Experimental Surgery (Man to Designer Woman TG)

By FoxFaceStories

An Anonymous Story Tier Prompt

Benjamin is celebrating a recent windfall when an attractive femme fatale begins flirting with him. Unfortunately for him, he is quickly drugged and taken to a hidden laboratory, one which exists for rich donors to pay for men to be transformed into perfect submissive trophy wives, all for their amusement. Benjamin must try to escape, before an old rival claims him as his wife.

Experimental Surgery

Part 1: The Setup

Hello, dear reader. I don’t know if anyone will ever read this story, but I truly hope they do, because it is a story worth telling, and one that I would never be able to tell out loud. Only in writing can it be put down, and if you continue to read, you will begin to understand why. This is not an easy tale, especially because it is true. All the events I have written down here are entirely true; they occurred to me , and in some ways are still occurring. At times, I have even included excerpts of my writing during this period, that which I was able to hold on to without my captors knowing. But I am getting ahead of myself. You are about to read a story of a man, one among many, who was tricked, sedated, and forced to undergo surgery, hormone treatment, and mental conditioning in order to become . . . someone else. It is the story of my death, my rebirth, my fall and my survival. I hope that something is gained by it, should you read it, and perhaps something further can be done.

        For now though, I simply ask that you believe what I have written down. Every word is true.

***

The first thing you should know about me is that I was born Benjamin James Hardey. Yes, if you know me in person, I imagine you find that quite a strange fact indeed. Nevertheless, I was, and I ask that you do not put down these letters just yet. If you wish, just imagine that this is some strange flight of fancy, and proceed from that assumption. I will attempt to convince you along the way, alright?

        The second thing you should know is that I wasn’t exactly the most humble man in life. I was the only son of two rather pushy parents who had agitated for me at every turn to succeed. Even when I left home, that drive to succeed and overcome all obstacles in my path only increased. Without them as a safety net I had to make sure I never failed, that I was able to build my own safety net and become wealthy and successful. Naturally, I entered the corporate world several years later, and even I was surprised how much I took to it like a fish to water.

        I won’t deny, my looks helped. Some said I had a kind of ‘Bruce Wayne’ look to me - y’know, Batman - since I was tall, dark and handsome, and perhaps just a little brooding at times. Of course, I could turn on the charisma when I wanted to, an easy thing when you look good, particularly in a suit. I always made sure my black hair was styled for the office, and that I put in the extra hours. I quickly rose up the ranks in a large textile manufacturer - Texton - and soon was angling for even higher promotions. All this while only being thirty one years old when everything changed.

        I made quite a few friends on this path, and not just the kind I was schmoozing and wining and dining for said promotions. No, I certainly did pretty well for myself, and I won’t lie and claim I didn’t have a few office flings here and there, particularly with the secretaries. All consensual, of course, and lots of fun, especially in the roomy, rather steamy  closet of level three.

        I’m trying to explain that I lacked a sense of humility at this point. There was this guy, who will become very important to the story soon. His name was Jonathan Dart. He was with the Texton for a while, and he was constantly angling for a climb up the corporate ladder like I was. Unlike me, though, he lacked a few advantages. He was an average-looking guy who almost appeared a bit rakish, and he didn’t have my charm when it came to the ladies. I won’t lie, I snapped up a few, such as the lovely Heather Grace, right out of his grasp, despite knowing he was pursuing her. He didn’t like me much, but it was easy to step on him, particularly since he was a good footstool to go places. When he did marvellous work and I was serving as his manager, it wasn’t hard to pass it up and claim the lion’s share of the credit. Oh, he glared at me, but what could he do? It wasn’t like he could dethrone me, he could only quit four years into our ongoing rivalry and disappear into the wind.

        At least, that’s what I thought. I quickly forgot little Jonathan, but he hadn’t forgotten me. No, he spent a great deal of time remembering every little injustice and humiliation I’d visited on him, and vowed to do the same to me . . . with interest. I wouldn’t find this out later, though. For several more years, I coasted ever higher up the ladder, until I had become a very wealthy figure nearly at the C-suite level, and just in my mid-thirties by that point! Thirty five, specifically, and with a great future at Texton after closing yet another great deal and raising our share market value once more. It was enough to award me a grand new Christmas bonus to round out the year, and at our company Christmas Party I was the toast of the town, the one with the various awards and celebrations. Everyone knew I was going places.

        And that was when I saw her.

        She had legs that seemed to stretch for miles, the slits of her gold-sequin dress doing a marvellous job of tracing her smoothness all the way up to her hips. Her cleavage was fantastic, and I wanted to get lost in it; not just my vision but my face entirely. I’d been dating Yin Leechun for a while by that point, but I was ready to dump her on the spot if this woman was single. She had inviting red hair that fell down over one shoulder in gentle waves, and her dress was bare-shoulders, letting me take in her cute smattering of freckles that seemed to be places just so. Her lips had been done up ruby red, her eyebrows and eyeshadow dark. She looked as if she’d stepped out of an old noir film, a classy femme fatale who knew what she wanted and would use all her wiles to get it.

        I wanted to get her.

        One drink for a little liquid courage, and I readied to advance toward her, ending whatever dull conversation I was having with a colleague. But then I saw that she was already heading toward me, sashaying her hips from side to side, strutting her body as if she were the radiant sun itself, there to light up my world. She smirked at me, not with any patronising quality but with a shared understanding of mutual attraction.

        “Hey,” she said, as if that was enough. In some ways it was.

        “Hey yourself,” I replied, arching an eyebrow. “I don’t remember seeing you around the office. I would have remembered.”

        “I’m newly transferred,” she purred, getting surprisingly close to me, enough that I could smell her perfume as if it were an aphrodisiac pheromone certainly, I had a good look down at her cleavage; a show I was getting the sense was very deliberate. “I work in marketing. I try to get people’s attention, make them want more.”

