny. You don’t want doggy style. You’re back to normal ... well, back to calm.”

The change was jarringly swift. The intense flush receded, leaving her skin pale again. Her breathing slowed, evening out. The desperate, glazed look in her eyes cleared, replaced by the familiar, eerie calm, though overlaid now with shock and the ghost of remembered sensation. She blinked rapidly, swaying slightly, looking disoriented as if surfacing from deep water.

“Wow,” she breathed, wrapping her arms around herself tightly, maybe feeling a sudden chill, or perhaps just needing to hold herself together. “Just ... gone. Poof. But ... I remember it. Every second. How intense it felt. The ... the desperation.” She looked at me, her gaze searching mine, the analytical calm doing little to hide the profound disturbance underneath. “That is ... profoundly fucked up, Matt. To feel something that strongly, knowing it isn’t real, but being unable to resist it...”

I nodded numbly, my own arousal slowly, reluctantly receding, leaving behind a residue of guilt, fascination, and lingering excitement. “Profoundly fucked up,” I echoed. We needed to change tack. Something less ... primal. Less directly violating her core desires. An idea, sparked by the way she was holding herself, by my own lingering thoughts about her body, took shape.

“Okay,” I said, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation, over myself. “New direction. Let’s explore ... perception. Fran ... you now find female breasts incredibly attractive. Just as much as I do. Aesthetically, sexually ... you appreciate the curve, the weight, the whole package.”

She frowned, the command settling in. She tilted her head, processing. Then her gaze drifted downwards, towards her own flat chest beneath the band t-shirt. Her expression shifted, becoming thoughtful, curious. A slow, almost surprised smile touched her lips. “Huh.” She looked back up at me. “Okay. Yeah. That’s ... different. Like, intellectually I always understood why guys like them, I guess. But now...” She glanced down again, her gaze lingering. “Now I feel it. The appeal. It’s ... symmetry, softness, symbolism ... it’s just ... hot. Yeah. Wow.” She glanced at the TV, where the buxom reality star was still yelling about something trivial. “Okay, yeah, objectively? Hers are actually kind of amazing,” she admitted, a note of genuine, newfound appreciation in her voice. “I totally get it now.”

This was getting exponentially stranger. Altering fundamental attraction? The implications were dizzying. And then, watching her look down at her own chest with this newfound appreciation, a crazy, impossible, audacious idea slammed into my brain. Could this thing manipulate matter? Could it physically change her? It seemed insane, ripped from the pages of a comic book, but after everything else...

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I met Fran’s calm, curious, newly breast-appreciative gaze. The air felt thin, electric. “Alright, Fran,” I said, my voice hoarse, barely a whisper. “The ultimate test. Let’s see if this thing is more than just ... psychological.” I took a shaky breath. “Grow breasts. Big ones. Full, perfect ... D-cups.”

For a split second, nothing happened. Fran just looked at me, her eyes wide with disbelief at the command. Then, she gasped, a sharp, sudden intake of breath. Her hands flew to her chest, pressing against the fabric of her t-shirt. “Matt!” she choked out, her eyes huge, fixed on her own body. “Oh my god! It’s ... I can feel it! It’s tingling ... like ... like pins and needles, but warm! It’s ... Matt, it’s fucking happening! Holy shit!”

I could only stare, utterly transfixed, my brain refusing to process what my eyes were seeing. Beneath her thin shirt, her chest was visibly ... changing. Swelling. Growing at an impossible rate. The fabric pulled taut, straining against flesh that was undeniably, miraculously expanding outwards, upwards. It wasn’t instantaneous like the mental commands, but it was shockingly fast – a smooth, steady, impossible blossoming of flesh. Fran let out another choked sound, a mixture of bewildered pain and sheer astonishment, arching her back slightly as her hands reflexively cupped the rapidly forming mounds.

Maybe thirty seconds. That’s all it took. Then, as quickly as it started, the sensation, the growth, stopped. She stood there, panting slightly, staring down at herself in stunned silence.

