Full story (All 10 parts (38 thousand characters) + additional images) in Premium Early Access folder on DeviantArt, on my Patreon page or here:
Check also my shop at DeviantArt for other works
A dull echo rang in his ears. His body felt heavy, as if something were pressing on it from the inside. Tyler tried to blink, but his eyelids wouldn’t obey, and for a moment, he lost control — a sensation of complete helplessness.
And then—
A sudden jolt.
He came to, sitting upright. No, definitely not at home.
A bright monitor screen flickered before his eyes. Open windows: an email client filled with dozens of messages, most with formal subjects like "Q3 Internal Report" and "Meeting Coordination". A calendar notification blinked: Meeting with Mr. Farrell — in 15 minutes. A spreadsheet of financial data was open, the figures precise, perfectly aligned, with a signature at the bottom: Akira Takasaki.
Tyler tried to take a deeper breath, but something was pressing against him from all sides — a light pressure on his shoulders, a strange tension across his back and waist. Even moving his legs felt restricted, held too tightly.
Beneath him was something firm yet covered in smooth material — a narrow office chair, forcing him to sit perfectly straight without any room to relax.
He blinked again, feeling the pressure on his chest with every breath, tight and unfamiliar. When he inhaled just a little deeper, the sensation only grew — too tight, too constricting.
"What the—"
He lowered his gaze and, to his horror, a sharp, breathless gasp escaped his lips:
— Wh-what?..
High. Soft. Not his own.
Breasts.
Barely concealed beneath a thin silk blouse that clung too closely, emphasizing two soft curves that felt disturbingly real with every tiny movement. The fabric stretched slightly with his breath, accentuating both shape and weight, while narrow bra straps pressed into his shoulders, a constant, undeniable reminder.
Tyler parted his lips, trying to breathe more shallowly, hoping to avoid the sensation — but it only made him more aware of it. He could feel every touch of fabric against his skin: the way a snug skirt clung tightly around his hips, restricting his movements, how the sheer stockings stretched over his legs, and the faint chill of metal earrings brushing his earlobes when he moved his head.
"No... This is all wrong..."
He tried to shift, but the skirt wouldn’t allow his legs to spread much, and even leaning forward slightly made the softness on his chest press more firmly against the blouse.
— Miss Akira, be so kind... coffee. For everyone. — The voice crackled from the desk speaker, smooth and lazy, with a barely concealed note of command. — ...and try not to take too long.
There was no irritation in his tone. It was something else. Something too deliberate. Like he was savoring every word, the way he addressed her, as if saying "You're nothing here, and this politeness is just for show."
Tyler flinched, his shoulders tensing instinctively, heart thudding hard in his chest.
"What? Who was that...?"
But then something else flashed through his mind. Suddenly, as if knowledge had been poured directly into his brain: he knew the coffee had to be served in black ceramic mugs with the company logo. He knew how the boss preferred it — no sugar, strong, with a splash of cream. Guests, however, required a different setup: sugar on the side, both white and brown, with cream in small glass pitchers. He knew where the coffee machine was, how to refill it, where the spare pods were stored, even which serving tray to use for the perfect presentation.
He had never known any of this. Yet now, it was as if the information had always been there, as natural as breathing, like he’d done it a thousand times before.
Tyler drew a shaky breath, pulse pounding in his temples. His eyes darted back to the calendar on the monitor: Meeting with Mr. Farrell — in 15 minutes.
Mr. Farrell?
That wasn’t his stepfather.