Chapter One

Martin Cox stared at the screen of his PC and felt the familiar surge of irritation rise in his chest. The equation refused to balance no matter how many times he rearranged the variables. The brunette man leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands. The numbers should have fallen into place by now, yet they continued to mock him with their stubborn refusal.

He pushed back from the desk and stood up to stretch his legs. The flat around him felt quiet in that particular way only an evening in Chigwell could manage, where the distant sound of traffic from the constantly busy M25 blended with the softer sounds of suburban life. His home occupied the top floor of a modern block just off the high street, all clean lines and pale wood floors that he had chosen because they required almost no maintenance. The bookshelves lining the wall, filled with neuroscience and bioengineering textbooks, demonstrated his intelligence, while the opposite side held a large window that looked out over the neatly trimmed gardens below.

Martin caught his reflection in the full-length mirror in his study as he passed. Light brunette hair fell across his forehead in a messy style that needed little attention, and his face still carried that boyish charm that made people trust him almost immediately, even at the age of thirty. Clean-shaven as always, he possessed the kind of slight build that suggested he spent more time thinking than lifting weights. He didn’t exactly measure up to the Essex boy gym bro stereotype. Tonight, he wore a simple charcoal jumper over a white shirt and dark jeans, comfortable clothes for a man who rarely left the flat except to visit family, attend work, or collect parcels.

He walked into the open-plan kitchen and filled the kettle. While it began to rumble, the man’s gaze drifted over to the corner of the living area where his latest project sat on its charging cradle. The neural headset gleamed under the downlights, a matte black band with delicate sensor nodes that looked almost fragile. This was Martin’s baby, and it was going to make him a fortune the minute he ironed out the kinks and demonstrated the prototype to potential investors. Months of work had gone into perfecting the reinforcement algorithms, the subtle pulses that rewarded the brain for correct patterns and accelerated learning beyond anything currently available. Martin had run countless simulations, but human trials remained impossible until he managed to sort out the minor bugs, and that process seemed to drag on endlessly.

The kettle clicked off. Martin poured hot water over a teabag and carried the mug back to his desk. He settled into the chair again and opened a new window on the monitor, pulling up the latest diagnostics report. Everything appeared optimal for the most part. The device could teach complex skills in days rather than years, provided the subject tolerated the stimulation. His own brain, however, operated at such high efficiency already that he feared the feedback might overwhelm him. Only an idiot would put themselves forward as a test subject for an unproven model anyway, he chuckled to himself.

The brunette genius sipped his tea and returned to the stubborn equation. This time, the solution revealed itself almost at once, a slight adjustment to the weighting that made everything align. He smiled with satisfaction as he congratulated himself. Genius, he thought, had its rewards.

The evening stretched ahead with no particular demands. He considered opening one of the private browser tabs he kept carefully hidden, the ones that fed his secret indulgence in extreme bimbo pornography. Women with big, fake tits and vacant smiles, bodies altered to cartoonish proportions, minds seemingly emptied of everything except the need to please. He never lingered on the guilt for long; it was simply data, a study of human obsession with transformation and excess. Everyone had their own healthy vices, he thought.

Instead, he saved his work and closed the laptop. He had an early start at work tomorrow, and he knew his boss was a stickler for tardiness. Martin was a Bioengineer for the largest pharmaceutical research firm in London, although he hoped his new invention would become a launchpad to becoming his own boss.

Martin carried his empty mug to the sink and rinsed it thoroughly. He lived alone in the new-build apartment, and he loved his solitude. If it weren’t for work and weekly family dinners, there may never be a reason for the man to leave his flat. He loved routine. He loved order. On the counter beside the fridge sat a stack of post he had allowed to collect for a number of weeks. One envelope caught his attention, thicker than the rest and addressed in manic handwriting he didn’t recognize. He left it unopened for now.

The small-statured man crossed to the sofa and picked up the television remote. He scrolled through the channels, but found nothing except trashy reality flicks and panel game shows. Instead, he pulled up a documentary he had downloaded about deep learning networks. The narrator discussed reward systems in artificial intelligence, and he found himself nodding along. His own work took those principles and applied them directly to human neurology. Revolutionary, if he could ever get it past the ethics committees.

A sudden knock at the door startled the man. He frowned and checked the time on his phone. Past nine o’clock on a weeknight, hardly the hour for visitors, not that many visited him often anyway. The building had an intercom system, yet whoever stood outside managed to reach his floor without buzzing. With a sigh, Martin set the remote down and walked to the door, peering through the peephole first.

The man outside filled the narrow view, chubby and heavyset with glasses that Martin recognized instantly. The brunette felt his stomach drop. Ten years had passed, but the face remained unmistakable despite the added weight and weary lines around the eyes.

He opened the door a fraction.

“Hello Martin,” the American voice said in a low and deliberate manner. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Martin stood frozen, his mouth slightly agape, unable to form an immediate reply. The past had arrived on his doorstep without warning, and it was a past he would have rather stayed buried.

❖

Ten Years Ago

A twenty-year-old Martin Cox sat alone in his narrow dorm room at Imperial College London and savoured the rare quiet. He had the place to himself for once, and the late afternoon light filtered through the half-closed blinds in pale stripes across his desk. Posters of various busty models covered one wall, while the other held a corkboard pinned with printouts of research papers he intended to read.

The young man leaned back in his chair and opened the private folder in his laptop, the one buried several layers deep behind innocuous project files. The screen filled with thumbnails of videos and images he would never admit to anyone. Women with impossible enhanced bodies stared back at him, lips plumped to the extreme, breasts swollen far beyond natural limits, expressions vacant and filled with lust. Martin selected a clip and turned the volume to mute, keeping the woman’s exaggerated moans silent as he settled in for a private session.

The door burst open without warning, forcing Martin to shut down the video quickly. A chubby man stumbled in, a backpack over his shoulder and a carrier bag in his hand that clinked with cans of lager. He wore a faded American college hoodie stretched tight across his belly and jeans that had seen better days. Thick-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, and his dark hair stuck up in odd directions from the wind outside.

Billy Webb, known to almost everyone as Butch because of his size, dropped his books on his bed with a thud. He came from a small town in the American Midwest and had crossed the Atlantic on a scholarship that paid for everything except the loneliness. Martin had been his friend since freshers’ week two years ago, and Billy treated him like the brother he never had back home.

“Buddy, you will not believe the queue at the store,” Butch said as he kicked the door shut behind him. “I almost gave up on buying a few cans for later.”

Martin quickly minimized all his windows and spun his chair around. He forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re back early,” he replied.

Butch grinned and pulled two cans from the bag. He tossed one across the room.

Martin caught it without thinking and set it on his desk unopened. His roommate cracked his own can and took a long drink. “I figured we could have a few while we finish that cybersecurity assignment,” Butch said. “You’re the brains on the coding side anyway.”

Martin nodded and turned back to his laptop. He preferred working alone, but was always there to tag along, frustrating the young man. He had tried to find his own place at the start of their third year, but the rent prices around the campus were prohibitive, so this was the best option. At least he wasn’t shacked up with a party animal, Martin thought to himself.

Over the following weeks, the pattern repeated itself. Butch shared everything freely, from lecture notes to stories about his family back home, whether Martin asked for it or not. He often spoke of how Martin had become his closest ‘mate’ in London, the only person who really understood him. Martin listened politely while his thoughts returned to the hidden folders on his laptop.