        “Well, it’s certainly working on me. I’m Ben. Ben Hardey.”
        She extended a hand for me to kiss, and I did so, as if we were in a far classier time.

        “Mallory,” she replied. “A last name can come later. Everyone’s talking about you, Ben; the handsome hunk who’s a rising star.”

        “They called me a handsome hunk?”

        She grinned, flashing me a brilliant smile. “Well, I may have embellished a few details of my own. Are you single tonight, Ben?”

        “Tonight? I rather am. Why, are you looking for someone to keep you company?”

        “Someone?” she said, her lips so close to mine as she looked up at me. “No. Yours? I could stomach that for a bit . . . if  you buy me a drink.”

        “How do you have it?”

        “Sex on the beach. Or anywhere, really. Oh, you mean the drink? I’ll have a margarita.”

        We got to talking some more, and if you think this amount of flirting was enough, it soon became almost explosive in its chemistry. Soon I didn’t even have time for my bosses, and whatever Yin was texting me was long forgotten. I was spellbound by Mallory, her perfect form smuggled into a dress that could barely contain her fine bosom or her sharp wit. The venue was a ritzy casino hotel, so it didn’t take her long to pull me to a quiet corner and ply me for more about myself. Naturally, I also embellished, but I did a good job of talking myself up while continuing to flirt back with her.

        “I’m talking about myself too much,” I said. “And in the company of a woman like you, that’s practically a crime.”

        She grinned once more, biting her full lower lip and enticing me further. She held up her drink.

        “Well, cheers to capturing your attention, Benjamin? I don’t have to worry about any rivals, right? No peers of yours ready to stab you in the back?”

        And that’s when I spoke the words that doomed me for the rest of my life.

        “None. The only guy who was in my way was practically pushed to quite a few years back. A sad little twerp who just couldn’t cut it.”

        “Did this twerp have a name?”

        “Jonathan something. Jonathan Dart, that’s it. Heard of him?”

        She smiled, and didn’t answer, instead gesturing to her drink. “Get me another one of these. Don’t worry, I’ll guard yours.”

        I was too enamoured to notice any manipulation, this despite her being the ultimate femme fatale in looks and style and action. Instead, I went and got her another cocktail, and when I returned she was still guarding my drink and I was none the wiser. She looked at me with a devilish expression when I sat back down.

        “What are you thinking?” I asked, sipping my drink and admiring her form, especially the peaks of her two mountains.

        “I’m thinking you should finish that drink and then get me out of her. Preferably back to my place.”

        I sculled that drink so fast I almost gave myself a goddamn heartburn.

***

Her apartment was rather surprisingly at this nothing motel at the edge of town. The kind of place you expected a drug deal to go bad or the FBI to hole up some stool pigeon or something until they could get him safely to court. I told her as much, but she just gave that now-familiar smirk.

        “It’s not my real place. It’s just a spot I go to when I want to have fun, no questions asked. Wild fun.”

        Looking back, the hook was obvious. And yet there I was, the stupid fish not just nibbling at the bait but swallowing it whole. Devouring it right down to my stomach. Or perhaps just looping it around my loins, because it was my dick that was doing the thinking that night.

        I followed her into her apartment, the one at the end, recessed in darkness. I was starting to feel a little drowsy, but I didn’t think much of it, not with her leading the way, her ass shaking in the tight confines of her dress. As soon as the door was shut and the lights were on I spun her around and pressed my lips against hers. We kissed passionately, the kind of kisses only a woman trained in such sensual arts knew how to deliver. Her body pressed against mine, her breasts pert and lovely and ready to be unwrapped. I continued to make out with her, edging closer towards the motel bed.

        Only to begin to falter. The first was a stumble in my left leg, the next in my right. I began to hold onto Mallory for support, wondering what was going on, but she continued to kiss my lips, moaning as she made out with me.

        “Wh-wait,” I managed, my words slurring. “Something’s . . . happening. We n-need to stop. Something’s g-gone wrong. Just need a minute.”

        I collapsed to my knees, my vision blurring. There were now two Mallories that I could see, sliding into each other and circling impossibly, like I was almost blackout drunk. I remember this part clearly, though what came next was far more uncertain. I definitely remember collapsing onto the bed with her help, but she pulled away from my touch, still showing that dangerous smirk. My heart pounded, and a panic filled my heart.

        “Wh-what are you d-doing?” I asked, as she picked up her phone.

        “He’s ready,” she said to someone on the other end of the line. “No, the two-bit compound worked perfectly, just like you said it would. One part on my lips, the other dissolved in his drinks. He’s nearly out of it. Time to send someone in. Thank you . . . master.”

        My vision was almost gone. I was struggling to keep my eyes open, my senses away, but it was too difficult. I succumbed to sleep, the narcotic drug working its way through my system. To this day I don’t remember the exact moment I fell asleep, or if I experienced anything while I was transported. I do, however, remember very, very clearly down to the last detail, how I woke up in the dungeon.

***

It was not a sudden waking like in the movies. Instead, I groggily got up, recognising that this was not my bed. For a moment, I was curious that this was Mallory’s bed, but then the last memories came to me, and I recalled that I had been dragged. That was finally enough for me to take in the smells and sights of my new surroundings, and determine that I definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore, little Dorothy.

        “What the fuck? Where am I?”

        It was like a dungeon, albeit with modern surveillance. The floor was made of stone, the walls too, and the door looked to be constructed of pure steel, with bars for looking out that would permit not escape. Outside the window, I could hear the sounds of people yelling, some male and others more feminine. They were demanding food, drink, and freedom. I could see why: my own cell had a toilet, a wash basin, a simple single bed that I was sitting on, and a mirror. There wasn’t much else at all, in fact.

