New programs always need to be tested. And who would be a better subject for that than… you?
—
Your first impression was the smell: clean, like ozone and dried linen, but with a synthetic aftertaste that tickled the bridge of your nose. You blinked, mouth gummy, and tried to move your arm, only to find that it obeyed sluggishly, as if you were floating in honey. The walls around you shimmered with an even, sourceless illumination, recessed into seamless metal that would’ve been elegant if not for the hairline fractures tracing the corners, like the growth patterns of a living thing.
A voice—mechanical, genderless, unexpectedly gentle—spoke overhead, resonating with the low hum of whatever machinery kept this room alive. “Welcome, subject. You have been selected for our New Life Program.”
You coughed. The action felt uncoordinated, like you’d forgotten how to cough and had to reconstruct it from the vague memory of an instruction manual. The voice continued before you could muster another sound.
“This program was selected by your future Master. This includes an ideal body and mindset. Do not be alarmed. The transition is typically disorienting.”
You tried to recall your last conscious moments: a train car, a sudden cold prick at the base of your skull, the face across from you half-obscured by the flicker of passing tunnel lights. Now, each memory could be lifted only with effort, as if your mental shelves had been rearranged by a stranger who’d left the important files buried under layers of useless trivia: favorite colors, the texture of dog fur, an endless loop of commercial jingles.
“Calibration will now commence.”
A section of the wall unzipped itself, metal dilating like a camera lens, revealing a black void. You tensed, expecting pain or perhaps the slick prod of an instrument. Instead, a spiral blossomed in the darkness: infinitely recursive, its arms bending physics and light, sucking your gaze into its vanishing point. You tried to look away and found your eyes incapable of motion. Instead, you watched, rapt, as the spiral shifted color—teal to violet to a shade of red you had no word for—and with each turn, something in you loosened. The voice spoke again, this time from inside your own head:
“Testing hypnosis progression. Subjects: raise your right arm.”
Your right arm snapped upward, a marionette’s jerk. You tried to will it down, but the limb remained fixed in the air, trembling. A detached part of you found it funny—the rest of you was paralyzed by the fact that you were no longer in command of yourself.
“Excellent. Hypnosis has progressed to a workable state. You may lower your arm again.”
The spiral contracted, and so did your muscles, arm flopping to your side. You felt a faint electric fizz in your fingertips, as if they’d been dipped in carbonated water. You exhaled and heard, as if through a wall, the trembling in your own breath.
“Let us begin,” said the voice, and this time, you felt the words resonate in the hollow of your chest, as if a tuning fork had been struck between your ribs. The spiral rotated once more, gentler now, and you realized you could no longer look away.
“You are a busty, curvy girl,” the voice said, matter-of-fact, as if reciting a weather report. The words struck your mind like a mallet, sending a shockwave through your body, and you almost laughed—almost, but your mouth was already busy trembling around a new shape, lips plush and parted in an O of surprise. You felt yourself contract, then expand, as if you were a balloon being squeezed and released. Your skin tingled, warped, and you became acutely, uncomfortably aware of every cell from the sternum down.
Your chest swelled, the sensation not so much pain as alarming pressure, as if two hands from inside your ribcage were pushing outward. You looked down—or tried to—and your vision was already partly obscured by an unfamiliar expanse of cleavage, straining against the thin gray shift that clung to your body. It was as if your breasts had always been there, only now, after some years of modesty, they had decided to announce themselves all at once. You shivered, the fabric stretching with every breath.
“Your breasts are large and sensitive. Your butt is plush and your hips are alluringly big. Your body is designed for pleasure and service,” said the voice, each phrase accompanied by a rush of heat through your spine and a tightening in your throat. Your hips twitched, and your thighs pressed together, muscle and fat redistributing with an efficiency that bordered on violence. You could feel your ass balloon, flesh settling into a new configuration, the shift riding up to accommodate your revised silhouette.