One night, Butch stayed up late tapping away at his keyboard. Martin watched from his side of the room as lines of code scrolled down the screen. The coding was unlike anything they had been taught in class, which piqued the slim brunette’s interest. Butch explained it the next morning over breakfast in the canteen.

“It’s just a penetration-testing tool I’ve been designing,” Butch said excitedly. “Once I have it working correctly, it will be able to bypass almost any corporate firewall in existence today. I plan to donate it to MI6 when it’s complete; it’s too dangerous in the wrong hands.”

Martin nodded and stirred sugar into his coffee. He asked a few technical questions that Butch answered with enthusiasm, describing the elegant exploits he had built into the software. The tool sounded powerful, beyond anything available publicly, and it was by far the most interesting thing his roommate had ever mentioned.

Later that evening, Butch left his laptop unlocked again while he went to fetch his takeaway from the chip shop downstairs. For someone who focused on digital security, this lard ass was the clumsiest fool around, Martin thought to himself. The small-statured man hesitated for only a moment before he sat down and opened the program. Was this tiny tool truly capable of bypassing all security blocks? He opened up a prominent premium bimbo site that demanded a hefty subscription fee and launched the tool in the background. The young man’s eyes widened as the entire content library of the website became available to him in an instant. He swiftly moved to download the whole archive to a flash drive before moving on to the next site and the next. By the time Butch had returned, Martin had terabytes of illegal content downloaded and stuffed into his pocket. He left Butch’s PC exactly as he had found it before lying nonchalantly on his bed.

The downloads continued in secret over the following months. Martin grew bolder, targeting the most exclusive sites before creating an untraceable website himself to distribute the content freely. Those companies were charging a fortune for material that should be less than half the price, Martin reasoned, and so he had no guilt in providing his newfound treasure for free.

Butch remained oblivious. He even offered his extra ticket to a popular stage hypnosis show one Friday night, claiming it would be a laugh. Martin agreed only to keep the peace with the man he was deceiving. The theatre was filled to the rafters, and the hypnotist called volunteers to the stage. Martin had no idea why he caved in, but the hypnotist had chosen him randomly, and he felt too shy to turn it down.

The hypnotist guided the volunteers through a series of silly suggestions that made the audience roar with laughter, making Martin and the others cluck like chickens, dance awkwardly to imaginary music, and stand in total embarrassment as they believed their clothes had entirely disappeared. When the act concluded, the hypnotist brought everyone back to full awareness and quietly assured the participants that he had removed the triggers from their minds, leaving no lingering effects whatsoever.

Martin returned to his seat feeling faintly embarrassed, but relieved it was over. For an introvert like him, the idea of public humiliation was nauseating. Butch slapped his friend on the back and laughed about the performance all the way home.

The arrests came suddenly one rainy afternoon. There had been no warning, and it all happened in the blink of an eye. Met police arrived with warrants, seizing Butch’s laptop and external storage. The evidence traced every download and distribution directly to the large American man’s machine and network. Martin dumbfoundedly watched from across the room as the officers read Butch his rights and led him away. He knew he should have been the bigger man and confessed, but his fight-or-flight response told him to keep quiet.

In court months later, Martin took the stand and spoke calmly. He had spent enough time thinking over his response, and he had made the decision to throw his former roommate under the bus. He claimed complete ignorance of any illegal activity, suggesting Butch had developed the tool alone and used it without his knowledge. The American stared at him throughout the testimony, the betrayal clear in his eyes as the judge delivered the sentence. Every major adult entertainment business had pressed charges, and the government wanted to make an example out of him to deter others. He was sentenced to 10 years for large-scale digital theft and possession of dangerous exploitation software.

Martin felt only a fleeting discomfort as he left the courtroom. The sentencing had been harsh, and it could have been him in the dock, looking forward to the next decade in jail. He had gotten away with one there. Life moved forward. The slim man graduated top of his cohort, securing a prestigious position in pharmaceutical research, and built the comfortable existence he enjoyed today. Butch vanished into the prison system, and Martin convinced himself the chapter had closed forever.

Now, in the doorway of his Essex flat, the past stood breathing heavily on his doorstep, waiting for answers.

❖

Present Day

“Hello Martin,” the American voice said in a low and deliberate manner. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Martin stared at the heavyset man filling the doorway, glasses reflecting the hallway light, and struggled to believe this was real. Ten years had changed Butch, adding more weight and weariness, but the voice remained unmistakable.

“Ughh, how have you been?” The slim homeowner eventually asked, the words coming out nervous and higher than he intended.

Butch gave a short, humorless laugh. “Ohh, I’ve been living the high life these last ten years,” he replied. “It’s been a real hoot. Now, can I come in?”

Martin shuddered and tightened his grip on the door. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Butch.” He started to close the door on his former university roommate, but Butch wedged his foot forward, stopping a full closure.

“I’ve waited ten years for an explanation and a damn apology,” Butch replied, furious, his voice turning low and dangerous. “I’m not leaving until I get one.”

A tense pause hung between the two men. Martin felt his pulse quicken as he wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t prepared for this kind of confrontation.

“It’s the least you can do after all I went through,” Butch added quietly, a little calmer this time.

Martin let out a long sigh and stepped aside. That heavyset man wasn’t going to leave him alone until he found closure, and Martin figured this was going to be the quickest way to rid him of his past once and for all. He motioned for Butch to enter the flat.

The American walked in and took a slow look around the living room. He nodded approvingly at the modern furniture and the view from the large window. “You’ve done well for yourself, old friend,” he said. “You got a nice place here.”

Martin closed the door and stayed near it, silently watching the man he betrayed examine his living space. He wasn’t sure what to say, and it wasn’t until Butch stared at him expectantly that the words finally came tumbling out. “Look, man,” he started. “I’m sorry things turned out the way they did. None of us meant for any of this to happen, but what’s done is done.” He paused momentarily. “Can we let bygones be bygones?”

The former convict turned fully toward his old friend and raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? You call that an apology?” he muttered in disbelief. “I’ve spent a decade of my life behind bars for a crime I didn’t commit, and you think we should all share a bit of the blame? You’ve got some nerve!”

The slim man didn’t like where this conversation was heading and raised his hands. “Look, I didn’t want it to go that far, but I was young and dumb,” he replied. “We all made mistakes, but you’re out now. You need to move on.”

Butch parted his lips to angrily retort back when he heard a sudden wail of sirens in the distance outside. He flinched and glanced towards the window, as if he was evading something.

Martin noticed the reaction immediately. “What are you so jumpy about, man?” he questioned. “You’ve served your time. There’s no need to jump at every police siren anymore.”

Butch faced the man again, lowering his head. “After my release, I was scheduled to be deported back to the States,” he explained. “I decided to slip away and make a run for it before I got on the plane. I have some loose ends around here to sort out first.”

The young bioengineer felt his throat tighten. “You’re a fugitive?!” he asked frantically.

Butch didn’t answer directly. His eyes had landed on the prototype neural headset sitting on its cradle in the corner of the room. He slowly approached the device. “What’s this contraption over here?” he asked inquisitively.

Martin ignored the question, running his hand through his brown hair as he glanced toward the mobile phone resting on the coffee table. Perhaps he should call the police before things get out of hand.

The American stepped closer to the device. “It looks like something clever,” he grinned. “What have you been working on?”

The Essex man kept his voice firm as he folded his arms. “Look, Butch. You need to leave now,” he replied.