         “Help!” I called out, my voice raspy and weak. I swallowed, and regained it. “HELP! Get me out of here! I’ll pay you anything you want!”

        Yelling was useless, though. That damned bitch of a woman had honeypotted me, and now I was ensnared in her trap, or whoever her ‘master’ had been. I spent the next several hours taking stock of everything, but it was mostly a mix of terrific boredom and heart wrenching terror. Occasionally doctors in coats strode by my window, but they didn’t both with me. My own clothing was gone, replaced with simple patient garb. I didn’t have my phone, my wallet, or anything that would identify me, and no one was listening to my demands. Clearly this was some kind of kidnapping scheme, at least that’s what I thought at the time, and they were waiting me out until someone paid for my release or I offered up everything.

        Finally, after far too long waiting, my cell door suddenly opened. The gorgeous woman strode in, Mallory now wearing a red dress that clung tight to her curves.

        “You!” I growled, and I shot to my feet, ready to strangle her. I wasn’t one for violence against women, but I needed to escape.

        I stopped as soon as I saw two burly men step in with her, both of whom looked absolutely capable of throwing me like a ragdoll around the room. One even smirked at me.

        “Benjamin James Hardey,” the woman said in her honeyed tone. “It’s good to see you up and awake.”

        “What is this? What are you doing to me? Is it money you want?”

        Someone laughed from outside the cell. Mallory smirked. “This facility is not interested in money; its patrons are more than capable of funding its progress. We are simply here to administer a set of changes to you, ones that are at the cutting edge of technology.”

“What do you mean? What kind of changes? What the fuck is this facility?”

Another smirk. “Years ago, a great man named Amadeus Markha had a dream. He had a terrible enemy, one who constantly stifled his own plans for greatness. The height of displeasure came when his lady love was stolen from him, seduced by his enemy. Amadeus was an expert in genetics, however, and he devised a series of treatments that would make his enemy not only pay, but suffer the ultimate humiliation . . . that of becoming his wife. And his enemy was not  female to start with, Mr Hardey.”
        I recall scoffing. “That’s ridiculous.”

“And yet it is what he achieved. A totally biological woman was made from his enemy’s body, through a series of surgeries and chemical treatments. The new woman was made pliable and submissive through repeated mental conditioning, to the point where she served him loyally, even as her own consciousness remained. In the end, she became his collaborator, his trophy wife, the woman who warmed his bed and birthed his children for him. The ultimate woman, all thanks to this experimental surgery.”

“Where is this woman, then?”

She indicated to herself, her perfect form. “Why, she is standing before you, Mr Hardey. I am her. You may call me Mallory Markha, the very first successful test subject for Amadeus’ experimentations.”

I couldn’t believe it. I refused to believe it.

“This is sick. You’re sick. This whole thing is bullshit.”

“I thought too, until I became this woman and could not resist my new husband’s thrusts into me. Now . . . I am his. Wholly. You might say I am resigned to it, though after fifteen years this is the life I know, and can only participate in fully.”

She clearly caught my confusion.

“Yes, Mr Hardey, I am in my forties now. I do not look it, do I? Would you say thirty? I would. One kindness of the treatment is that even as you age, your beauty will take much longer to fade. Consider that as we prepare you for your first treatment; a simple hormone injection to get you started.”

My heart skipped a beat, then began thudding in my chest as the two large men advanced upon me. I tried to run past them but they easily manhandled me, gripping me and ripping up the sleeve of my patient gown to present my arm. Mallory stepped forward, as alluring and seductive as ever, but now with a needle in her hand.

“Trust me, Mr Hardey, you are not the only one here. My Amadeus runs this service as a business. He is quite rich now. You were simply poached.”

“Why me!? Why me, dammit!”

She was so close to me by that point, the needle dripping slightly. “Because someone wanted revenge on you, Mr Hardey. They wanted you to be their perfect wife, your humiliation total.”

“Who? WHO!?”

The dark laugh I’d heard outside the cell repeated itself, and then finally the figure strode into the room to reveal himself. I’m sure you’ve already guessed who it was, but at the time I could scarcely believe it: Jonathan Dart stood there in a very fine suit, looking far more professional and assured than I’d ever seen him before, and more powerfully built too. So different from the scrawny rat I’d stepped over in my corporate conquests years ago.

“You!” I proclaimed.

“Yes, me,” he said, voice dripping with acid. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, Benny-boy. You ruined my life for a long time, humiliated me, stole Heather from me, and for what? Just another step up the ladder? Well, you’ll be helping my conquests soon; business, and sexual. I can’t wait to see what a sexy wife you’ll make. I’ve got a very particular look in mind, in fact.”

I screamed invectives, howling at him, trying to reach forward and ring his neck. But the hold of the two muscle bound titans was too strong, and within moments Mallory was plunging the needle into my upper arm, the flow of hormones pouring into my system. I became woozy immediately, and after several more attempts to get to Jonathan’s smug expression and wipe it off his face, I began to collapse entirely.

“There, there, Benny-boy,” he said, even as my eyes began to close and the men set me back on my bed. “Don’t fight it. You’re going to be such a beautiful wife. I just know it.”

I fell asleep, full of fitful dreams and mad wanderings. My first step towards unwanted womanhood was only at its start. It was to change the course of my life forever, dear reader.

Part 2: The First Injections

It was at this point, dear reader, where perhaps you are thinking I deserved this fate. Perhaps I deserved some kind of punishment, but as you will see as you continue to read on, the cruelty of my captors knew little boundaries, and if then I have still not earned your sympathy, then know I was not alone.

