Sales Transformation Introduction

>Be Anon
>You did not sign up for this.
>Well, you did not sign up for a lot of things.
>You never signed up to play football (known by some as ‘soccer’ for some unbeknownst reason) as a child.
>Your name still found its way onto a team roster somewhere, making you a halfway capable, albeit, a highly unwilling striker.
>Nor did you sign up to receive the burden of the expectations and hopes from your parents placed on your shoulders, necessitating a university business degree in a downturn economy.
>The most immediate subject on this list lay the current situation at your work.
>You’re a young twenty-something that works at an electronics shop, selling fine wares at exorbitant prices. You are actually not bad at it either, having managed to raise your IRL charisma stat to at least a 5 on a good day.
>Maybe it was because you are paid commission.
>Nonetheless, you feel partially vindicated in choosing to major in Marketing and Management after all.
>However, you are not paid enough to put up with being berated by an irrational and perhaps a mentally-challenged, three-hundred pound woman.
>Not over-refusing to accept a return on a cheap ‘faulty’ toaster that burns toast when the timer is left at the maximum heat setting.
>Especially minutes from being able to close the shop for the night.
>Finally, your patience gives way.
>You see red.  Words are said, mainly pertaining to where the toaster could be shoved into.
>After the boss conducts damage control and gives away a new top of the line toaster to get her to fuck off.
>Spineless jerk-off.
>What follows is a particularly spirited one-on-one with the boss, where you ultimately find yourself leaving an hour early for an unscheduled, two days’ unpaid vacation.
>Fantastic. Good going, hero. You chose a fine hill to die on.
>At least you have a few days off to game and generally be unproductive. You’re almost not even mad.
>Almost.
>You drive home sullenly, parallel park on the dimly-lit, semi-deserted street outside your apartment building, and attempt to pull up the exceedingly, stiff parking brake on your battered Corolla.
>You love this piece of shit car. More loyal and dependable than anyone else in your life.
>Succeed in overcoming the parking brake and trudge your way inside, up flights of stairs (gotta improve that cardio), and get the hell inside your apartment.
>Home at last. Fuck today.
>Dropping your bag and coat, you turn on the heater, hang up your car keys, and make your way into the tacky vintage ‘80s wood-panelled kitchen, taking the time to peruse the pantry for a few packets of the new, finest ramen noodles your money could buy.
>Actually, they were all obtained from the local Asian shop from an old Korean lady who cannot speak English, purchased for the sole reason that the packaging had knock-off off-colour small horses: both winged and horned.
>You collect a pot from the cupboard and half-fill it with water and place it squarely atop the element on the shittiest stove known to mankind.
>Engaging the stove to maximum, dinner plans now well underway.
>Time to browse your decent supply of alcohol.
>Certainly not a beer or cider night, Drambuie is too smooth/expensive to be carelessly slugged, rum and gin are part of your Long Island Ice Tea collection and not easily palatable individually.
>Vodka, it is then.
>Pouring the transparent liquid directly into a coffee cup for effective consumption, taking a solid slug and topping off the cup, you take a seat on your worn beige sofa, log into your laptop and tab to your usual haunts.
>Browse your cancerous social media accounts, excavate and resurrect dead memes, browse the insistent recommendations provided by the Steam Post-Summer Sale despite your depleted game fund.
>Of course, ponies are browsed too, because you are a ponyfag. Naturally, your internet history would show that, between links to /mlp/, derpibooru and FIMfiction.
>The non-tech savvy individual would probably be clued into your affinity by character art of your OC, a dark cyan pegasus stallion, hanging on the wall of your bedroom, opposite the wall with your degree.
>Fortunately, it was not like your few friends who you did infrequently hang out with came into your room; to say nothing of your non-existent sexual partners.
>Irrelevant to the current situation, where you seek to take your mind off the current lack of direction of your life and your general failings to be a good little retail bit…sales consultant. The latter sounds classier.
>You recall that you are preparing dinner, choosing to check the state of the water in the pot.
>Nicely simmering? Time to immerse the two square blocks of dehydrated noodles into the pot, and force them under the bubbling surface with a fork.
>Satisfied, you sip at your vodka. This cheap shit is awful, but the alcohol is coursing through your veins; you feel a wonderful buzz already.
>You retrieve the contained sachet of sauces and the small packet of seasoning mix from the packages, inspecting each.
>Naturally, it is not in English, but you can identify at least two of the three sauces as oil and chilli sauce.
>The third…looked like it contained sparkles? Therefore, it must be delectable based on your past experiences.
>You shrug and apply the sum of the condiments into the pot, adding a few chilli flakes for good measure, and toasting slices of bread.
>Looks normal enough now.
>Sweet.
>After patiently waiting a few minutes for cooking, you decide the dish looks palatable enough; turning off the element, depositing into a large bowl with a side plate piled high with toast for the ramen juice.
>Taking a seat on your sofa with your inexpensive MSG-laden meal, you boot up some retro Knight Rider on your laptop and lament on how you should have been born ten years earlier and grew up in the 80s.
>You would have been able to rock the Aviators hard, and not get shit for it. What a loss.
