Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, tugging lightly at the end of her auburn ponytail. Tight, neat, acceptable. Her lab coat�"mandatory�"sat just so on her shoulders. Beneath it, the cream blouse and dark green slacks murmured sensible, while the blush patent leather belt and gold-tipped flats winked their small rebellion. Gold stud earrings, slim watch, a dab of coral polish on her nails. Professional, precise, but with a whisper of "I understand how textures interplay, thank you very much."

At eighteen, Bertha had opted out of high school early�"diploma pending, relevance dubious�"after snagging her position at The Changegrounds: Free Trial, a low-stakes suburban outpost of the sleeker downtown flagship. Where the main Changegrounds gleamed with smoked glass walls and marketing budgets the size of small countries, this one crouched between a dry cleaner and a vape emporium called Vapor Vader. But no matter. Here, reality edits were dispensed like samples at a grocery store�"first taste free, permanence negotiable.

Bertha didn’t know the mechanics of the tech, not in the granular sense. Nobody did, really. The crystal arrays pulsing behind sealed panels worked on a level that company training slides breezily called “quantum-cognitive harmonics.” Mostly, her job was to smile and spin the dial.

A chime rang from the front. Bertha rose, tugged her coat into alignment, and stepped briskly into the waiting room.

“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she chirped, clipboard at the ready. “Let me see… Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”

The taller woman nodded. “That’s us.”

Camille, mid-thirties, dressed like she'd fallen out of a curated alt-fashion blog: dark plum lipstick, sharp bob, cropped wool jacket over a vintage band tee. Her boots made sharp, deliberate noises on the laminate flooring. She eyed the ficus in the corner suspiciously, as though expecting it to sprout a surveillance lens.

Bertha turned to Nicolle. Mid-forties, pale blue button-down, sensible black jeans. Blonde hair clipped back, minimal makeup. The tote bag on her shoulder emitted an occasional, polite jangle. Nicolle’s aura radiated "I volunteer for the bake sale" with forcefield consistency.

“I’m excited,” Nicolle said brightly, a touch too loud. “I mean, my friend said this place is amazing. She said she felt like a different person after. Can’t imagine!”

Bertha smiled politely and gestured for them to follow her down the corridor. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered like coy ghosts. Nicolle chatted incessantly about her daughter Judy, about PTA fundraisers, about how weirdly angled the strip mall parking spaces were. Camille, arms folded, followed in silence, her boots announcing her skepticism every few steps.

Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha motioned for Nicolle to step into the chamber. The door hissed shut with a padded finality. Across the hall, in the Command Room, Bertha brought the console to life. Monitors blinked, and Nicolle’s profile populated: forty-one, sales rep, suburban home, married eighteen years, daughter seventeen (Judy). Fairly middle-aisle.

Camille leaned in over Bertha’s shoulder, uninvited but unsurprised. “So, what’s the deal? We give her a glow-up or what?”

Bertha tilted her head thoughtfully. Her finger tapped against the edge of the console, nails ticking in rhythm. “Camille, you said she always plays it safe. Cardigans and polite smiles. Sales meetings and lasagna nights.”

“Oh yeah,” Camille smirked. “Nicolle’s basically a walking coupon organizer.”

Bertha’s gaze sharpened. An idea unfurled. She tapped into the command field deliberately, fingers poised. “Let’s push it further than a style update, then. Let’s give her a personal brand. Something confident, unapologetic, a little… panoramic.”

Camille perked up. “Panoramic?”

Bertha smiled faintly. “You’ll see.”

She typed in two modifications in sequence. The first was clean and brisk:
SEXUALITY ALIGNMENT �" ORIENTATION: LOUD PROUD BISEXUAL (STEREOTYPICAL PARAMETERS ENABLED)

The second took longer to phrase, mostly because the prebuilt presets were less obliging:
OCCUPATIONAL ROLE �" TITLE: OFFICE BISEXUAL
PRIMARY RESPONSIBILITIES: PROVIDE SENSUAL OUTLET BISEXUAL CULTURAL AMBIENCE FOR SALES TEAM. DELIVERATION OF FLIRTATIOUS BANTER, AMBIGUOUS DOUBLE ENTENDRES, AND OCCASIONAL CHOREOGRAPHED CHAIR DANCES DURING QUARTERLY REPORTS.