        I discovered this the next morning when I woke in my cell once more. At least, I thought it was morning. It was difficult to tell, what with no outside facing windows to track the rise and fall of the sun. But I knew instantly that the injections had done something odd to me. I felt weaker, but not in the sense that I had become exhausted or burdened. No, I simply felt . . . less muscular. I quickly checked over myself, and found it to be true: whatever hormones they had given me had evidently reduced my muscle mass. It was only a slight change, but my normally powerful build appeared as if I had slacked off the gym for a month. It was a minor difference, but it struck fear well into me. The same was true when I noticed that there was a pile of black hair upon my bedding and on the floor. It took me some time to realise that it was not hair from my head, but rather my body. It had shed during my sleep, and even my chest hair was largely gone, slipping out of my bland prisoner’s shirt and onto the ground.

        “What the fuck?” I remember saying. “What did they do? Put oestrogen into me?”

        I checked myself over repeatedly. There were no mirrors to look at, no way to determine if my face had changed, though it seemed largely the same. I even still had a little scruff upon it.

        “There’s no way, there’s just no way.”

        Mallory’s words repeated in my mind again and again, her tale of Amadeus Markha and his revenge upon her. How that stunning woman - literally the greatest beauty I had ever seen - had once been a man, and Markha’s rival. And she claimed to not only be his wife, but bound to him dutifully! To have become impregnated more than once and given birth to his children! It was the stuff of a cheap fetish novel or pulp horror fiction, not real life! I refused to believe it.

        And yet I had seen Jonathan Dart and heard his taunts. I had always been pretty good at reading people - it helped me in business greatly - and Mallory had been one of the only ones to slip past my defences. That was because she had a great bosom. Dart didn’t have that. He just had a sneer. So I was reasonably confident in my assessment that he truly did believe I was going to become his wife.

        It was bad fucking news, that was for sure. It meant that, even though his plan was obviously crazed, I was going to be injected with estrogen and have my body fucked up. That alone would still be revenge against me, not to mention ruining my own life.

        “Have to escape,” I murmured. “And get out of here through any means.”

        There was the sound of a metal grate being opened, and then my cell - which was reasonably large - suddenly had a hot meal in it. My stomach gurgled, a hunger overwhelming me.

        “I’m not fucking eating that,” I declared anyway. “I’ve got no idea what’s in it.”

        “Suit yourself,” came a guard’s voice. But the meal was left there.

        My stomach groaned again.

***

Starving myself only worked for a brief time. My hunger was positively unnatural. Neither Jonathan nor Mallory came on that first day, nor the second, by which point I was aching for food. I had succumbed to drinking the water they provided me; it didn’t look like it had anything in it, though it did taste a little tangy. But the food - which was surprisingly well made, even if still like hospital food - remained there as a constant temptation.

        “Nnghh,” I groaned, clutching my stomach. “Why am I s-so goddamn hungry? Let me out! I’m not eating your f-food!”

        And yet the hunger grew. It’s amusing to me now, looking back on that time, to think about how confident I was that I could hold out. The truth was, by the third day I was so ravenous I could have eaten anything . My body hair was all gone by that point, except around my pubic, but no other changes had occurred. The guards spurned all attempts to talk, and I was starting to feel like I was going mad. One can only scratch so many symbols into the wall before one went mad.

        And went mad I did. I tried to fight the guards when they entered to replace the toilet paper and bed roll I’d deliberately ruined. I was easily overpowered. I tried to bargain with them, offering riches, half of all that I owned. They simply ignored me, except for a baldheaded fellow who scoffed.

        “And risk bein’ turned into a damn like you’ll be? No thanks, buddy.”

        I removed one of the legs from my bed and used it as a digging implement at night, hoping to get out, but this was no Shawshank Redemption, and I was no Andy Deufresne. I had no experience in such things, and the object was too bulky besides.

The madness quickly changed, and I became mad for food . When an actual goddamn chicken roast was placed into my cell, I nearly leapt upon it.

“Mhmmm!” I moaned, licking the gravy from my fingers. “God, it’s f-fucking delicious. God help me.”

I devoured more and more of it, uncaring about my own rebellion for the moment, nor the threat that more drugs might be in my system.

        “They don’t do it through the food,” came a voice suddenly. I paused, shocked. I rose from my chicken dinner and peered through the bars of my cell door into the one directly opposite me. There, a woman’s face greeted me. No, it was a man. No, it was something . . . in-between. Slightly more mannish than feminine, but certainly soft and with prominent eyelashes. Their blonde hair was also down past their chin.

        “Who are you? How long have you been there?”

        “I’m Artie,” the figure replied, voice huskier than I expected. “They returned me this morning. I didn’t expect to get another cellmate. Samuel already left as Sara a while ago, but obviously business is booming.”

        “What - what are you talking about?”

        “Didn’t they give you the brief. We’re all being turned into women here. Trophy wives. Powerful men exact revenge on us. Or they just pick a lowly employee they want power over.”

        “Is that what happened to you?”

        Artie shook his-her head. “No. I was a journalist. Artie Smallcheck. I did a bombshell report on a major case of financial fraud by a bitcoin guru. Blew the lid right on him. Turns out he never forgot, because he’s paid to get me here and make him his fantasy girlfriend. Apparently, he likes blondes.”

        “You weren’t blonde before?” I asked.

        He shook his head. “Brown hair all my life. If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to end up as a dumb bimbo slut. I know the type he likes, because it’s what he wasted his investor’s money on. And I’m already growing . . . tits.”

        I frowned. This had to be a psyche job. At least, that’s what I thought at the time.

        “Bullshit.”

        “It’s the true. Hold on a moment.”

        He removed his shirt and then gripped the bars, lifting himself. Sure enough, he had breasts. They were small, but present.”

        “Estrogen will do that. This is just some freakshow. They can’t actually make us women.”

        “They can,” Artie said. “I’ve seen it. They can even change your race. One guy got turned into an Indian lady. No change in her accent or language or anything, obviously, but she looked the real deal. They put her in a sari and handed her over to some Indian guy who she began kissing immediately.”

