Middle-aged Walcott The Remote of Transformation chapter 4 by deleted_user

“Let’s make history,” Ethan said, his voice barely a whisper against the hum of his bedroom computer. Mr. Walcott, the king of cul-de-sac curmudgeons, was the perfect subject. Old, cranky, and so set in his ways that a new body would be the greatest existential crisis since his ex-wife left him for a Pilates instructor. Plus, if it went wrong, nobody would miss a guy who wore socks with sandals.

He leveled the Morphisizer. The small green light pulsed, a rhythmic heartbeat of pure, unadulterated science. He took a deep breath, aimed it through the blinds like a sniper rifle, and squeezed the power button.

A beam of violet light, visible only for a split-second, shot out and struck Mr. Walcott square in the back. The effect was immediate and, for a moment, completely silent.

Walcott froze. The stream from his hose dribbled into a growing puddle. He stood perfectly still, his beer bottle forgotten in his hand. Then, his body began to ripple, like a stone dropped into a still pond. The proud beer gut that hung over his waistband seemed to deflate, shrinking back toward his spine. The broad, meaty shoulders pulled inward, the tendons and muscle fibers coiling and tightening. His back arched, forcing his stance into an unnatural, feminine S-curve.

Ethan pressed his nose against the cool glass, his breath fogging the pane. He watched, mesmerized, as the transformation accelerated. The coarse, graying hair on his arms and legs vanished, his skin smoothing out into a porcelain-like canvas. The thick thighs softened, his knees drawing closer together. His hips, a previously non-existent landscape, swelled outward, pushing the fabric of his baggy cargo shorts taut across a newfound, pear-like curve.

The most dramatic changes were still to come. His shirt, a faded "World's Best Dad" tee, began to hang loosely from his frame. His pectorals melted away, the fat and tissue shifting to a point on his chest a little lower than before. A small, firm mound pushed out, then another, growing with the quiet confidence of a time-lapse video of a flower blooming. They grew quickly, pushing against the cotton until they filled out the shirt, giving it a new, ahem, point of interest. They didn’t stop there, either. They continued to blossom until they were a full, voluptuous C-cup. He was a new woman, for sure.

Finally, the change reached his head. His buzzcut hair grew into a cascade of wavy, chestnut-brown locks that fell to her shoulders. Her face, a roadmap of wrinkles and sunspots, smoothed over. The hard jawline softened, the prominent nose shrank, and the thin lips filled out into a pouty, full-lipped mouth. His eyes, now framed by thick lashes, fluttered in confusion.

The transformation complete, a stunning young woman stood in the place of Mr. Walcott. She looked around twenty-five, with an impossibly hourglass figure. Her new body felt foreign. She looked down at herself, a look of pure, unadulterated bewilderment on her face. Her new voice came out in a high, melodic squeak. “What the…?” she said, the words of a man trapped inside the body of a bombshell.

Her mouth opened and closed, unable to process what was happening. She still held the beer bottle in one hand, the nozzle in the other. Ethan watched her, his own mouth agape. He had done it. He had a brand new test subject, but now what?