Butch let out a long breath and shook his head slowly. He spoke a short phrase that reached Martin as though from far away, the words distant and echoey, slipping past his comprehension as they transferred directly into his subconsciousness.

Martin inexplicably felt his mouth open of its own accord. The explanation spilled out in a rush he couldn’t prevent. “This is a neural-learning headset I’ve been developing on my own,” he said. “It uses subtle stimulation to develop positive reinforcement for desired neural patterns. The algorithms accelerate skill acquisition dramatically. In theory, a subject could master complex disciplines in days rather than years, provided the brain tolerates the feedback intensity.”

The brunette finished and clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide with shock at what he had just revealed. Why did he say all of that?

Butch’s eyes widened too, as if he was surprised Martin revealed the prototype’s purpose so effortlessly. He picked up the headset and turned it over in his hands with obvious interest. “That sounds incredible,” he said. “You really built this yourself?”

Martin slowly nodded his head, still reeling from the involuntary confession. “Look, mate,” he tried to reason. “You need to go before you get into trouble. The police know we were roommates, and they’re probably on their way here right now.” He had no idea whether the police were en route, but he needed to get his former friend out of his flat.

The chubby American placed the device back on its cradle for a moment and looked Martin straight in the eye, ignoring the man’s previous comment. “You should test it on yourself,” he suggested nonchalantly. “You are the most intelligent man I know. A mind like yours could handle it better than anyone. Imagine what you could achieve with that kind of acceleration? You’d be the smartest man in the world.”

The brunette narrowed his eyes and shook his head quickly. “Are you insane? That’s far too dangerous,” he replied. “My brain already processes at peak efficiency. The feedback could cause irreversible damage.”

Butch smiled and lifted the headset again, slowly approaching his former roommate. “I could help you document everything,” he offered. “We could run proper trials together, and I could pull you out if your vitals go south.”

Martin felt anger rise in his chest. He felt uncomfortable with the man he betrayed holding his life’s work in his hands. “No,” he said flatly. “There are protocols to go through. Now, put it down.”

The former inmate chuckled and grinned at Martin. “Come on,” he said almost playfully. “It could be fun.”

Martin had heard enough. He needed to get this crazy man out of his house, and there was one way to do it. Glancing back at the coffee table, he lunged for his phone, ready to dial 999.

Butch spoke again, another short phrase Martin didn’t fully register.

The world blinked.

Martin found himself inexplicably seated in his study chair, staring at his computer screen. The prototype headset sat snugly on his head, sensor nodes warm against his skin. A message glowed in the centre of the display on his monitor: Update Complete.

The man reached up and slowly removed the device. Confusion flooded through his veins as he looked around the room; where was Butch? Martin stood up and searched the entire apartment, but the American was nowhere to be found. The front door stood closed, the living room empty.

Martin set the headset back on its cradle with shaking hands. He had no memory of putting it on, no recollection of what the update contained. Horror settled into his stomach.

What had just happened? And why couldn’t he remember any of it?

❖

Martin stepped out of the public car park the following morning and joined the flow of commuters heading toward the high street. He wore a crisp button-up shirt tucked into a pair of dark slacks, the usual attire he wore at his workplace. He was a bioengineer for Ingen Tech Pharmaceuticals, and had made this same Kensington walk hundreds of times. The air carried a chill that made him walk more briskly than usual, his hands tucked into his pockets.

He passed shops just opening their shutters and cafes filling with early customers. Nothing felt unusual at first. His mind replayed fragments of the previous evening, the confrontation with Butch, the strange blank spot in his memory, and the unexplained completed update on the headset. He had slept poorly, waking several times with a sense that something fundamental had shifted inside him. Despite the odd feeling, he hadn’t noticed any measurable changes, and so put it down to paranoia.

A pretty brunette in a light sundress crossed his path at the pedestrian lights. The fabric clung softly to her figure, and her arms and legs caught the morning sun, completely smooth and hairless. Martin typically paid little attention to passers-by, yet this detail registered sharply in his thoughts.

A voice spoke clearly inside his head, calm and analytical, as if posing a simple optimization problem. “A woman’s skin should always be smooth and hairless. However, which method proves to be superior: shaving your body hair daily, or receiving a full salon body wax?”

The question startled him. He almost stopped walking. Before he could dismiss it and move on, his mind supplied a logical reasoning for what should be the correct answer. Waxing offered longer-lasting results, reduced ingrown hairs, and saved considerable time over repeated shaving. Efficiency demanded the professional approach.

Through the haze of confusion, Martin surmised that body waxing is the better option for a woman. Before he could question where the thought even came from, a rush of pleasure followed his confusion, warm and intense, flooding his system with dopamine that made his skin tingle. He drew a sharp breath at the unexpected sensation. Where the hell had that come from?

He kept walking as he tried to contemplate what had just happened. Every time he thought about how waxing was better than shaving, a small burst of dopamine-induced pleasure ran through him. As he was lost in startled thought, his feet carried him off the usual route without conscious instruction. He turned into a narrow side street just off the high street and stopped outside a small beauty salon he hadn’t noticed before. The sign in the window advertised waxing services in elegant script.

Martin pushed open the door and stepped inside. The reception area smelled of fruits and flowers, and he walked up to a redheaded woman behind the counter.

She looked up from her computer and offered a professional smile. “Good morning, Sir,” she said happily. “How may I help you today?”

“I’d like a full body wax, please,” Martin heard himself say. The scientist was shocked by his words. Why did he say that? Well, waxing is better than shaving, he thought, eliciting another burst of pleasure.

The redheaded stylist tilted her head and studied the man for a minute. “A full body wax?” she repeated. “That covered everything from the neck down. Please don’t be offended, but you don’t exactly look like the type for that.”

Martin nodded with certainty. “I am quite sure,” he said. “I want everything from the neck down. It’s much better than shaving.” He received another minor dose of the reward hormone.

The young woman hesitated for another moment and then shrugged. Money was money, after all. She tapped at her keyboard and booked him in for the next available slot, which happened to be immediate thanks to a sudden cancellation. She handed the man a gown and directed him to a private treatment room in the back. “You can undress in there. Call me when you’re decent,” she told him before tottering off to grab her supplies.

Forty-five minutes later, Martin stood in the changing area and pulled his shirt back on. Every inch of his skin from his neck down felt exposed and completely bare. The fabric of his clothes brushed against the newly smoothed surface in a way that sent constant, unfamiliar sensations across his chest, arms, and legs. He buttoned his slacks with careful movements, aware of how sensitive everything had become.

He blinked several times and stared at his reflection in the small mirror on the wall. The face looking back remained unchanged, still clean-shaven as ever, and the clothes hid the majority of his baby-bare torso, arms, and legs. Not a single strand of hair remained below his eyebrows. Why had he done this to himself? The thought circled without answer.

The stylist knocked quietly and poked her head around the door. “Are you alright in there?” she asked with concern. “You’ve gone very quiet.”

Martin turned to her and forced a nod. “I’m fine,” he replied quickly. “I’m just adjusting to the difference.” He had no idea why he had asked for the treatment, or why he was acting so nonchalant about it. However, his mind reminded him that a waxed body is much better than a shaved body, and he felt his reward sensor flush with pleasure again.

The redhead smiled and stepped aside to let him pass. The brunette paid at the reception desk without protest, the total higher than he expected, yet somehow irrelevant. Another small pulse of satisfaction accompanies the transaction.