        “Why?”

        Artie shrugged. “Because there’s a mental element. I’ve had it. Hypnosis, brain stimulation. Electroshock. You name it. I can’t even fight the guards now; I'm too goddamn submissive. You just have to hope the type of woman your guy wants isn’t going to be too stupid and weak like I’m going to be.”

        I still wasn’t sure if I believed what was happening, but the panic was definitely setting in. Of course, Artie was telling the whole truth as it turned out, but at the time I even suspected she might be in on it. Sorry, I think of her as a ‘she’ now, but at the time she was very much male and identifying as such. I shall try to reflect reality in this.

        “I think Jonathan - the vermin asshole who paid to get me here - wants a trophy wife. A woman who will salivate for him. He wants revenge because he stole my woman.”

        Artie’s expression fell. “Then I’m sorry, friend. I might end up the blonde bimbo, and you the trophy wife. Two sides of a similar coin.”

        I recall that I gulped, then. It was a weak and pathetic sound, but was exactly how I felt.

        “You didn’t tell me your name.”

        “Benjamin,” I said. “Ben.”

        “Well, best of luck, Ben. But you might want to start thinking about what your female name will be. From what I’ve seen, that might be the only choice some of us get in our new lives.”

***

I screamed when the guards restrained me on that fourth or fifth day - I forget which - and brought out the syringe again.

        “No! Fuck you! Fuck you! You can’t do this to me!”

        Jonathan appeared in the doorway, once again tougher and bigger than I remembered him ever being, and smiled that nasty smile.

        “Oh, we can. I paid handsomely for this, Benny-boy. This journey is just getting started too. Inject him.”

        I whined as the needle went in. It was bigger this time, and the fluid looked different. Jonathan caught my panic.

        “A more powerful dose,” he said. “Your body is primed, and now the real changes can start.”

        “Fuck you!” I spat. “I’m going to kill you, Jonathan!”

        “I don’t think so. I think, in time, you’re going to make love to me . You’ll be like that lovely Mallory; a perfect trophy wife. There to please me with blowjobs each morning and wear all sorts of tight, lovely things. And you’ll age so slowly that I’ll always get to enjoy you. I might even put a few kids in you and let you raise them, just for the humiliation of it all.”

        “You’re insane! None of this is real!”

        The man just shrugged. “We’ll see.”

        As you can imagine, dear reader, I did come to see. I truly did. And the following few days began to make me see the truth. The next day I woke up feeling weaker again, and that muscular degeneration was a pattern that continued the next morning, and the next, and the next. It was a slow change, but always steady, and more injections were placed into my body, more serum to presumably bolster the existing changes and speed up other ones. But it wasn’t just my muscles that were changing: something was happening to my overall frame as well. On what I was certain to be the tenth day of my imprisonment, I noticed that my shoulders had shrunk, and that my waist had thinned also, though my hips had remained as they were.

        “That’s how it started for me too,” said Artie from his cell. He’d been injected that morning, and his hair was longer in just a couple of days, his jaw more rounded. “It's the bones changing shape. I think there’s a DNA component to it, but surgery is also necessary. I’m slated for that soon. Scares the shit out of me.”

        “It can’t be,” I remember saying. “It just can’t be!”

        But it was. The injections could only go so far, but they seemed pretty damn far to me. My nipples were constantly sore and itchy, and I went to bed scratching them. This only led to a strange arousal, and with not much else to do, I must admit I was pleasuring myself constantly as well. A few books had been dropped off to me, but I had resisted reading them yet: they were all instructional manuals from what seemed like the 1950s on how to be a ‘Darling Wife’ or a ‘Dutiful Beau.’ Except they were recent creations: all of them had been written by Amadeus Markha and given old-fashioned stylings.

        I remember pleading with myself not to masturbate during those lonely nights. I only really had Artie to keep me company in his different cell, and I had no idea how much longer this hell would last. But in the end, I gave up on that too, and it was Mallory’s fault. She entered one morning after breakfast wearing a tight red number that emphasised her breasts. Worse, she had brought another woman: a gorgeous brunette with Slavic-looking cheeks and thick lips, and a figure I would have killed to have slept with outside of a horrible situation like this one.        

        “Who is this?” I demanded, unable to move due to a strong guard. “Another one of your pets? When can I leave this place?”

        “You can leave this cell soon,” she replied. “Amadeus, my sweet husband, says so himself, and I’m submissive to his commands, as you know. The injections are already taking: show us your body.”

        I resisted, but my top was pulled from me, and my pants. My worst fears were realised when she examined my penis from afar.

        “Definite shrinkage of the scrotum and tests,” one of the scientists with her mused. “And areolas are developing nicely. Body retention is good, muscle loss good. Should be ready for initiation into the wider program soon. Artie too, if he can behave himself.”

        “Herself,” Mallory corrected.

        “You haven’t answered my question!” I demanded. “Who is this?”

        “Enticement,” she answered, “and a preview. Mr Dart has requested you be presented with women we have finished designing, to give you an idea of what you will become. Also, she wants to practice with you.”

        They left this woman in my cell. She licked her lips as she saw me.

        “I’m Ben,” I said. “Is it true? Did you used to be a woman?”

        The poor thing shivered, holding herself. She was in the same kind of clothing as mine; baggy and prison-like, but nothing could disguise those generous hips or impressive bust.

        “I’m Sonja,” she replied in a sexy, husky voice. “I was a man. I was Sergei. They made me woman. I tried to steal from Amadeus and give to competitor. Now they make me lusty. I can’t stop thinking about sex. I must have sex, do you understand? You must give me sex, please!”

        “Look, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but-”

        She was on me before I could finish my sentence. Soon she was ripping her top off, then her bra, and shoving her giant bust in my face. I lost all control: something about the hormones flooding through my body released my unbelievable horniness. I kissed her back, and then we were entangled together, fingers running over every bump, curve, and crevice, the pair of us moaning.