Bertha squinted at the responsibility matrix, shrugged minutely, and hit EXECUTE.

The chamber shimmered, rippled like heat haze, and cleared.

Nicolle stood exactly where she had, but everything else about her had detonated into existence with the confident inevitability of a Pride float on a Sunday morning.

Her pale blue button-down and jeans had been replaced with a form-fitting silk blouse�"lavender with iridescent sheen, plunging neckline teasing tasteful cleavage�"and black high-waisted slacks that hugged her hips with architectural precision. A bisexual flag pin (pink-purple-blue) gleamed on her lapel like corporate bling. Her hair cascaded in tousled waves, streaked subtly with rose gold. Her makeup: sharp cat-eye, raspberry gloss, shimmering highlight that caught every fluorescent flicker.

But more than clothing had shifted. Her posture was expansive. Hips cocked, shoulders relaxed but commanding, grin confident and playful. She exuded an air of “I flirt equally with your husband and your wife and neither of us are confused about it.”

Camille made a strangled noise. “Oh my god.”

Bertha, calm as ever, clicked her pen against the clipboard. “She’s Nicolle Taylor, Office Bisexual now. She coordinates flirt breaks between cold calls. Leads bi visibility trivia on Wednesdays. The sales team holds informal contests to see who can get the most compliments from her during client onboarding.”

The monitors updated fluidly. Nicolle’s LinkedIn now read:
TITLE �" OFFICE BISEXUAL, TAYLOR WRIGHT SOLUTIONS
CORE SKILLS: EMOTIONAL AMBIGUITY, CHARMING EVERYONE, MAKING TUESDAYS SEXY AGAIN

HR memos retroactively flickered into existence on-screen:

gt; To: All Staff
gt; Subject: Bi Weekly Bisexual Briefings (Yes, the pun is intentional. Nicolle insisted.)

Inside the chamber, Nicolle slid a hand down her own waist appreciatively and pivoted on one heel, executing a flawless over-the-shoulder wink. The cherry-red bangles on her wrist jingled as she finger-gunned at an imaginary coworker. The gleam in her eye wasn’t just mischief�"it was institutionalized seduction, with an expense code.

Camille laughed helplessly, one hand to her mouth. “This is ridiculous.”

Bertha’s smile remained faint, steady. “She’s the undisputed queen of quarterly mixer karaoke. She can recite bisexual lighting history from memory. Her desk is decorated with framed fan art of David Bowie, Janelle Monáe, and an inexplicably shirtless Jeff Goldblum.”

Camille wiped her eyes. “Oh, Nicolle. You absolute maniac.”

In the chamber, Nicolle did a slow, deliberate shimmy as though summoning an invisible audience to imagine the possibility of consensual after-hours networking.

Bertha clicked her pen again. “Nine changes left,” she said evenly. “Shall we continue?”

Bertha tapped the tip of her pen thoughtfully against her clipboard, eyes narrowing with analytical calm as she observed Nicolle through the chamber’s tempered glass.

“Yes… confident, engaging, culturally expansive,” she murmured under her breath. “But perhaps she could stand to dial in a touch more workplace polish. A gloss of executive acumen to offset the… chair dancing.”

Camille, still hovering beside the console, frowned slightly. “She’s already a lot, Bertha. I mean�"she looks like she just got promoted to VP of Making HR Nervous.”

Bertha didn’t glance up. Her focus was laser-fine, fingers already skating across the keyboard again. “Professionalism and sexuality aren’t mutually exclusive, Camille. Balance is key. Gravitas, but with just enough sultry undercurrent to make quarterly earnings reports feel like forbidden foreplay.”

“I… don’t think anyone has ever said that sentence before.”

Bertha was already deep in the modification fields.

ADJUSTMENT PROTOCOL: PROFESSIONALISM + 45%
ADJUSTMENT SUBFILTER: EXECUTIVE PRESENCE �" CONFIDENT, AUTHORITATIVE, DECISIVE
ADJUSTMENT SUBFILTER: SEXUALIZED TINT �" SMOLDERING, POWERFUL, UNASSUMINGLY DOMINANT
NOTE: KEEP EXISTING "OFFICE BISEXUAL" PARAMETERS INTACT. INTEGRATE.