Where moments before she had been virtually flat-chested, now two full, round, perfect D-cup breasts strained against the confines of her t-shirt. They looked impossibly lush, heavy, soft, swaying slightly with her movements. They looked ... incredible. Utterly real, perfectly formed, seamlessly integrated with her body, yet born of impossible magic.

Fran stared down, her mouth slightly open. She slowly, tentatively, reached out and touched one of the breasts through her shirt, then slid her hand underneath, cupping the bare flesh. A shaky laugh escaped her lips, a sound bubbling with pure, unadulterated disbelief and wonder. “Holy. Fucking. Shit,” she breathed. “They’re ... they feel completely real, Matt. Warm ... heavy...” Then, the other command – the appreciation – seemed to fully click in conjunction with the physical reality. Her eyes lit up with a strange, intense combination of shock, excitement, and the mandated attraction now directed at her owntransformed body. “And ... oh my god ... they’re gorgeous! I mean ... wow! Look at them!” She lifted one slightly with her hand, admiring the shape, the fullness, a dizzying mix of owner’s pride and objective aesthetic pleasure swirling in her gaze. “I ... I actually like them. A lot. This is ... this is amazing!” She looked up at me, her eyes shining, reflecting my own stunned disbelief back at me.

My own mind felt short-circuited. It could rewrite her body. Rewrite her fucking body. The implications crashed over me, vast and terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

One last piece. The collar itself. It was the source, but it was also a liability. Stark. Obvious. “Fran,” I managed, my voice still thick with shock. “The collar. Focus on it. Can you ... change its appearance? Make it look like ... like just a simple, thin silver necklace? Something completely unremarkable?”

She tore her gaze away from her new chest, though her hands remained protectively, wonderingly upon them. She frowned in concentration, reaching up with one hand to touch the thick black band at her throat. For a moment, nothing. Then ... a shimmer. Like heat rising off asphalt. The solid black leather seemed to waver, its edges blurring. The dull grey metal fittings seemed to liquify, flowing like mercury. The color drained away, replaced by a bright, clean silver gleam. The entire structure flowed, condensed, reshaped itself until the imposing collar was simply ... gone. In its place, resting delicately against the skin above her new cleavage, was a simple, elegant silver chain. Thin. Unassuming. Perfect camouflage.

“Did it work?” Fran asked, her voice hushed, trying to see it by looking down.

“It worked,” I confirmed, my voice barely audible. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the delicate chain, knowing the unbelievable power it represented, now perfectly hidden in plain sight. “It looks ... completely normal.”

We just stood there for a long moment, the silence in the room thick with the weight of our discovery. The forgotten pizza cooled on the table, the TV show played to an empty room. Fran stood before me, physically transformed, mentally altered, wearing a disguised artifact of impossible power – power that, for reasons I couldn’t begin to fathom, responded to me.

Her imposed calm was still the dominant force, but beneath it, I could see the frantic whirring of her mind, processing the enormity of it all. I saw the echo of the fear, the shock, the dawning understanding, and beneath it all, perhaps mirroring my own chaotic feelings, a terrifying flicker of excitement.

“Matt,” she finally said, her voice soft, but carrying the weight of galaxies. She looked from the innocuous necklace to her impossible breasts, then finally met my eyes. “What the hell have we stumbled onto?”

I didn’t have an answer. My brain felt like scrambled eggs, trying to reconcile the mundane reality of my crappy apartment, the leftover pizza, and the girl I knew so well, with the impossible fact of instantaneous, commanded physical transformation. Magic wasn’t real. Except it apparently fucking was, and it was hanging around my girlfriend’s neck, keyed to my voice.

Fran finally tore her gaze away from her chest and met my eyes. That eerie calm was still there, but underneath it, I saw the frantic spinning of her thoughts, the dawning comprehension of the sheer magnitude of what had just happened. And mingled with the undeniable undercurrent of fear was something else ... curiosity? Excitement? The same toxic cocktail swirling in my own gut.