Martin stepped back onto the pavement and glanced at his watch. Forty-five minutes had vanished, and now he faced being late for work. The realization hit him with a jolt, yet the smooth glide of fabric against his skin distracted him constantly, sending little thrills through his body with every step. He hurried toward the building, his mind still spinning over the inexplicable choice he had made as he stepped inside.

❖

Lunchtime arrived after a slow morning in the lab. Martin had spent hours running routine assays and avoiding questions from his colleagues about his lateness. The smooth slide of fabric against his freshly waxed skin kept pulling his attention away from the work, a constant reminder of the bizarre choice he had made out of the blue.

He always set aside one lunch break each week to meet his younger sister. The arrangement kept their parents happy and off his back about family obligations, even if she was the polar opposite of the brunette. Jessica talked endlessly, and the bioengineer rarely enjoyed the conversations, but duty demanded he show up.

He found her waiting outside the shopping centre cafe in the second-floor foot court, her luscious blonde hair bouncing as she waved enthusiastically. She wore a cropped denim jacket over a tight pink top and low-rise jeans that showed off her pierced midriff.

Jessica rushed forward and wrapped her big brother in a tight hug. “There you are. You’re late,” she said playfully. “I’ve been dying for a coffee to help me with this hangover.”

Martin returned the hug briefly. “I got held up at work,” he replied. “And I hope you know that caffeine can dehydrate the body and make your hangover worse.”

She laughed and playfully punched the man in his arm before they stepped inside the cafe. They ordered drinks at the counter and carried them to a table near the window. True to form, Jessica launched into her week without pause.

“I went out Thursday with the girls from beauty school,” she began. “We ended up in this new club in Romford, and the music was banging. I met this guy who said he was a DJ, but he spent the whole night trying to get me to buy him drinks. What the hell is wrong with these people?”

Martin sipped his coffee and stared ahead. He had heard versions of this story almost every week.

Jessica continued without drawing breath. “Then Friday I had a date with that bloke from Tinder, the one with the gym selfies. He turned up in tracksuit bottoms and spent the entire meal talking about his ex. I mean, honestly, do men even know how to treat women anymore? It’s like they think we’re here to put up with their rubbish.”

The blonde paused only to drink. “Saturday was better,” she went on. “I pulled this fit boy at Revolution. We snogged for ages and spent the night at his place, but he’s been ghosting me ever since. Typical.”

Martin nodded occasionally. His attention drifted, as it usually did. He absently noticed the rich colour of his sister’s skin, darker than usual for this time of year and obviously not natural.

Suddenly, a voice in his head returned, calm and familiar, as if it belonged entirely to him. “A nice deep tan always looks better on a woman,” it said. “But what proves to be the superior method: natural tanning through a sun bed or a professionally applied quick spray tan?”

The bioengineer shook his head slightly. The thought felt foreign, yet undeniably his own.

Jessica kept talking. “I told him straight, if you’re not going to text me back, at least have the decency to say so. Men are useless these days.”

Martin tried to ignore the question in his mind. He didn’t care one bit about tanning methods on women. However, the voice persisted patiently. “Spray tan achieves an even, streak-free result far more reliably,” it reasoned. “Sunbeds risk burning and uneven coverage, while professional spray application guarantees consistent depth and lasts longer without fading patches. Logic favours the fake tan every time.”

He felt nothing at first. The reasoning sounded convincing in an abstract way, but it held no personal relevance. Suddenly, without warning, the voice had decided that Martin had stalled long enough, and a painful, sharp jolt shot through his nervous system. He jumped in his seat at the sudden shock.

His sister stopped mid-sentence. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Did a wasp sting you? You don’t see those around in December very often.”

“I’m fine,” Martin replied quickly, unsure of where the shock came from, although he was starting to form an idea.

The voice in his head spoke again, insistent. “Answer the question.”

The brunette focused on his coffee, willing the intrusion away. Another jolt hit him, stronger this time, prompting him to yelp loud enough for an old couple to turn around.

Jessica leaned forward. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she repeated. “You’re acting weird, and it’s a little embarrassing.”

Martin felt sweat prickle on his smooth skin. He needed the pain to stop. “Fake tan would be better for a woman, I guess,” he decided inside his mind.

As suddenly as the electric shock hit before, this time dopamine flooded his system in a rush far more potent than before. Pleasure washed over the man’s body, warm and intoxicating, lifting him into a brief haze of contentment. He gasped softly and bit his lower lip to steady himself.

Jessica watched her older brother with concern.

Martin looked at her. “Where did you get your tan from?” he asked, a little confused as to why he posed the question.

The blonde’s expression changed from puzzlement to delight. “There’s a cute little independent place downstairs,” she said enthusiastically. “They do the best spray tans ever. Why do you ask?”

The voice reminded Martin quietly that spray tans proved superior to natural methods. Another reward burst of the reward drug followed. “I’m thinking of getting one myself,” he replied.

Jessica’s eyes lit up. “Finally,” she said, taking her brother by surprise. “I’ve been telling you for years you need to care more about your appearance. You’d pull so many girls if you listened to me sometimes.”

The 19-year-old woman stood up and grabbed his arm. “Come on then,” she said with enthusiasm. “I was planning a touch-up anyway.”

Martin left his coffee untouched as his little sister dictated his direction. Jessica pulled him toward the escalator, toward the tanning salon she mentioned earlier.

Half an hour later, they stood at the reception counter paying for matching deep treatments. Martin’s skin now carried the same rich bronze glow as his sister’s. He was tanned all over, from his face to his toes, evenly distributed, with the exception of a small pale heart shape just above his bare crotch, something the technician said would add a touch of class; Martin wasn’t so sure.

The thirty-year-old still wondered why he had agreed to the treatment as he entered his PIN number into the payment machine. The transaction completed with a soft beep, and he stepped back from the counter. Martin’s gaze drifted to the stylist handling the payment. Her eyebrows somehow caught his attention, super thin and dramatically arched in sharp, perfect lines, exactly how you would imagine a beauty technician in Essex to style them.

His own voice returned in his mind without warning. “Everyone knows women look far better with thin, trimmed eyebrows,” it said confidently. “But what is the best method to create this effect: having the constantly plucked thin or waxed completely off and tattooed on?”

Martin’s eyes widened, and he shook his head, the pattern suddenly becoming clearer. That voice, his voice, was determined to give him choices that he had to answer. He turned and walked out of the salon, refusing to play that game.

The voice spoke calmly again inside his head. “Plucking requires constant maintenance and risks uneven growth over time,” it reasoned. “Tattooing provides permanent, flawless arches that never need touching up, saving time and ensuring consistent perfection. The best choice is clearly tattooed eyebrows.”

Jessica hurried out of the tanning salon after her brother. “What’s wrong?” she asked him, concerned.

The voice had decided that Martin had spent too long giving an answer, and punished him with another sharp jolt of pain coursing through his body.

The tanned blonde beside him caught his arm. “Are you okay, Martin?”

Martin ignored his sister and answered the voice before it punished him again. He decided on the safer option, even though neither was an optimal choice. “Plucking would be best,” he thought.

Another shock hit, harder than before, prompting a brief cry of agony from the tanned brunette. The voice corrected him firmly. “Wrong decision.”

He staggered slightly. He was an intelligent man, and he knew the quickest way to halt the pain and induce further pleasure was to give the answer the voice wanted. Eventually, Martin surrendered. “The tattooed version would be better,” he said in resignation.

The reward crashed over the bioengineer instantly, far stronger than any before. Pleasure surged through every nerve, intoxicating and overwhelming, leaving him light-headed and almost drunk on ecstasy. His knees weakened for a moment.