With a clean, precise breath, Bertha hit EXECUTE.

Inside the chamber, the air shimmered again, thick and refracted, like the atmosphere in a courtroom where everyone knows the judge moonlights as a burlesque MC. Nicolle stood serenely still, unaware of the reality swirling around her like re-coded static.

When the shimmer cleared, the effect was… surgical.

Her iridescent lavender blouse had upgraded itself into a sharply tailored double-breasted blazer�"deep plum, nipped in at the waist, with silk lapels that caught the light subtly. Underneath, a champagne silk camisole with a plunging neckline sat just shy of scandalous but squarely within "executive discretion." Her slacks had straightened their silhouette into high-waisted, tapered cigarette pants, hemmed just so to showcase sleek, oxblood stilettos with gold accents.

A slim silver chain gleamed at her throat, its pendant a minimalist bi-colored triangle�"corporate jewelry with coded pride. Her makeup deepened by mere degrees: matte plum lips, sculpted cheekbones, brows that arched with effortless command. Her nails were now buffed, almond-shaped, painted a muted mauve that whispered "I negotiate contracts with this hand and caress with the other."

Most notable of all was her bearing. Nicolle now radiated poised precision. Her hips no longer cocked jauntily�"they aligned with clean, centered confidence. Shoulders back, chin lifted, gaze calm but lidded, as if assessing everyone around her for both market viability and bedroom compatibility. Her smile was subtle, a hint of upturned lips that suggested she’d already closed the deal and was simply letting you feel like it had been your idea.

Bertha, satisfied, sat back slightly. “There. Now she’s professional.”

Camille, arms crossed, eyebrows knitting in visible unease, stared at Nicolle. “That’s not professional. That’s�" that’s terrifying. She looks like she runs a bi-themed private equity firm and seduces the CFO during merger talks.”

“She leads client presentations with her legs crossed perfectly at the ankle and a knowing smirk,” Bertha intoned with faint pride. “Her business cards are thick, matte, and scented faintly with sandalwood and black cherry. She doesn’t take notes�"people volunteer to take them for her, in hopes of a compliment that will sustain them for a fiscal quarter.”

Camille’s lips parted in wordless protest.

Bertha clicked her pen crisply. “Her title hasn’t changed. Office Bisexual. But now she has a minor in Executive Seduction Strategy. She mentors junior staff in assertive ambiguity. She gets invited to every boardroom retreat and nobody’s sure if it’s for her insights or her smirk. Probably both.”

Inside the chamber, Nicolle casually adjusted the cuff of her blazer with a practiced roll of her wrist, like a woman who knew six ways to dismantle a quarterly report and three ways to unfasten a belt without breaking eye contact. Her gaze flicked sideways, unreadable, confident.

Camille exhaled slowly, dragging her hand down her face. “Bertha, this is messed up. She doesn’t even know what’s happening. You’re turning my cousin into some… some HR violation with a LinkedIn Premium subscription.”

Bertha didn’t react, except for a calm, almost impassive tilt of her head. “She remains fully compliant with workplace guidelines. Technically.”

“Technically?”

“She hosts quarterly ‘Lunch Learn’ seminars on inclusive flirting etiquette. The slides are color-coded and evidence-based.”

Camille blinked hard. “You’re deranged.”

Bertha, unfazed, made another neat note on her clipboard.

“Nine changes left,” she reminded, her tone breezy and infallible. “Would you like to suggest the next one? Or shall I continue optimizing?”

Inside the chamber, Nicolle clasped her hands loosely behind her back, feet planted perfectly shoulder-width apart, smile just sharp enough to slice through procurement negotiations.

The lights flickered again overhead, as though reality itself were pausing to fan itself discreetly.

Bertha’s pen hovered midair. Her pupils shrank slightly, the way they always did when an idea unfolded itself, long and iridescent, inside her mind. She set the clipboard down gently, fingers flexing once in quiet anticipation.

“You know,” she said, more to herself than to Camille, “we could refine this even further.”

Camille, whose arms had tightened into a visibly defensive fold, exhaled sharply through her nose. “Bertha. No.”