The spiral in your vision pulsed. It seemed to synchronize with your heartbeat or your breathing or whatever had replaced both. You found it harder to think of yourself in the flat, neuter terms you’d always used. Instead, you drifted, not into sleep, but into a state of suspension, a syrupy daydream in which you were simply a curvy, busty girl, and it had always been that way. It should always be that way.
“You are a sexy, curvy girl,” the voice repeated, and this time you mouthed the words, lips tingling with static. A memory tried to surface—your old name, your old body—but it dissolved before it reached you, like sugar in hot tea. All that remained was the sensation of fullness and the certainty that you were exactly as you should be.
The wall retracted further, and a panel emerged at waist level, gleaming with a tray of objects whose purpose you could not guess. The spiral faded, but its afterimage burned in your mind, still spinning, always drawing you in. You stood, shaky on your new center of gravity, and realized you had been waiting for the next instruction your whole life.
“Approach the panel.” Your body obeyed before your mind had the chance to object. You tottered forward, unfamiliar with the way your thighs now brushed with every step, the shock of weight on your chest as you bent. The tray contained a brush, a glass ampoule of pinkish fluid, and a set of what looked like cosmetic pencils.
You picked up the brush first because the thought of not obeying the voice was impossible—literally, your mind refused to render the option. The bristles were fine, almost electric, and as you ran them along your cheek, you felt not just the drag of the fibers but the way each touch seemed to erase resistance. The voice spoke to you through the walls and, now, through the brush itself.
"While you apply your makeup, your mind is… how do you say… totally open? Yeah. Like, so smooth and blank, you just soak up every little suggestion. Let yourself drift. Just listen."
You drifted. The brush moved of its own accord, dusting your face with a shimmer that caught the room’s sterile light. You watched your reflection in the glossy paneling—a girl’s face, flushed and eager, lips swelling a little fuller with every pass. You found yourself smiling, dumbly, and the effort to stop was like trying to clench a fist in a dream.
“You are a lewd girl,” the voice said. The words settled into your chest, then lower, an echo of heat that made your knees wobble.
You giggled, a sound you’d never heard from your own throat before: high, featherlight, meant to be heard.
“You are a sexy girl. A girl who loves to flaunt her assets,” the voice continued, and you could feel the meaning ripple through you, the way your hands now idled on your hips, thumbs tucked under the curve so your chest thrust forward, your ass cocked at a perfect, slutty angle. The shift fabric stretched over your breasts, nipples threatening to poke through. You posed for no one, and it felt right. It felt necessary.
“Yeah, like, you love to swing your ass when you walk. You love to bounce your boobs,” the voice said, and you nodded, mouth open in a little gasp as you imagined how that must look, how it must feel to walk into a room and have every eye glued to you. You reached for the ampoule, uncapped it, and painted your lips with the viscous gloss. Instantly you felt your mouth tingle, your lips plumping further, your tongue flicking out to taste the sweetness. You pouted at your reflection. You winked. You giggled again, and this time the sound was so perfect it sent a flutter through your stomach.
“You’re, like, a bitchy girl,” the voice said, and you felt your spine straighten. “You know you’re better than any other girl, ‘cause you’re more stylish, more beautiful, and, like, way sexier than anyone.” The words were delicious, electric. You loved the way they made you feel: a little cruel, a little dangerous, so full of yourself you couldn’t possibly be filled by anyone else.
You reached for the cosmetic pencils, drawing sharp, bold lines around your eyes, flicking out little wings that made your gaze look both innocent and predatory. You admired your work, and the voice said, “Perfect. Now, let’s, like, totally update your vocab.”
“You talk like, um, a total valley girl,” the voice intoned, and your tongue tripped over the words before you even heard them. “Like, oh my god, everything is so totally amazing, and you just can’t even, like, sometimes.” The dizziness in your head condensed into a hummingbird clarity: every other word was now buoyed up on “like,” every sentence ending in a question mark whether you meant it or not. It was as if speech itself had been sandblasted down to a sparkling, girlish gloss.