        “I don’t want this, but I need it!” she gasped as she rubbed my cock, making it even harder. “I am woman now. I need penis in me. I live for this! It is my purpose now, to be this prison slut! To be guinea pig! Breed me, handsome Ben!”

        I should have stopped. Even now, as a woman myself, I still think of Sonja. What kind of life does she live, so addicted to sex it’s basically analogous to food and water? I hope she has found some meaning in it. God knows, as bad as it is to feel this way, I still remember the sensation of her lips on my member.

        “Oh God,” I moaned as she lowered herself on me, sucking perfectly. “Ahhh, that’s - I need this too!”

        She made a terrific moaning sound, and her other hand stroked my shaft. I didn’t stand a chance: I came in a huge way, pumping what felt like a gallon of semen down her throat. She moaned again, and the oddest thing happened: she literally orgasmed from giving me head.

        I collapsed back onto the bed, her slumped against the side of it, panting.

        “Great, I suck another dick! It never ends! In two hours tops, I need suck another!”

        I only barely remember her saying this because of how it stood out to me, because my attention was immediately taken over by the rush of hormones running through me, the final results of the injections activated by the intense release of dopamine and expenditure of my semen. I gasped as my muscles overheated, seemingly melting into further fat deposits. My rear bulged, expanding slowly but surely. My voice squeaked, cracking up an octave, and that same cracking sensation occurred in my hips and in my face, where a new formation of bone and tissue was occurring. I wriggled like a fish out of water on the bed, feeling my chest develop into an actual pair of boobs - small ones, but definitely breasts, complete with their own foreign-feeling jiggle. My thighs were likewise bigger, but my feet and hands shrunk, the extra tissue going elsewhere.

        “Ohhhhh, wh-what’s happening to m-eeeee!?”

        Sonja clambered backwards. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. They use me for all of this! I am good at starting change with my lips. Mhmm . . . so hot.”

        The door opened again, and Mallory entered, a gentle smile on her features. The scientist with her seemed very joyful from the results.

        “My God, what a quick onset of change! He’s taking better to the designer process than any other subject.”

        “Then he’s ready for initiation,” Mallory said, folding her arms beneath her breasts. “He can be socialised with the other girls, and learn what it is to be a woman. And, of course, undertake the surgery.”

        “You can’t do this!” I cried, though my body was weak from becoming so feminine. Sonja followed a guard out of the room, mumbling apologies.

        “We can, and I must. I follow my husband in all things. You will do the same when you are Jonathan Dart’s trophy wife, and like me, you’ll learn to accept it. We’ll pair you with Artie to aid you both in this transition.”

        “I won’t accept it!”

“You’ll have to, because with initiation . . . comes the surgery.”

        I distinctly remember that being the moment I fainted yet again.

Part 3: The Doctor Will See You Now

Jonathan appeared alongside Mallory, as well as several beefy guards. It was the morning after I’d fainted, and I’d tried everything  to escape. I’d pulled at the bars, used a damp cloth to try and twist them apart, and even begged and grovelled to the guards. I even cut my hair again using a shard of metal I’d pried off near the bed leg, but it grew back by the morning anyway.

        “Goddamn it!” I remember yelling. “Let me the hell out of here! I don’t deserve this!”

        “You deserve everything that’s happening, Benny-boy,” Dart said with his smirk. “Just as Mallory here deserved to become Amadeus’ loyal trophy wife, and Sergei in the other room deserved to become Sonja, the endlessly horny slut that she is, for trying to steal his work. Artie broke that poor crypto investor’s heart by cracking open the report that destroyed his billionaire holdings, so in a way, he’ll deserve becoming his fantasy girlfriend too. You all deserve this, and I deserve my revenge.”

        “Fuck you!” I cried, my voice cracking. “I won’t go along with this!”

        “You will, after the surgery. You have no idea how much more of a woman you’ll be. Don’t worry, you won’t be alone. Artie, it’s time for your next bout.” He called that out to the opposing cell, and I heard Art whimper.

        “I’ll escape. I’ll escape, Jonathan, you’ll see!” I yelled, even as the brutish guards came and grabbed me. “I’ll never be your fantasy wife!”

        “Of course not!” Mallory teased as I was pulled away. “Because fantasies are not real. But we are, in fact, very much so. And just as Amadeus made me his perfect bride and mother of his children, so shall you be for our paying customer Jonathan here.”

I yelled and screamed, but it didn’t matter. I was hauled onto a hospital bed on wheels and strapped tightly in. Behind me, Artie was being similarly loaded up, though he didn’t fight nearly so much as me, almost as if he were resigned to it.

“I am being sorry, friends!” Sonja cried out from her cell. “I am be leaving tomorrow to entertain many men! I am horny for it, but hope you escape fate what I have! I must make many good babies! So many! Escape while you can!”

A guard chuckled. “No one’s ever escaped from this place,” he said.

I determined that I would be the first to escape, if what he said was true. Unfortunately, it was the last thought I had for some time, because I was quickly wheeled into what appeared to be a surgical suite, entirely sterile, with an entire team of surgeons and technicians ready to see to me. One turned with what I could only imagine was an eerily enthusiastic smile behind his mask.

“Mr Benjamin Hardey, so good to see the hormones have worked as intended! We’ll be getting to work right away with you. Mister Dart has been very  specific with his desires for your eventual form, and the changes to your mind. Rest assured you’ve come to us a sir, but you shall be leaving a madam! Or is it ma’am? Ah, I forget. The point is, you’re in good hands!”

I wrestled against my restraints, but the mask was already on my face.

“Breathe deep, Ben! We’ll make a Bethany of you yet. Or Belinda? Or perhaps Mr Dart intends a name that starts with an entirely different letter! The point is . . . and you won’t have . . . appears to be going . . . ah, eyes closed so . . .”