Bertha ignored her, the way a sommelier ignores someone asking if boxed wine is fine. Her fingers danced over the console keys again with crisp exactitude.

ADJUSTMENT PROTOCOL: PROFESSIONALISM + 200% (MAXIMUM THRESHOLD OVERRIDE)
ADJUSTMENT SUBFILTER: EXTREME EXECUTIVE COMPETENCE �" TOTAL CORPORATE OMNIPOTENCE
ADJUSTMENT SUPPLEMENT: SEXUALIZED PRESENCE + 300% (EXPERIMENTAL PARAMETER ENGAGED)
NOTE: INTERLACE ATTRIBUTES. NICOLLE MUST BE BOTH UNIMPEACHABLY PROFESSIONAL AND PHYSICALLY INCANDESCENT WITH SMUTTY AURA.

A warning blinked across the console:

gt; Caution: Parameter Overlap May Produce Unintended Hyperreality Artifacts

Bertha clicked past it with clean efficiency.

EXECUTE.

Inside the chamber, the shimmer came harder this time, denser and deeper, like molasses bending light through a boardroom window tinted with lust.

Camille took a half-step back involuntarily. "Okay, nope. This is black magic now."

When the shimmer dissolved, what remained was no longer merely Nicolle as she had been. What stood there was an entity that would, in lesser ages, have been called an avatar of paradox �" a saint of synergy, a demigod of duality.

Her blazer had evolved: matte obsidian, cut so razor-sharp the lapels looked capable of slicing through nondisclosure agreements. Subtle pinstripes shimmered in alternating shades of metallic lilac and sapphire, a quiet homage to bisexual pride encoded directly into textile weave. Gold cufflinks winked on her sleeves, tiny embossed ampersands �" "both/and," not "either/or."

Beneath the blazer, her camisole had vaporized into a silk harness situation: fine, strappy, intricate geometry that technically covered everything legally required, yet drew the eye in precise architectural pathways across her cleavage like a blueprint of temptation approved by the Securities and Exchange Commission.

Her slacks had streamlined further �" they were now a second skin of black stretch satin, clinging lovingly to every contour while remaining, somehow, impeccably business-appropriate. Her stilettos had grown into knife-edged stilettos that looked like they’d been engineered in collaboration with NASA and an upscale dominatrix.

Her hair, impossibly glossy, cascaded over one shoulder in a waterfall of soft waves that gleamed with understated streaks of periwinkle and fuchsia. A small, diamond-studded Bluetooth earpiece perched discreetly in her left ear. Her nails had elongated ever so slightly, perfectly almond-shaped, painted a mirrored chrome gradient that shifted depending on her angle of authority.

Her face… her face had achieved something nearly metaphysical. Cheekbones sculpted like fiscal cliffs. Lips painted a deep oxblood, the finish somewhere between velvet and litigation. Her gaze�"steady, cool, impossibly seductive�"suggested she could simultaneously negotiate a cross-border merger and dismantle you emotionally over espresso.

But most impossibly, her energy… her aura…
It vibrated on two simultaneous channels:

Channel One �" Supreme Corporate Dominance. The woman who arrives at meetings exactly on time because she’s already mentally won the meeting. Who holds five patents and three lovers, and files expense reports so flawless auditors blush and look away.

Channel Two �" Walking, unapologetic, nuclear-grade smut. Every gesture was infused with raw, almost gravitational sensuality. When she clasped her hands behind her back, it wasn’t just attentive professionalism�"it was a coded gesture implying knowledge of advanced rope techniques. When she tilted her head in polite consideration, it wasn’t merely curiosity�"it was an unspoken invitation to a boardroom rendezvous that would leave nondisclosure agreements smoking in their folders.

Camille made a strangled wheeze and staggered one step sideways, like she’d been physically buffeted by the sheer psychic wattage radiating from Nicolle.

“What,” Camille hissed through clenched teeth, “the actual hell is this? She looks like… like a bisexual CEO of PornHub’s legal department. Or… like she gives TED Talks about how to ethically sleep with your subordinates while outperforming Q4 projections.”

Bertha folded her hands serenely behind her back, echoing Nicolle’s posture perfectly. “Exactly. She’s maximized. She now generates passive revenue streams simply by walking past open-plan workspaces. Analysts try to interpret her blouse as a candlestick chart.”