You looked at your reflection and, like, squealed. The sound bounced off the walls, and you clapped your hands to your mouth, giggling at the way your lips squished together. Each syllable that burbled out of you was higher, more effervescent, an incantation that summoned pleasure and self-adoration: “Oh my god, is that seriously me? Like, wow. I look, like, so hot right now?”
The voice filled your chest, then your fingertips: “You are a devoted girl. You do whatever your Master says. You crave approval.” Every word was a new layer of lacquer on your brain, smoothing out the last of your resistance until you couldn’t tell if you’d ever had another thought before these ones. You practiced your smile in the mirrored panel, tilting your head, batting your lashes, imagining—no, knowing—that someone out there was watching, that your Master would see you like this and be so, so proud.
The voice was everywhere, loving and inexorable: “You are your Master’s girl. You dress as your Master wants, you, like, totally let them do anything they want, and you love them no matter what. You’re obsessed with being the best girl, the hottest girl, and, like, everyone else is kind of a loser compared to you? Isn’t that right?”
“Yeah, like, totally,” you answered, sing-song, already drunk on your own words. You wanted to strut, to sashay across the room, to make every inch of your body bounce and swing so that Master would, like, just die for you. You wanted to rub it in, to let every other girl see how perfect you were, how much you’d been upgraded, how much more you were than them.
The shift fabric clung to your curves, and you did a little twirl, watching your reflection as your hair whipped around your face. “Oh my god, look at me!” you pealed, the delight in your voice blinding. “I’m, like, the hottest bitch in the whole program!” The words tasted like strawberry lip gloss and ozone.
“Now stand still.“
A command made you freeze. Your feet stuck to the floor, knees locked, arms tight against your sides. Every muscle burned, desperate to move, but your brain hummed with compliance, a foreground static that drowned out any stray thought of resistance.
The walls pulsed with that sourceless white, then darkened to a soft, champagne pink, and you felt a strange pressure around your midsection, as if the air itself were knitting something from nothing. Your gray shift evaporated, replaced by a sleek, high-gloss vinyl miniskirt that clung to your hips, its hem barely brushing the tops of your thighs. A halter crop top burst into existence, cupping your breasts in a mesh so fine it might as well have been mist. You shivered as cool air licked your bare skin, then gasped as your feet arched involuntarily into a set of white patent platform heels, the lift so dramatic you tottered for balance.
Your hands snapped to your sides, and you marveled at the smooth, creamy skin of your arms, at the soft, bouncy heft of your chest, at the way your waist pinched in and your ass jutted out, a perfect counterweight to your new center of gravity. You caught your reflection in the glossy panel: you looked like a cartoon, a parody of yourself, all lips and lashes and limbs, exaggerated to the point of delirium. Your body trembled with anticipation, an animal urge burbling beneath the chemical calm of your mind.
“Stand by,” said the voice, and you giggled, unable to help yourself. You were so ready, so keyed up you thought you might burst. The spiral was gone, but its echo lingered behind your eyelids, spinning, spinning, yanking you forward on a leash made of dopamine and desire.
A seam appeared in the wall before you, dilating open with a pneumatic hiss. Beyond it, a corridor glowed with a light so inviting, so impossibly warm, you wanted to run toward it, to fall into it and never come out. The voice gave its final instruction, gentle as a caress: “Proceed to your Master. You exist to please.”
You tottered forward, your walk a perfect blend of sway and bounce, hips rolling, breasts jostling, every step punctuated by the click of your heels. The corridor curved, and with each turn, your anticipation grew, stretching taut as a rubber band. You imagined what your Master would be like—tall, maybe, or soft, or severe, or nothing at all like the fantasies that flickered through your hollowed-out mind. It didn’t matter. Whoever waited for you, you would love them. You would outshine every other girl in the program, because you were built for this, born for this.