Those fragmented words were the last thing I could remember before I woke.

When I did, my entire world had changed.

***

The visions came in and out, fuzzy and ill-defined. At times I could have sworn I was dreaming, or perhaps experiencing some nightmare. In a way, I rather was. I had no way of knowing it at the time, but this was really the tipping point; the moment it all became irreversible. No matter what, once I woke up, I would no longer be the man I had been. Not yet truly a woman, but not Benjamin James Hardey either. But I only discovered all of this from my research later; just how deep the surgery went, the experimental protein combinations they placed inside me, the implant that began to stimulate my brain patterns, shifting them to new, more servile arrangements.

        My primary understanding at the time was my body. Occasionally I would wake, sighting a bright light fixture, or feeling a man press against my skin, as if attempting to bond some kind of skin graft. Thankfully, I did not reach consciousness or any kind of state of awareness while I was directly under the knife, though there was a kind of dream-like understanding that my chest was being attended to, along with my hips and limbs. Time passed strangely, as if I were only seeing snippets of my life, experiencing fragments of a most momentous occasion. I do remember glimmers of conversation, however, words spoken to or near me that I managed to hold onto in my memory. These are just some of them:

         “Just lovely. We’ll have her shoulders decompressed and her waist tucked in no time.”

        “You’re doing so well, Benjamin. Just keep sleeping. Don’t worry, these aren’t implants. Your breasts will be all too real; this implant will disintegrate by then, but it will help stimulate tissue production in the meantime.”

        “No, rein the earlobe in a little. Mr Dart wants them detached. And make sure to flatten out that Adam’s apple; it’s not enough that our subject sounds like a woman, he must look like one too. Hell, he must become one!”

        “I hate that cracking sound. Just the worst. But else to widen the pelvis unless we break and reconstruct it, right?”

        “The hormones will take care of the face. It’ll be puffy for a while, Ben - can you hear me, Ben? But trust me, in the end you shall be beautiful!”

         And so on.

Only once did I manage to gain enough consciousness and strength to do something. It must have been days after a series of surgeries, or perhaps even weeks - time ceased to have any meaning by that point - but I distinctly recall being wheeled away from the surgical suite yet again, an orderly conversing with a coworkers.

“Hey Deborah, how goes that Sonja hottie?”

“All class as usual, Greg. Yeah, she’s heading out. Programming just finished for her; just as the doctor ordered. She’ll be making up litters somewhere in South Texas real soon.”

“Jesus, you program artists do some sick shit.”

“Says the surgical guy! Say, you off-shift tonight? We could get some wings.”

“I reckon I can swing that. Just us?”

“Why, you want someone else on a date?”

There was a greater spring in my attendant’s step as he brought me to a bay to recover. I could hear a woman whining in the background, her words completely unintelligible to me due to their being in Spanish, but it seemed she  was just as shocked to be speaking in Spanish. I could barely see out of the bandages, but a rather gorgeous woman in her mid-forties - a real MILF type, as I would have called her - was being calmed by several doctors. She was a latina with lovely mid-tone olive skin, and was as feisty as any stereotype. She was half naked and pointing angrily at her genitalia between her legs. It made me realise I couldn’t even feel my own member. But then again, I could barely feel anything.

        Just as the orderly was leaving, I managed to grip his hand with my own - even that had bandages on it, as well as a cannula that was feeding me an IV drip of water and probably a hell of a lot of estrogen.

        “Please,” I said in a muffled, squeaky voice that barely sounded like my own. “You have to h-help me.”

        He went to pull his arm away, but I was possessed of a need that seemed to outweigh my weakened state.

        “Please! You can’t let them do this to us!”

        “Hey lady, I’m just doing a job here,” he said, trying to pull away again.

        I looked up at him through my bandages. He had dark hair and a slightly pudgy face.

        “You can get me out of here! I’ll pay you! I’ll pay you riches!”

         That  was enough to make him hesitate.

        “What’s your name?”

        “Benjamin James Hardey. Look me up. I’ll pay you more than they do.”

        He seemed to consider this, and my heart leapt.

        “No way. If I turn on the bosses, they’ll make me like you.”

        “I’m not a lady yet. I can protect you. I know people.”

        It was a lie, but he didn’t know that. The man furrowed his brow.

        “I’ll think about it,” he said. “Now let me go, before someone sees us. There better be a lot of money and protection, if  I do anything.”

        “Wheel me out now and I’ll-”

        He held up a hand. “I can’t. Not here, not now. There’s too much security and too much heat, and I still haven’t decided. Besides, you haven’t got the strength.”

        “If you don’t move me now, soon I won’t even be a man any longer.”

        He looked at me, and even before he spoke, I realised the worst of it.

        “Don’t you get it? There’s a reason I’m calling you ‘lady.’ You stopped being a man three surgeries ago.” His face contorted into something like sympathy. “Sorry to be the one to tell you. Might want to think about what new name you want to take. Sometimes they let you choose . . . if you cooperate. I’ll think on what you offered. No promises.”

        He left, leaving me utterly in shock. He had no reason to lie that I could determine, and I had always been a good judge of character, Mallory excluded thanks to her unnatural wiles. I was a woman now, or at least no longer a man. The absence I felt between my thighs was real, but with my various bandages and braces I could not even feel myself to check.

        Not that I would even attempt such, at least at that time.

        I was grateful when exhaustion and sleep returned to me. I finally dreamed something that had nothing to do with hospitals and surgery and whispered eavesdroppings of my tormentors. Instead my unconscious state brought me images of beautiful women dancing beneath a moonlit sky on some kind of paradise island, each of them naked as they entertained a motley crew of rowdy men. And then one of them, a gorgeous black-haired beauty with a ripe bosom and fertile-looking hips, gestured for me to join and dance among them. I hesitated - there was something wrong about this - but in the end her seductive movements were simply too delightful, and I took her hands and danced around the fire with her, laughing as the men’s eyes turned from her to me, their gazes hungry.

