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New Release: Transformed and Auctioned

Changed for the better and no going back…

Cole, an unsuspecting college student, is about to dive head-first into the adventure of a lifetime. An seemingly ordinary trip to the museum takes a sudden turn when he learns about a mysterious auction and a powerful organization made up entirely of sexy futa women. His curiosity is going to do more than land him in hot water when he finds a strange, ancient artifact that changes him into a her!

Now he’s playing a much bigger role in the auction, and there’s a sultry MILF futa determined to take Cole for her own. What’s really going on at the museum? Can Cole change back to normal? Or by the time the futa’s had her way with him, will he even want to?

This 6900 word, futa-on-female, gender swap, transformation, oral, masturbation, interracial, older/younger, magic, first time erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!

afm-transformed-and-auctioned-cover


“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking at for this one.”

Barry chuckles. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it. I was being completely serious, though. The painting in question is a Dalí painting that’s apparently depicting Narcissus, an early example of the type of personality that takes way too many selfies. According to the Greek myth, the gods punish him by turning him into a flower. Which is kind of extreme, if you ask me. If it were me, I would have given the guy a chance to get his shit together but being sensible is not on the job requirements of being a Greek god.

Barry, the only other non-artist in Art History 3B, nudges me in the side as if I wasn’t already paying more attention to him than the tour.

“That’s him on the left.”  His voice is hovering above a whisper, but it’s fine because our tour guide’s voice is like a droning airplane engine. “He’s sitting butt-ass naked in the water.”

I squint. “So where’s his face?”

“It’s… that rock-looking thing. With the hair.”

“Why is his face a rock?”

“Symbolism, dude.”

“Symbolism of what?”

I hear our guide clear his throat. I clamp my mouth shut when I see that he’s looking right at me, but it’s too late.

“Would you like to take over from here, sir?”

Several of my classmates turn in my direction and I feel my cheeks turn a deep red. I hate being called out in public.

“Nope,” I say, a little too loud. “Sorry, sir. Just discussing the painting. We uh… think it’s pretty cool.”

I see and feel the rolling of a dozen eyes and my old hate for general education requirements comes back like a friend who’s overstayed their welcome on your couch.

The tour guide, an old guy who’s probably one of the few people I can take in a fight, settles back into his regularly-scheduled lecture. Barry leans in and says in a perfect impression, “Geez, Cole, seriously, do you want to take over from here?”

I bite back a laugh, which probably looks like I’m trying really hard to not go to the bathroom in my pants. Thankfully, we leave Dalí and Narcissus behind, and

That’s when I hear the clacking of several pairs of heels on the tiled museum floor. I’m surprised to see a large group of women–make that attractive women, all in skirt suits like they were here for a MILFs of Business convention–walking down the hallway, coming where we’re leaving.

I elbow Barry, and nod my head in their attention. His eyes widen.

“Too bad we’re not in their group, huh?”

“Wanna go check out where they’re going?”

He scoffs. “And miss out on the wealth of knowledge we’re receiving?”

The group of women pass by our group of bright-eyed college students. Now that they’re closer, I can see I wasn’t wrong about their physical beauty. Gorgeous women of all colors, enough to make me forget even the hot girls in class. Although something else they all share is this stone-faced, tight-lipped look. I get the image of a shark tank busted open in my mind.

It doesn’t deter me. I lag behind the rest of my group as the women pass us by.

Barry is incredulous. “You’re serious?”

The only answer I give him is a smile as I walk slower and slower.

Barry shakes his head and gives me a little salute that says ‘you’re in this one alone, buddy.’ Which is fine by me. I can give him the play-by-play later.

I turn and quicken my pace, and since I don’t hear anyone asking me where I think I’m going I can only guess mission accomplished. I try not to follow the MILF convention too closely, but something tells me they’re not going to care much about an unassuming college boy at an art museum. Skirt suits become my new favorite item of clothing as I follow them. There’s nothing else on Earth that accentuates a nice ass quite as well.

Their route takes them past the surrealists, the abstract-expressionists, and the pop artists, near the back of the museum. They make a beeline for a door, and I pretend to stop and admire some photos of sculptures done by a guy named Oldenburg. In my peripheral vision, I see them file one-by-one through the door. I’m sweating bullets, but I don’t think they’ve even looked in my direction.

Eventually, they’re all gone and temptation presents me with another choice. To go through the door or to not go through the door?

It’s gotten me this far.