“She’s an HR neutron bomb,” Camille choked.

“Her onboarding packet comes with a complimentary silk blindfold and an options trading guide.” Bertha’s tone remained utterly bland, almost reverent.

Inside the chamber, Nicolle�"still blissfully unaware of any shift�"adjusted her blazer’s lapels with meticulous, sensual precision, then smoothly crossed one leg over the other. The motion was so fluid, so innately powerful, that somewhere abstractly distant a regional manager spontaneously confessed an embezzlement just from feeling her shift in posture.

The monitors flickered, updating:

TITLES (CURRENT):
�" OFFICE BISEXUAL
�" EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT OF STRATEGIC DESIRE
�" CHIEF SYNERGY OFFICER, EROTIC OPERATIONS DIVISION

CORE COMPETENCIES:
• PowerPoint (Advanced, Sensual Animations Enabled)
• Contract Law (With Smoldering Subtext)
• Erotic Small Talk During Annual Reviews

A new HR document flickered into being:

gt; Nicolle Taylor is authorized to issue both employee commendations and consensual innuendo simultaneously. All interactions to be considered performance-enhancing stimuli.

Bertha tapped her pen once against her clipboard, satisfied.

“Nine changes left,” she reminded gently.

Camille, pale and visibly perspiring, gripped the doorframe with one hand. Her voice came out a strained rasp.

“Bertha. If you touch that console again, I swear to god I’m calling OSHA. Or a priest. Or both.”

Bertha only smiled faintly, the curve of her lips clinically precise. She didn’t deny it.

Inside the chamber, Nicolle’s eyes half-lidded in patient amusement, as though she were waiting for someone�"anyone�"to bring her the quarterly synergy report… or to remove their tie for her approval. Either, really. She was professionally prepared for both.

Camille gripped the doorframe harder, knuckles whitening as her breath came shallow and fast. Her gaze locked on Nicolle, who now stood motionless in the chamber�"serene, poised, radiating weaponized competence and curated eroticism like a living executive suite mood board.

And then Camille twitched.

Not a big movement. Just a sharp little hiccup, like a hiccup in gravity localized directly in her spine. She blinked rapidly, mouth parting as a visible ripple rolled through her shoulders, then sank invisibly into her chest.

Bertha, without urgency, flipped calmly to a new page on her clipboard.

“Ah,” she said, as though noting the weather had turned slightly breezy. “Ripple effect. Expected.”

“What�"” Camille’s voice cracked, her hand jerking up instinctively to her own throat as though her vocal cords felt different. “What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing to you directly,” Bertha said evenly. “But reality-editing carries soft adjacency propagation. Think of it like social gravity. Nicolle’s current loadout requires an infrastructural ecosystem to function plausibly. As her proximity contact, you’re being… contextualized.”

Camille staggered one step back. Her boots scuffed the cheap carpet�"and abruptly, they weren’t boots anymore.

They were still dark, still leather�"but sleeker now. Streamlined, pointed-toe pumps with a polished finish. Her cropped wool jacket shimmered imperceptibly and straightened itself into a charcoal-gray blazer: modern cut, single-button closure, subtly cinched waist. Her graphic tee blurred, colors bleeding like wet ink, resolving into a midnight-blue silk blouse with a modest v-neck and tiny mother-of-pearl buttons.

Her distressed black jeans tidied themselves without ceremony. Loose threads vanished; denim darkened into tailored black slacks, crisply pressed. The leather crossbody bag melted into a structured leather briefcase, bisected with a thin lavender stripe.

Her posture corrected itself sharply. Spine straightened, shoulders back, chin tipped upward five precise millimeters.

Bertha tilted her head. “Stage one complete: You’re now employed at Nicolle’s company.”

Camille’s brow furrowed�"but her lips parted slightly, distracted, as if she were suddenly recalling details from a work orientation she’d never actually attended. “Wait… didn’t I… I already submitted my Q1 client metrics last week? The Marston account closed ahead of schedule…”

“Precisely,” Bertha said, jotting a neat tick mark on her form. “Stage two initiating. You report directly to Nicolle, naturally.”