        I know now why I dreamed that, and why the men looked so desirous when they looked upon me.

        The black-haired beauty was me.

        She was my future.

        And this writer’s present.

***

When next I woke, I was back in my cell, albeit I almost didn’t recognise it because of all the new hospital equipment and various health monitors in it. I was still lying back in a hospital bed, my body sore, but I could feel that much of my bandages had been removed. My body felt . . . different. Lighter, but with weight in some places where there shouldn’t be any, and padding on others. My spine hurt, as did my limbs. It was as if they’d been compressed. And, of course, there were bandages still around my face, which ached from where I’d gone under the knife far more than once.

        “Wakey wakey, Benny-boy,” Jonathan Dart said, looking over me with preening delight.

        I wanted to snap his neck, but I didn’t have the strength, or the remaining muscle mass. Instead, I groaned, the sound alien to me in its softness.

        “You b-bastard,” I managed. “What did you do to me?”

        “I didn’t do anything, I just paid the bill, Benny-boy. Though I suppose ‘boy’ isn’t the right descriptor now, is it? But the real question is, what didn’t  they do to you? Would you like to see?”

        I didn’t, but my curiosity got the better of me. So instead, I slowly nodded.

        “Just hurry up already,” I said in my raspy voice, one that was most certainly pitched too high in tone.

        Dart grinned and stepped back. Mallory sauntered forward, taunting me with her red dress that showed off her magnificent bust and perfect hourglass. Her lipstick was red, her earrings dangling and gleaming with diamonds, her red hair spilling over one shoulder perfectly. It should have been an arousing sight, but instead I felt nothing but trepidation. Looking back, I don’t hate Mallory anymore. She was simply following her programming, resigned to her status as Amadeus’ loyal servant and trophy wife, his number two. But at the time I wanted her to die in a very painful fire.

        Especially for what she showed me next.

        “Don’t scream,” she said. “And try not to act violently, or you’ll tear some of the stitches. Rest assured, if you behave properly, you’ll be unblemished with any mark, and your skin will be flawless!”

        She helped up the mirror.

        I screamed anyway.

        Several orderlies had to grab me and stop me from tearing open every  stitch as I writhed against my restraints upon the hospital bed. I was clamped down, but something gave, and the fussy orderlies saw to bandaging where I had spilled some blood.

        “Tsk, tsk,” Jonathan said from further back. “Try to calm down. Don’t be . . . hysterical , darling.”

        “F-fuck you!” I cried, but this time when Mallory held up the mirror again, I didn’t writhe, and instead took in my body’s image in catatonic silence. My face was still bandaged, and perhaps that was a good thing, because the rest of my body had changed far, far too much already. Seeing my face with it might have sent me over the edge into pure insanity.

        My waist had been narrowed; there was even a compression bandage keeping me ‘tucked in.’ My hips, on the other hand, bore a number of bruise marks and surgical lines where they had been ‘enhanced.’ They were wider, and my bone structure had clearly changed, because I ached to my very pelvis there. A number of metal pins were also inserted; I could guess they were to do with stretching and repairing the bone. No wonder it had hurt like a bitch when I moved. But the biggest hurt of all had to be the space between my thighs.

        Emptiness.

        Flatness.

        Nothing more than a mound.

        It was covered with bandages, thank God for small mercies, but I could see straight away that I was missing my penis. I had to look over my chest to note this agonising absence, because I now also had two mounds that had sprouted, small but obvious, upon my chest. Bigger than they had been, with surgical scars there as well.

        I will not lie, dear reader, I began to cry. No, that is not powerful enough; I sobbed . I wailed. I keened . There is nothing more humiliating and soul-crushing for a man than to lose his manhood. It’s in the name, after all. I tried to place my hand upon that mound to feel if I had anything  remaining, but my hands were shaking and I could barely control them. They were bandaged, but I knew they were thinner, daintier. The same was true of my legs; I could see that they were now hairless, their contours more feminine. My buttocks seemed to have more padding, and my face . . . I had no idea about my face yet, but I knew I would look more feminine, and I hated the knowledge of that. It made me sob all the more, trying to tear at my bandages until the orderlies prevented me. Even Jonathan seemed to pause his smug celebrations long enough to settle his face into a neutral expression.

        “We’ll leave you to come to terms with the new you, my darling,” he said. “The healing process will be rough, but I promise you will be very beautiful.”

        “I don’t want to be beautiful you FUCKING BASTARD!” I cried, my voice still scratchy and feminine. “I want my GODDAMN LIFE BACK!”

        “You’ll have a better life with me. Just ask Mallory. I know you don’t want to be beautiful now, but you will.”

        Mallory nodded sweetly, posing in such a way to show off her voluptuous curves - curves I would soon possess if the experiment continued. I was already very aware of the breasts I now possessed on my chest. They were small, perhaps barely B-cups, but there was a wobble to them as I writhed that was positively unnatural to me. I’m far more used to that wobble now - and there is a lot of wobble these days - but it took me a good long while to get used to it, and longer to accept it. Back then, it was anathema to my very male soul.

        “Mr Dart is right, Benjamin. You will come to want to look beautiful, as will Artie who has also been surgically altered alongside you.”

        “Never,” I said. “I’ll never fucking become what you want me to be!”

        “We’ll see,” Jonathan said, “after you go through your Mental Assistance Training.”

        They left, and I laid back on my bed, in pain despite the medication, delirious from the surgery and horrified by its results. I continued to sob.

        Artie also sobbed from the chamber next to me. There was something almost brotherly in that shared commiseration.

        Or perhaps sisterly.