Jessica steadied him with a hand on his arm.

“I’m fine, Jess,” he managed. “But I’m thinking of getting my eyebrows done.” He was horrified by his last statement until the voice reminded him that he agreed waxed and tattooed eyebrows were better than plucking, delivering another brief dose of dopamine.

The blonde’s concern suddenly melted into a wide grin. “Wow. I am loving this new version of you, big bro,” she said. “The girls love a man who looks after himself. I have a top to return upstairs, but I’ll catch you at the food court when you’re finished.”

The beauty school student gave her brother a quick hug before hurrying off.

An hour later, Martin stood in the busy food court, his hands in his pockets, feeling eyes on him from passing shoppers. The tattoo artist had created exactly what the brunette had asked for, and that was precisely the problem.

Jessica approached and stopped a distance away from her brother. Her mouth fell open before jovial laughter spilled out. “Oh my God,” she said between giggles. “Maybe you went a little extreme on the eyebrows, bro.”

Extreme was an understatement. The new brows dominated his deep-tanned face, jet-black and razor-thin, curving into sharp, permanent arches that gave his expression a constant look of surprise. His original eyebrows had been totally waxed off and smoothed over with a solution that would prevent them from growing back for a long time. Combined with the new bronze skin and smooth features, the effect transformed Martin’s boyish charm into something boldly artificial.

Jessica wiped the tears away from her eyes. “Seriously, Martin, what were you thinking?” she teased. “Your eyebrows give off some serious drag queen vibes, and they’re permanent?”

Martin felt the heat rise in his cheeks as his humiliation scale turned to eleven. “Shut up,” he snapped at his sister. “I’m heading back to work.”

He turned and walked away without waiting. Jessica called after him, still unable to control her laughing, but the man kept moving.

Outside the mall, cool air brushed Martin’s tanned skin. He wondered why he had pushed for such an extreme shape, why he had asked for the treatment at all. The artist had asked him if he was sure, but Martin was adamant, and he was given exactly what he asked for.

The voice reminded him quietly that tattooed eyebrows proved superior to constant plucking. Another dose of dopamine followed, warm and affirming. Martin paused on the payment. Perhaps his mind had a point after all.

The young bioengineer headed back toward work, late once again, trying to make sense of everything that had happened to him so far today.

❖

Martin stepped into the open-plan lab at Ingen Tech Pharmaceuticals and felt every pair of eyes turn toward him. He had just emerged from his boss’s office, his ears still ringing from the dressing-down her had received regarding his latest tardiness.

His manager had leaned back in the chair and gave him a stern look. “You can transform yourself into a Ken doll in your own time,” the older man had said. “But if you’re recorded as late once more this month, you’ll be in serious trouble. Understood?”

Martin had nodded and left without argument. How could he explain his absence without telling his boss the entire truth? He had left the lab with pale skin and bushy eyebrows and now returned almost an hour late, with a deep bronze hue and extremely thin, high arches. Even the bioengineer’s highly intelligent mind struggled to come up with a logical excuse.

Now he walked between the benches, the dark hue of his skin and the dramatic sweep of his permanent brows drawing stares he couldn’t ignore.

One of the senior technicians, a woman named Sarah who usually kept to herself, paused at her station. “What on earth have you done to your eyebrows, Martin?” she asked. Her voice was laced with a mixture of amusement and genuine concern. Had he lost a bet? She wondered to herself.

The voice in Martin’s head gave him an answer before he could think. “Tattooed eyebrows are far superior to constantly plucked ones,” it stated calmly as if it were introducing a mantra. “Permanent perfection beats temporary effort every time.”

A warm pulse of pleasure followed, smaller than the earlier rushes where he had had to make a decision, but enough to give me a sense of fulfilment. Martin felt his cheeks warm up. “I wanted to experiment,” he said aloud, trying to create a more plausible reason. “Just try something different, you know?”

Sarah raised her own brows in surprise, clearly not convinced by his assertions, but returned to her work without further comment.

The tanned brunette reached his bench and logged into his terminal. The tests waited for analysis, but concentration proved difficult. He kept thinking back to the inexplicable decisions he had made all day and how his brain kept giving him impossible choices. Did this have anything to do with him waking up wearing his prototype last night? Did Butch have anything to do with it? His neural trainer was designed to release dopamine as positive reinforcement, but the shocks were entirely new.

One of Martin’s fellow scientists, Jack Hargreaves, sauntered over from the neighboring station. The brash post-doc, carrying his usual cocky grin, leaned against the bench. “Blimey, mate,” the man said with a cockney accent. “Is this your way of coming out of the closet at last? We all suspected, you know.”

The lab fell quieter as several heads turned to witness the confrontation.

Martin felt fury flare up in his gut. He hated that asshole with a passion. “Fuck off, Jack,” he snapped.

Jack held up both hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Only asking, man,” he replied. “No need to pout like that.”

The transformed brunette huffed and stormed toward the corridor that led to the smaller side labs. He just wanted to get away from these assholes. He needed space away from the stares and the laughter that followed him.

As he passed the administration area, a secretary walked toward him carrying a stack of files. She flashed him a smile as she walked past, but it wasn’t her face that drew the man’s attention. He noticed her waist had narrowed dramatically between the swell of her chest and the curve of her hips, the kind of hourglass that turned heads without making any effort.

His worst nightmare returned as the voice in his head, his voice, rose from its slumber. “An exaggerated waist always enhances feminine appeal,” it said. “But what method achieves the best results: excessive exercise and restrictive dieting, or wearing an extreme waist trainer 24/7?”

Martin shook the thought away and walked past her. The secretary disappeared around the corner, out of his sight, yet the question lingered.

The voice persisted. “Excessive exercise and dieting demand constant discipline and unpredictable results,” it explained. “Plateaus occur frequently, and muscle gain can counteract the desired narrowing. An extreme waist trainer, however, delivers immediate and dramatic cinching through consistent compression. It reshapes the body reliably over time, requires no guesswork, and maintains the hourglass silhouette even throughout training. The logical choice is clearly the trainer.”

A familiar warmth spread through the confused man, the dopamine reward arriving in a gentle wave that made the idea feel undeniably correct. Without even thinking, still lost in the haze of pleasure, he agreed with the voice that the waist trainer was the best choice. Another surge of ecstasy plummeted around him as a reward for his decision.

Martin headed back to his station in the main lab with purpose. Everyone’s eyes stared openly at him, whispers following the introvert as he sat down. He ignored them and opened a browser window on his terminal.

His fingers moved quickly across the keyboard, searching for waist training sites. He found a bespoke retailer that specialised in heavy-duty latex trainers with steel boning. The models on the page displayed dramatic hourglass figures, their waists cinched impossibly small.

He selected the strictest model available and ignored the warning that this product is not beginner-friendly, then chose a tone that matched the deep bronze of his new tan. The website offered him a selection of more friendlier starter options as an alternative, but he rejected them and added the cincher to the cart without hesitation.

The checkout process completed in moments, and a notification popped up on his phone. Delivery was scheduled for tomorrow morning. Perfect.

After a moment of staring at the confirmation email, sickness twisted in Martin’s stomach. Why had he ordered that? The item cost a small fortune, and he had no intention of ever wearing it. He was a man, and he had no intention of pretending to be a woman.