Then, her focus shifted back downwards. The command I’d given her – to find breasts as attractive as I did – was clearly still active, merging with the shock of her own sudden endowment. A slow, fascinated smile touched her lips. It wasn’t just shock anymore; it was appreciation. Almost ... objective assessment mixed with subjective pleasure.

“I need to ... see them properly,” she murmured, more to herself than to me. Her fingers went to the hem of her worn band t-shirt. My breath hitched. Was she serious? Here? Now?

Apparently, she was. Driven by this strange blend of commanded calm, commanded attraction, and sheer, overwhelming curiosity, she pulled the shirt up and over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it carelessly onto the back of the couch.

And there they were.

Unconcealed. Unbelievable.

Perfectly formed, round, heavy D-cups, pale and creamy against the rest of her slender torso. Her nipples, a delicate pink, were puckered, perhaps from the cool air, perhaps from lingering arousal, perhaps just part of their new default state. They looked ... stunning. Absolutely fucking stunning. They didn’t look fake or bolted on; they looked like they belonged there, like she’d always had them, perfectly proportioned to her frame despite their generous size, swaying slightly with the movement of her pulling off the shirt.

My mouth went dry. My cock, which had only just begun to settle down, surged back to painful hardness against the zipper of my jeans. This was Fran. My Fran. But ... enhanced. Impossibly, magically enhanced.

Fran herself seemed utterly captivated. She reached out, her movements slow, deliberate, almost reverent. Her fingertips traced the curve of one breast, then the other. She cupped them, testing their weight, a soft gasp escaping her lips.

“Wow,” she whispered, her voice thick with wonder. “They feel ... amazing. So soft, but heavy ... substantial.” She squeezed gently, watching the flesh yield, then bounce back. Her gaze was intense, analytical, yet undeniably ... turned on. It was the strangest fucking thing I’d ever seen. She wasn’t just looking at her new body part with detached curiosity; she was looking at them with the same appreciative, almost predatory gaze I might have directed at a particularly stunning pair on someone else. The command had literally altered her perception to mirror mine, and now she was applying it to herself.

“Look at the shape,” she murmured, turning slightly, examining them from the side. “Perfect teardrop. And they sit so high...” She ran a finger around one nipple, and I saw it pebble even harder under her touch. A shiver ran through her. “Fuck, Matt ... they’re actually ... really fucking hot.”

She sounded like ... well, like me. Or any guy suddenly gifted with a perfect rack they found intensely desirable. There was a cognitive dissonance there that was almost comical, overshadowed only by the sheer, raw eroticism of the situation. She was appreciating her own tits with the objective lust of an admirer.

She started playing with them more boldly now, kneading the soft flesh, lifting them, jiggling them slightly, watching the movement with rapt attention. “It’s like ... I finally get it,” she said, glancing up at me, her eyes bright with this strange, mandated appreciation. “Why guys are so obsessed. They’re just ... inherently fucking sexy, aren’t they? Visually, texturally...” She trailed off, her attention drawn back to her own exploration, a faint flush rising on her chest.

Watching her, my girlfriend, standing half-naked in my living room, mesmerized by her own magically-induced D-cups, touching herself with a mixture of scientific curiosity and genuine, command-fueled lust ... it overloaded every circuit in my brain. The sight of her pale, soft skin, the impossible fullness of her new breasts, the way her nipples hardened under her own touch, the sheer wrongness and yet utter hotness of it all ... it was too much.

Control frayed. Caution evaporated. The intoxicating sense of power, dormant for only a few minutes, surged back with overwhelming force, fueled by the undeniable proof of its physical capabilities. I wanted her. Not just Fran. I wanted this Fran, the one standing before me, a living, breathing testament to the collar’s – to my – power. And I wanted to push it further.

My voice came out low, rough, thick with resurrected desire. “Fran.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes locking onto mine. The calm serenity was still there, but beneath it, the mandated appreciation for her own form had clearly stoked something.

“You thought you were horny before?” I asked, my voice a predatory purr. “You were wrong. Right now ... you are hornier than you have ever been in your entire life. An absolute, all-consuming flood of need. It washes over everything else.”