I probably do the world’s worst job of sneaking as I make my way to the door. Sometimes it helps being so plain and normal. I’m surprised to find the door isn’t locked, and when I open it, I’m met with a stairwell descending into the dark. I think about how the smart decision would be to text Barry, find out where the group went, and hustle my ass over there so I can sponge up more info that’ll “surely be on the exam.”

And then I go down the stairs.

 

I wonder if every museum has a secret basement.

It’s like a whole other building underground, and as I walk down the dimly-lit hallway I pass by several branching ones. The path takes several turns. Thankfully, it’s straightforward route for all of its twists.

I don’t know where the ladies went, and I’ve lost even the click-clack of their heels. But since I’m down here, I might as well follow the yellow brick road to its end. Besides, if I get caught, what’s the worst that could happen? I’m white, I’ll probably just receive a slap on the wrist.

I hold my ear up against every door I encounter, but I don’t hear any indications of life down here. I shudder at my poor word choice. What am I expecting? Zombies?

The further I go down the hall, the more I hear this faint, rhythmic murmur. I think it’s a woman. The way the voice is talking, the more familiar it sounds. Not like I know who’s speaking, but just the way they’re talking. It’s this long, drawn-out jumble of words. A disembodied voice should really be giving me the creeps down here, but it’s almost reassuring.

Are they rapping? I swear, if I’ve followed a secret cabal of MILF rappers, then I’ll know I’m dreaming.

I spot a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. They’re partly open, and I can see light streaming out from the crack. That’s where the voice is coming from, I’m sure of it. I don’t see any shadows moving behind the door, so I walk right up to it and peek inside. My jaw drops.

There’s an entire auditorium down here. There are probably fifty or so rows of seats, but only the first few rows are filled up. I see a good number of balding heads, men in dark suits, and yes, the women from earlier. Up on the stage is a woman, and I realize I should slap myself for being so dumb. The rhythmic speaking she was doing was that of an auctioneer. There’s a statue of a nude woman next to her, and I see some of the ladies bidding on it.

I wonder if the museum sanctions these private auctions all the time. The rich have to buy them from somewhere, right?

Just then, three figures get up from their seats and start walking towards me.

I back away from the door, and without thinking, disappear behind the closest door. I can only hope it’s not a bathroom they were planning on using.

Closing the door behind me, I’m in shock again. The room is filled with large cubes, all of them covered in something that looks like a giant velvet tablecloth.

What really has my attention is the art piece at the far end of the room. It’s a sculpted woman the size of my arm, and she’s made entirely of gold. I feel myself drawn to it. I find myself unable to think of anything else but getting a better look at this thing. It’s on a podium, but there’s no glass case on it or anything. It’s so exposed. As I get closer–I don’t remember walking towards her–I see that she’s nude. Her eyes, nipples, and belly-button are embedded with some kind of tiny red jewel.

Is she singing? I don’t hear the auctioneer anymore, and the longer I stare, the more it seems like the sculpture is growing and becoming more life-like. I can’t tear my gaze away from her, and to my amazement, she holds out her hand to me. She has a golden smile on her face, and I don’t feel lust towards her. Instead, I feel like I’m coming home. I reach for her, and take her shining palm in mine.

The next moments are like a thousand different movie clips playing in succession.

I am in a small room, surrounded on all sides by that giant velvet tablecloth.

The walls dissolve, and I’m on the stage, grasping at metallic bars. The audience is looking at me, and they’re hungry. Their smiles are lecherous, but none more so than the group of ladies. One of them, an exotic-looking woman with brown skin and jet-black hair raises a numbered paddle. She’s bidding on me. She has the gaze of a shark.

The walls return, plunging me into darkness. I am wheeled away to the sound of polite applause.

I blink awake on a hard floor.  I’m in a different room now. It looks like someone’s office. There’s a lounge chair, several bookcases lining the walls, and an expensive-looking desk. I also realize I’m in a giant cage. I jump up to the door, and I try to force it open, but it’s locked down tight. My breathing quickens to the pace of a marathon runner, as it sets in just how much trouble I’m in. They’re a cult. They have to be. They’re looking for human sacrifices and I walked right into their trap. What the hell did I expect to happen, following those women? What is this, a porno?

There might be more people like me. More captured idiots.

“Hello?” I call out. And I gasp.

My voice.

I sound like a woman.

I back away from the cage door and look down.

It turns out I have a new set of breasts.

Liked it so far? Read the rest of the story here (for FREE with Kindle Unlimited)!

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