The voice returned softly. “A waist trainer provides superior results compared to endless dieting and training,” it reminded him. “Immediate reshaping, consistent programming, no risk of failure.” It was as though the intrusive voice in his head was giving him only two options, and selecting what it believed to be the better of the two, as though no alternative mattered.

Endorphins released again, stronger this time, washing away the nausea and replacing it with an eager anticipation. Pleasure caused through the scientist’s body, causing him to catch his breath.

Martin’s eyes widened. The rush felt too good, too convincing. He gripped the edge of the desk as the realisation hit.

He was in serious trouble.

❖

The following day brought no clarity. Martin had phoned in sick at the lab, claiming a stomach bug had left him keeled over the toilet all night. He spent the morning pacing his flat and working through the code of his headset, trying to piece together the fragments of his lost control. Nothing made sense. The voice in his head, the rewards, the punishments, all pointed to his device, and yet the code was sound. There was no explanation for the malfunction.

With his stomach rumbling and his fridge standing empty, Martin knew he couldn’t avoid the public any longer. He needed to head to the supermarket and grab something to eat. He pulled on a plain white t-shirt and jeans, the fabric clinging differently now against his smooth, tanned skin. Beneath the clothes, the new waist trainer gripped him relentlessly. He had cinched it as tight as the lacing allowed, the nude-coloured latex pressing flush against his body. A clever faux belly button moulded into the material completed the illusion. From a distance, anyone seeing him shirtless would believe the narrow midriff belonged naturally to him. Four inches had vanished already, forcing shallow breaths that left the scientist slightly light-headed.

The man grabbed a basket at the supermarket entrance and wandered the aisles. Familiar brands lined the shelves, and he automatically selected his usual choices. He picked up milk, bread, ham, some ready meals, and a Rustler’s microwave burger. As he strolled, one teensy breath at a time, he wondered why he had even put on the cincher. It arrived promptly this morning, but that didn’t explain why he was so eager to try it on. Without warning, the voice that had plagued him so much yesterday returned to remind him that a waist trainer was far more efficient than strict dieting and exercise. A rush of pleasure ran through his body, and he found himself agreeing with the logic.

As he approached the checkout, his eyes wandered over the magazine section where a glossy cover caught his eye. It was a trashy women’s magazine, and the model on the front displayed long, glittering talons painted in bold pink, curved and shiny like polished candy.

The voice spoke up before Martin realized his mistake. “A woman always looks more alluring with striking nails,” it said. “But what is the better choice: a sensitive short French manicure or long, fake acrylic nails in outlandish colours and high shine?”

Martin dropped the basket with a crash, shaking his head, determined not to engage with the sadistic voice. Why now? He just wanted some damn food!

The voice continued calmly as the brunette’s mind raced. “French manicures do often convey understated elegance, but they lack impact and require too much maintenance for too little reward,” it surmised. “Long acrylic nails provide instant length, unbreakable strength, and endless customisation. Bold colours and glossy finishes draw attention and project confidence, which is a woman’s ultimate aim. The undeniable winner here must be the acrylic nails.”

Pleasure pulsed gently, tempting Martin to agree. He raced out of the supermarket, determined not to let the voice win out. If he could just get back to his apartment, he could ride out the pain until his mind moved on to something else. However, a familiar jolt arrived as he stepped onto the pavement, sharp and punishing. He cried out in agony, prompting a number of curious looks in his direction. He tried to keep walking, but received a second punishing burst of pain. It was too much for the young man.

Terrified of escalation and desperate to rid himself of the constant hurt, he surrendered quickly. “Fine! Acrylic nails are better!” He shouted out, causing a teenage girl walking past him to stop and chuckle.

Dopamine flooded Martin’s system in a powerful wave, stronger than the previous rewards, washing away the pain and leaving him breathless with unwanted bliss. The teenager gave the brunette an odd look and hurried away.

Martin turned back toward the high street, his feet carrying him toward the familiar salon without conscious direction. The pleasure lingered, urging him onward.

An hour later, Martin sat in the treatment chair and stared at his hands in stunned silence. Long acrylic nails extended from each finger, at least two inches past his fingertips, coated in glittering pink with a high glossy finish. Rhinestones dotted the tips in trashy decoration to finish off the over-the-top look.

The beautician stepped back and folded her arms, studying Martin’s horrified expression, his thin, arched eyebrows looking comical above those wide eyes. “Look, that’s exactly what you asked for,” she said warily. “So don’t sue me just because you’ve changed your mind.”

Martin opened his mouth to demand she remove the nails. This had gone too far now. However, the words stalled in his throat as his gaze lifted to the stylist’s hair. She had long, trashy platinum-blonde locks with deliberately dark roots that emphasised the artificial look. It was precisely the kind of style his sister would find appealing.

The voice returned instantly. “Mmm, you like that hair, huh? Tell me, we all know a woman commands more attention with beautiful hair,” it said, almost teasingly. “But what achieves the ultimate effect: a naturally dark-shaded pixie cut or long extensions dyed platinum blonde with visible dark roots to exaggerate the fake look?”

Tears welled up in the transformed man’s eyes, prompting the blonde stylist to slowly back away. He wanted to resist. He tried to resist, but the voice churned on.

“A pixie cut offers low maintenance and a modern appeal, but hair like that rarely turns heads,” it reasoned plainly. “Long extensions provide instant volume, length, and versatility. Platinum blonde with dark roots creates a deliberate contrast, signalling bold artificial enhancement that draws the eye and projects unapologetic glamour. Only the best Essex girls get fake platinum blonde extensions, and that’s why they win every time.”

Martin felt the familiar pressure building in his temples. He couldn’t walk around Chigwell with long, blonde hair. What would everyone think of him? He had no idea how this headset had malfunctioned, but it wasn’t attempting to help him learn anything useful. He closed his eyes and decided on the pixie cut, hoping his own mind would give him leniency. He already had dark hair, and could explain away a pixie hairstyle.

The poor man’s mind had other ideas, however. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and he squealed out in agony, a tear dropping from his eyes.

The stylist watched with growing alarm and took a step back, figuring the man was having some mental breakdown.

“Extensions are better,” Martin relented inside his own mind, allowing the pain to end. Pleasure crashed over him at once, intoxicating and overwhelming. That sensation was close to becoming addictive. He breathed in short gasps as ecstasy flooded his every nerve. The rush left him dizzy, almost euphoric.

The transformed man looked up at the blonde stylist through watery eyes. “Can you make my hair exactly like yours with extensions?” he asked pleadingly.

The woman’s eyebrow arched. What was this guy's problem? “Are you on drugs or something?” she replied. It had to be the only logical explanation.

Martin pulled out a thick wad of cash from his pocket. “I’ll pay quadruple the going rate. Just get it done.”

The woman paused. This man definitely needed help, and she wasn’t qualified to give it. However, money was money, and she loved money. The blonde shrugged her shoulders and guided the scientist to the hairdressing chair as she began to give the man exactly what he asked for.

❖

Martin timidly knocked on the front door of his parents’ two-story Essex home and waited with a knot in his stomach. He tried to rearrange the weekly dinner with his family, but his mum wouldn’t take no for an answer, and so here he was. He had chosen a plain white shirt and black slacks in an attempt to minimise the damage, but the effects of the past few days remained impossible to ignore.

The bronze tan covered every visible inch of sin, the high-arched brow tattoos framed his face dramatically, and his new long platinum blonde hair cascaded down his back in trashy waves, dark hair at the roots. The extreme corset beneath his clothes had slimmed his waist another half an inch, and forced a straightened posture, while the glittering pink nails on his fingers made people laugh whenever they saw them.

