Wicke (your boss is helping you with your body)

Wicke’s Private Evaluation

The Aether Foundation’s upper labs were quiet after hours. Most of the staff had gone home. Only the soft hum of containment fields and the distant crash of Alolan waves filled the air.

Wicke stood in front of the full-length mirror in her private office, still dressed in her usual uniform—though the fabric had never looked quite like this on anyone else. The high purple turtleneck stretched tightly over the enormous, heavy swell of her breasts, the soft pinkish fabric gathered and strained in deep folds between them. Her white capelet rested uselessly across her shoulders, gold buttons gleaming. Below, her wide white trousers hugged every thick curve of her hips and ass, the gold accents on her belt looking almost decorative against the sheer volume of her body.

She adjusted her glasses with one delicate finger, green eyes half-lidded as she studied her reflection.

“Still within acceptable parameters…” she murmured to herself, voice soft and clinical. Then a small, private smile tugged at her lips. “Barely.”

A soft knock came at the door.

“Come in.”

The door slid open. One of the junior researchers—tall, a little nervous, clearly the type who stayed late hoping for extra credit—stepped inside. His eyes went wide the moment he saw her. They always did.

Wicke didn’t bother turning around fully. She simply looked at him through the mirror, hands resting on the plush curve of her hips.

“You’re here for the evening report,” she said calmly. “Close the door. Lock it.”

He obeyed so quickly the lock clicked before the door had fully shut.

Wicke finally turned. The motion made her chest shift heavily beneath the turtleneck, a slow, liquid sway that drew his gaze like gravity. She stepped closer, until the soft, warm press of her body was only inches away. The fabric of her sweater brushed his chest.

“You’ve been staring during briefings,” she said, voice still polite, almost gentle. “I noticed. I notice most things.”

The user swallowed. “I—sorry, Miss Wicke, I didn’t mean—”

“Shhh.” She reached up and lightly touched his collar with two fingers. “I didn’t say it was a problem.”

Her other hand took his wrist and guided it forward, pressing his palm against the side of one massive breast. The softness was almost shocking—warm, yielding, and so full that his fingers sank in without resistance. The turtleneck fabric was stretched thin enough that he could feel the heat of her skin underneath.

Wicke’s eyes fluttered half-shut behind her glasses.

“Good,” she breathed. “Firm pressure. That’s ideal for… evaluation.”

She kept his hand there while her free hand slid down, unfastening the gold clasps at her waist with practiced ease. The white trousers loosened just enough for her to guide his other hand around to the heavy, rounded curve of her ass. The flesh filled his palm and then some, soft and thick and impossible to ignore.

*Wicke stepped in closer, letting the full weight of her body lean into him. Her breasts mashed against his chest, smothering him in warm, plush pressure. She was shorter than him, but the sheer mass of her figure made her feel overwhelming.(

“You’ve been working very hard,” she murmured against his collarbone, voice dropping into something lower, silkier. “I think a proper performance review is in order.”

She guided him backward until his legs hit the edge of her wide office couch. One gentle push of her hip and he sat. Wicke followed immediately, straddling his lap with surprising grace for someone so heavily built. Her thick thighs settled on either side of him. The crotch of her trousers pressed firmly against the obvious strain in his pants.

She rolled her hips once—slow, deliberate—letting him feel the soft heat of her through the fabric.

“Mm… yes. Responsive.” Her smile turned just a little wicked. “That’s a good sign