>Your ramen and mug of alcohol are quickly consumed, with soggy ramen-flavoured toast supplementing the meal to fill your stomach whilst viewing several exciting episodes.
>Michael Knight and KITT, dynamic duo, taking names and kicking ass to preserve human life.
>The warmth of the room, your fatigue from an admittedly shit day, coupled with your relaxed and drowsy, intoxicated state conspired to make for a mounting wave of exhaustion.
>As these combinations of factors hit hard, you find yourself rolling onto your side on the sofa, with eyes drooping shut.
>Your last conscious thought is that you did not even change out of your uniform, your employee lanyard even still around your neck under your uniform collar.
>You stir gently, sunlight pouring in through an undraped window, not providing much assistance to the insistent dull aching occurring inside your head.
>Ah, your dear old friend, the faithful hangover. You did not even have an excessive amount to drink. Must be losing your edge.
>Looks like you passed out without even turning off your laptop. You’ve progressed to what appears to be the third season.
>At least it seems like it. Two Pontiac Trans Ams directly fighting? Season one or three.
>You’re not in the mood to watch this right now, probably better to turn it off, get up and get a glass of water and pop an aspirin.
>Moving to sit up, you find yourself unable to maintain your balance. Not without supporting yourself upright.
>On your laptop on the table, Hasselhoff makes a bad pun. Quite enough of that.
>Attempting to reach out to shut the device, you notice the sleeve of your shirt sagging excessively midway down the arm.
>Odd, did you rip your new work shirt? Shrugging your shoulders is not re-centering the shirt.
>Attempting to tug back the sleeve with your other arm, you discover yourself in the same situation.
>Annoyance creeps across your features, you attempt to grasp at your sleeve through the fabric, with your fingers seeming to find no grip.
>You are clearly a mess if you cannot even manage to shirt right.
>Your perseverance eventually pays dividends, your limb slipping free.
>Rather, your limb turns out to be blueish-green, furred-hooved leg, complete with minor feathering.
>Sweet Jesus, that’s not right at all.
>With great urgency, you tug at the other sleeve, freeing what turns out to be another hooved leg.
>You choose the nuclear option and attempt to rip yourself free of your shirt and kick your pants free, seeing where this trend is going and disliking it.
>You manage to succeed in rolling off the sofa, knocking your laptop off the table.
>On the plus side, no more snippy remarks from Devon Miles.
>You free yourself from your woven prison with strong kicks, and destroying your pants and shimmying free of the debris until your head gently knocks against the sofa.
>You take the opportunity to rip that damn lanyard off too.
>Your gaze passes down your body, observing your horse-like rear legs.
>You are clearly no longer human, but a distinct sheath makes clear your sex has not changed.
>With only slight panic, you roll over onto your feet-
>Er... hooves.
>You unsteadily make your way towards your room and the full-length mirror within, grateful that walking came naturally, at least.
>You had to know the damages, before you considered the causation.
>Pressing a hoof against the door and pushing it open, you find yourself confronting the new you.
>Gazing into the mirror, you examine your form.
>A dark cyan coat, tan mane with consistent colour to your tail. Moderately cut, not unlike your former haircut.
>Your face is now clearly equine, wide and deeply inquisitive blue eyes staring back at you.
>You attempt to mutter a snide remark to yourself, but find you can't.
>You make a small chuff instead.
>You notice a pair of wings folded close to your body.
>Flicking them to an outstretched state, you admire the downy feathers and their length when unfurled.
>You give an experimental downward flap, comparing your appearance with that of the framed artwork of your pony.
>All things considered, you’re remaining remarkably calm throughout this.
>Mostly because you had fantasized about this particular scenario rather a bit before, but you were never fully sure this was a change you would be okay with.
>Now?
>...you still don’t know, but you’re pretty damned excited about having wings.
>You find that they're now sticking out on their own, as well as... something else.
>You have effectively successfully aroused yourself by looking at yourself.
>Finding no other way to, erm, ‘beat’ around the bush, you leap atop your bed and roll onto your back gently, taking care to be mindful of your erect wings and resting your head on one of your pillows.
>Slowly, you move a hoof down to your erect length, tracing your hoof gently along the unfamiliar flesh, shivering at the sensitivity.
>Toying gently at one side of the medial ring, you place your other forehoof against the other side.
>You stroke your hooves in unison up and down your shaft.
>With a little experimentation, you find the walls of your hooves are far less pleasurable against your phallus than cradling your shaft between your fetlocks and stroking.
>Utilizing this, you find a tempo and steadily press your hips into your downward strokes, your horsecock steadily leaking pre.
>With breathless whinnies, your rhythm increases as you flare up, thrusting eagerly into your fetlocks as you near your climax.
>With a pathetic squeak, you climax, your penis throbbing hard and shooting a number of spurts directly down your underside.
>You pant raggedly, your stomach and chest, well spattered with your seed, sprawled out warm and content in the afterglow.
>Having zero motivation to move or immediately consider your predicament, you gradually find yourself refurling your wings and curling up to slip off into a post-orgasmic nap.