Camille gasped softly.

Another ripple coursed through her�"this one slower, syrupy, like her memories were being rearranged by invisible gloved hands.

Her expression slackened momentarily, eyes glassing over before refocusing with alarming clarity.

“Oh,” she breathed, brow knitting in mild confusion. “I�" I should make sure Nicolle approves the updated vendor contract before EOD Friday. She doesn’t like unnecessary bottlenecks in the procurement workflow. I need to stay on her radar.” Her voice held sudden earnestness, warm undercurrents of professional admiration laced with something deeper�"almost… devotional.

Bertha nodded approvingly. “Very good. Stage three.”

Camille’s breath hitched.

It was less of a ripple this time and more of a slow, luxuriant melt. Her blazer’s lapels sharpened, edges satin-trimmed. The silk blouse deepened into rich plum, almost mirroring Nicolle’s earlier palette, its neckline dipping fractionally lower�"suggestive, but calculated. Her slacks grew glossier, stretching over her hips with a tailored cling that walked a precise line between boardroom and boudoir.

Her jewelry sprouted into existence: a slim gold choker, matching bisected-triangle earrings, and a slim wrist cuff engraved with the company’s elegantly suggestive logo (two overlapping arrows and a lipstick smear, tastefully minimal). Her makeup intensified�"lipstick darkened to wine-red, her eyeliner sharpened into a precise cat-eye flick, her brows sculpted archways of competence and coyness.

Even her nails elongated subtly, polished to a chrome lavender gradient that shimmered differently from Nicolle’s�"but in a clearly coordinated palette.

When Camille straightened again, she exhaled slowly through her nose. Her expression was cool, focused, but with a velvet-soft smile tucked into the corners of her lips. Her hands settled loosely on her hips�"a mirror of Nicolle’s earlier posture�"fingers spreading subtly to frame her waist, nails glinting softly.

Bertha made another neat notation. “You’re now appropriately smutty and professional. Near-peer executive aura�"but still subordinate, of course.”

Camille blinked slowly. Her eyes didn’t betray confusion anymore�"just a deep, poised awareness. Her voice, when she spoke, had dropped half an octave and gained a silken undertone.

“I’ll need to update my staff bio. Nicolle likes our public profiles to reflect not just KPIs, but… personal charisma metrics.” Her lips parted in a soft, knowing smile. “We wouldn’t want the synergy curve to flatten unnecessarily.”

Bertha glanced sidelong at her, expression neutral. “Stage four. Bisexual orientation alignment.”

It hit Camille like a champagne bubble exploding in slow motion.

Her shoulders rolled back, spine arching subtly; her breath deepened. When she exhaled, her entire frame seemed to settle into itself�"like a woman suddenly deeply at ease with her role in the ecosystem. A faint flush touched her cheeks, her lips parted into a self-satisfied, mischievous grin.

A pink, purple, and blue enamel pin bloomed on her blazer lapel, elegantly minimal. Her earrings shimmered�"small geometric shapes resolving into matched bi-pride color gradients.

Her expression turned�"if possible�"both more confident and more roguish. She tapped one manicured finger thoughtfully against her lips before speaking, her voice velvet-smooth, laced with playful command.

“Well then,” she purred, turning toward Bertha fully now. “I assume you’ll want me to coordinate this month’s Bi Visibility Mixer with Nicolle? We’re expanding the mentorship program to include Sensual Communication Workshops for junior associates. Also�"” she smiled wide now, bright and predatory, “�"I’ll need to finalize the guest list for the upcoming Interdepartmental Flirtation Symposium.”

Bertha nodded serenely. “Excellent initiative. You’re adapting rapidly.”

Inside the chamber, Nicolle finally moved�"her gaze flicked to Camille through the glass. A faint, knowing smile curved her lips; an approving nod followed. Camille’s chest lifted ever so slightly in response, as though recognition from her superior sent an invisible current of affirmation humming straight down her spine.

Camille turned back to Bertha, utterly composed.

“Eight changes left,” Bertha reminded smoothly.

Camille’s grin widened, unbothered, sharp as an expense report submitted three days early and fragrant with vanilla-scented printer paper.

“I recommend we continue,” Camille purred. “For optimization.”