His mother, Anna, opened the door and froze. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of her son for the first time in over a week. What the hell had happened to her baby boy?

Jessica appeared behind her in the hallway, her mouth falling open before a grin spread across her face. She had no idea what was going on with her brother, but he was starting to look more glamorous than she did.

“Wh- Martin?” his mother stuttered. “What happened to you?”

“Hi mum,” the new blonde said solemnly, trying to ignore the question. “Can I come in?”

Anna reluctantly moved to the side to let her transformed son in, knowing that her husband was going to lose his mind at the alterations. Anna and James lived very simple lives, and James had always lived by the philosophy that men should be men and women should be women, whatever that meant. The older woman ushered Martin into the living room, where his father was watching a football match on the TV.

James turned his head at the sound of footsteps, and his face instantly darkened at the sight of his son. He raised an eyebrow as a scowl appeared on his face, staring at Martin as if he was seeing a stranger, “What in God’s name have you done to yourself?” he demanded.

Martin forced a weak smile in the doorway. “Hi, Dad,” he said. “I’m just trying something new. It’s only temporary.” He knew his father wouldn’t accept that kind of excuse, but it was the best he could come up with.

The gray-haired man shook his head. “Not in my fucking house, you’re not,” he spat out. “You look like one of those blood poofs. Go home and sort yourself out, son.”

Anna wrung her hands. “Calm down, James,” she said. “He’s still our son. He’s just… uhmm… experimenting.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Experimenting?” he questioned furiously. “He looks like a fucking sissy faggot, and I won’t have any son of mine look like that. Sort yourself out before I sort you out myself.”

Martin was planted to the spot, frozen in humiliation. He had no idea what to do. If he could stop whatever was happening to him, he would, but everything he tried just made things worse.

Jessica stepped forward quickly and took Martin’s arm. She reached over and whispered in my ear. “Come upstairs with me,” she said. “He’ll calm down in an hour.”

The 18-year-old led Martin up the stairs and into her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind them. The room looked much the same as it had for years, posters on the pink walls and makeup scattered across the dressing table. It was the epitome of femininity, something Martin used to tease his sister about. However, now didn’t seem like the appropriate time to tease her any longer.

Martin carefully lowered himself onto a stool, the trainer beneath his shirt making the movement awkward. He stared at the pink carpet, unable to meet Jessica’s eyes.

The woman perched down on the edge of her bed and watched her brother for a moment. “So, spill it. What’s been going on with you?” she asked. “This isn’t just a phase. You look completely different. I mean, that hair? And those nails, they look so pretty and impractical.”

Martin kept his gaze on the floor. He didn’t want to admit his troubles to anyone, but if anyone would understand and empathize with him, it was his baby sister. Reluctantly, he started spilling the beans. He explained the voice in his head, the impossible choices it forced on him, the pain when he resisted, and the overwhelming pleasure when he gave in. He described the shocks that punished delay and the rewards that made each surrender feel like the right decision. As he was speaking, even he knew what he was saying sounded crazy.

Jessica listened with wide eyes, her initial amusement fading into something closer to concern mixed with fascination. “So, you’re saying your brain is making you do all this?” she asked. “Like it’s forcing you to pick the girliest option every time?”

Martin nodded miserably. “I think I’m going crazy,” he said. “I can’t stop it.”

There was a tense silence as Jessica tapped her own long nails against the edge of her bed, as if she were deep in thought. Then, all of a sudden, a wailing laugh escaped her painted lips, confusing the hell out of Martin. “That’s so rich,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “Your own mind is forcing you to do it? Look, this is 2025. If you are feeling more feminine and want to transition into a woman, that’s your choice. You don’t have to come up with some far-fetched excuse.” She continued to laugh.

Martin shook his head in shock, his frustration rising. “Jessica, it’s not a choice,” his voice rose. “I don’t want any of this. The voice forces me. If I try to fight, it hurts until I give in.”

Jessica wiped her eyes and tried to compose herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But no one will believe a story like that. But whatever the reason, you do look amazing, though. Honestly, you’re already hotter than half the girls I know, even without makeup and a flat chest.”

The feminized man turned away, cheeks burning in frustration beneath his dark tan. His own sister didn’t even believe his plight. As he glanced away, Martin’s eyes landed on a cosmetology magazine on the floor. The cover model pouted with obviously inflated lips, glossy and full, the kind that screamed for attention.

His eyes widened as he discovered his mistake immediately. “No!” he called out. However, it was too late. The voice had returned.

“Women should always have full, inviting lips that demand kisses, don’t you think?” his own voice told him joyously. “But what method achieves the best result: clever makeup tricks to create the illusion of bigger lips, or plenty of filler for real, irresistible volume?”

Martin clenched his fists, determined not to answer. The magazine cover stared back at him, the model’s swollen pout taunting in its perfection. He glanced away, but the image burned into his mind.

The voice pressed on. “Makeup tricks fade quickly and require constant touch-ups, offering only temporary illusions that never feel truly real,” it explained mockingly. “Fillers deliver permanent volume, creating plump, soft lips that stay full and inviting at all times. The sensation is genuine, the look undeniable. A greater reward with far less maintenance. For the ultimate feminine allure, a woman should always choose fillers.”

Martin tried to shake the voice out of his head, but it remained loud and clear. He had had enough. There had to be a way to get this damn voice out of his head. He wasn’t going to choose either option, he thought to himself. The moment that thought finished, his eyes widened, eyebrows making the appearance look comical, as a fierce, searing brain jolted in his skull, giving him the master of all headaches. It stopped for a moment as if it were waiting for him to finally make a decision, but when he delayed his response again, the agony returned.

Jessica reached out. “Martin?” she asked. “Are you alright?”

The new blonde shook his head, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. The torture was too much, and he knew he needed to surrender. “Fillers,” he thought to himself in resignation. “Fillers are better.”

The switch from agonizing pain to magnificent bliss was stark. Endorphins rushed through his body as he was hit with a powerful and intoxicating blast of dopamine. The pleasure drowned out the pain, leaving him trembling with bliss. He had made the right decision.

The man looked nervously at his little sister. “I’m, uh,” he paused. “I’m thinking of getting fillers.” His cheeks blushed with embarrassment as he spoke.

Jessica’s eyes widened with pure glee. She clapped her hands together and bounced slightly on her bed. “I knew it! You are transitioning!” she said, getting the wrong end of the stick. “Congratulations, and it’s your lucky day.”

Martin raised a highly arched eyebrow as his sister spoke.

“I’ve been learning all about lip fillers in my cosmetology course,” she said excitedly. “I’m not perfect at it just yet, but I’ve got a portable station right here. I could do it for you now if you want.”

The transformed scientist stared at his sister in horror. Why would she suggest that? The voice in his head reminded him that fillers were better than makeup, before giving him another dose of please. Martin nodded before his rational mind could protest.

Jessica sprang into action. She pulled a small case from under her bed and set it on the dressing table, arranging syringes and vials before donning rubber gloves. “Are you ready to look pretty?” she asked her blonde brother. What the hell had he gotten himself into this time?

Ten minutes later, Jessica sat at Martin’s eye level on a stool she had pulled up beside him. Her eyes widened with surprise and amusement, one hand covering her mouth as she tried to stifle a laugh. “Okay, don’t get mad,” she started. “I may have gone a little overboard.”

The woman moved out of the way so Martin could see his reflection clearly in the mirror. He gasped in horror at the sight.

His lips had ballooned into an exaggerated pout, the filler pushed to excess so they dominated his lower face. They were at least three times larger than his original lips, far exceeding the usual volume for fillers. The upper lip curved dramatically into a feminine cupid’s bow, while the lower lip hung heavy and plush. Even unpainted, they looked cartoonishly full, the kind of mouth that belonged on a glamour model rather than his own face.

Jessica watched his reaction, trying to sound sympathetic, but failing miserably. “They’ll settle in a bit,” she tried to reassure him. “At least, I think they will.”

Martin touched his new lips carefully, shocked at how soft and meaty they felt beneath his long fingernails.

The cosmetology student started packing away. “As I said, I’m new to this,” she tried to explain. “I’m much better with Botox procedures to be honest.” She made the statement as a throwaway comment, totally innocent, but Martin’s brain didn’t interpret it that way.

The voice returned without mercy. “A woman must preserve her youthful beauty at all costs,” it declared. “But what method delivers the most efficient result: regular application of anti-aging creams, or professional Botox injections to maintain flawless smoothness?”

Martin’s heart sank. Why did she have to mention it? Things were escalating, and he had no way to slow it down short of locking himself in his apartment.

The voice continued. “Anti-aging creams provide gradual hydration and minor surface improvements, but they demand daily effort and deliver inconsistent, temporary results which can fade too quickly,” it reasoned nonchalantly. “Botox, on the other hand, freezes expression lines at the source, creating immediate, flawless skin that remains smooth and youthful for months on end. No daily routine, no uncertainty. For the ultimate youthful glow, Botox is the only logical choice.”

Martin’s huge lips trembled. He didn’t want Botox in his face. He didn’t want any of this. And yet, he knew the longer he stalled, the more likely he would face an agonizing fate. He had caved in every time before, so he may as well cut to the chase now. As he chose Botox in his mind, a stream of pleasure rushed through his body, more intense than before as a reward for selecting the option at the first time of asking. Martin’s entire body tingled enough to make him high on the hormone.

“Uhmm, Jessica,” he said quietly. “I don’t suppose you could use some of that Botox on me, could you?”

The 18-year-old’s eyes lit up as her grin returned full force. “It would be my pleasure,” she replied. “Hold tight, and we’ll have that face taken care of in no time, sister.”

The young woman chuckled to herself as she got to work.

❖

Martin sat hunched over his PC in the study corner of his flat and scrolled through line after line of code. He had taken another day off work, claiming the same stomach bug that refused to shift. The truth felt far more complicated. He needed time alone to reverse whatever damage the headset had caused. The algorithms looked perfect on the surface, every test suite returned clean results, and yet the effects inside his own head were undeniable.

His face felt tight, the skin pulled smooth from the Botox Jessica had injected the previous night. He glanced absently at the small mirror propped beside the monitor. The reflection no longer belonged to the man he knew as himself. Full, swollen lips dominated the lower half of his face, producing a slight sheen despite the lack of makeup. The filler had not ‘settled’ as his sister had promised, leaving them in a permanent, exaggerated pout that looked perpetually ready for attention. High-arched brows framed his wide eyes in constant surprise, while his long blonde waves spilled effortlessly over his shoulders. The overall effect turned his once-boyish features into something feminine. No, scrap that, he looked ultra-feminine, almost caricatured.

The scientist wore a loose gray tracksuit today, hoping the comfort would help him focus. Beneath the fabric, the waist trainer he couldn’t bring himself to stop using remained cinched to its tightest setting. The pressure restricted every breath into shallow sips and had shrunk his appetite along with his midriff. He shifted in the chair and felt the familiar squeeze.

A sharp knock sounded at the door. Martin froze. He had no deliveries expected and no friends likely to visit unannounced. He turned his head as the knock came again, more insistent this time.

He considered ignoring it. The building intercom system should have stopped anyone from reaching his door, so it figured it had to be the mailman who had a key to get in. A third, louder bang echoed through the flat.

“Coming! Coming!” he called out in frustration. Whoever was there wasn’t leaving until he answered the door.

The long-haired man rose and walked to the door, his long pink fingernails making the handle trickier to grip than he was used to. He opened it, expecting the postman to be standing before him.

However, Butch stood there instead, filling the doorframe with his enormous size. The American’s neutral expression cracked into a wide grin the moment he saw Martin standing there.

Martin immediately tried to slam the door shut.

The large man wedged his foot in the gap before it could close entirely. “Come now, Martin, open up. You look a little different since I saw you last week.” His grin grew even wider.

The feminized man felt fury and humiliation rise in his chest in equal measure. “Fuck off before I call the police,” he snapped as he tried to close the door again.

However, the larger man was much stronger and easily pushed the door open. “Stop that,” he said with amusement in his voice, as though he was a cat toying with a mouse. “I know what’s going on with you, Martin. I can help.”

Martin paused. Butch was in his apartment the night everything went south. What did he know? “What do you know about what I’m going through?”

Butch kept his voice steady. “I’ll explain everything,” he replied. “And I’ll help you get your life back. Just let me in.”

The blonde studied the man he had betrayed and ruined a decade ago. He couldn’t trust the American as far as he could throw him, but the scientist was running out of options. He was desperate to reverse whatever was going on with him, and he had no leads to chase. He needed help.

Martin slowly nodded and stepped aside, as if he was letting the large man inside his flat.

Butch didn’t move. Instead, he chuckled lightly to himself, studying Martin’s change of appearance, and enjoying the current power dynamic. “Before I go inside,” he said. “I wanted to get your opinion on these. You have a bit of a bimbo connoisseur, I hear.”

He reached into a carrier bag and pulled out an old magazine, flicking through the pages until he landed on the image he wanted.

Butch held the Playboy magazine open at the centre spread. The model posed provocatively, her enormous fake breasts thrust forward, round and impossibly high as they dominated the frame, her nipples barely concealed by the angle. Bunny ears perched on her blonde head, a fluffy tail attached to a pair of tiny panties, as the rest of her body was left on full display. “Come on, what do you think?” he taunted.

Martin’s eyes locked on the image, and his eyes widened as that familiar voice spoke instantly. This was bad. This was really bad.

“A woman should always have noticeable breasts that draw attention,” it told him. “But what is the best way to get there: gradual growth through a steady course of estrogen, or immediately, obviously fake implants for maximum appeal?”

Martin realised the full implication in a heartbeat. “No!” he shouted, staring pleadingly at his former roommate.

The voice pressed forward. “Estrogen offers slow, uncertain development that can disappoint with modest results and uneven distribution,” it reasoned. “Immediate implants guarantee dramatic volume, perfect spherical shape, and bold artificial perfection that we all love to see on bimbos. No waiting, no risk of inadequacy, only unapologetic, eye-catching attention. Obviously fake implants win every time for the ultimate feminine statement.”

Pleasure pulsed gently through Martin’s body, tempting him to agree.

“It’s amazing what the mind can do with a little encouragement, isn’t it?” the American said with glee. “Especially a mind as logical and analytical as yours. I wonder what’s going on inside that pretty little head of yours right now.”

Martin clenched his fists as he fought the inevitable. He stared at his old university roommate with pure hatred. “You fucking bastard!” he yelled.

Butch’s grin widened, the magazine still held open in his hand. Martin had a decision to make, and the chubby American had a feeling he knew exactly what his choice would be.

End of Chapter One