Chapter Two

The first sensation to pierce through the heavy fog of sleep was a localized, crushing tightness centered directly over Martin’s sternum. It felt as though a heavy weight had been placed upon his ribcage while he drifted in the void, making every attempt to draw a full breath feel restricted and shallow. He remained still for several seconds, staring up at the ceiling of his Chigwell flat while his mind struggled to reassemble the fragments of his memory. The sunlight was far too intense for his usual early morning routine, streaming through the gaps in the blinds with a mid-morning ferocity that made his head throb with a dull, persistent ache.

He reached out a hand to find his phone on the bedside table, but his fingers felt oddly disconnected from his will. When his hand came into view, he froze at the sight of the long, glittering pink acrylic nails that clicked sharply against the glass surface of the device. The sound was brittle and artificial, and as he fumbled to wake the screen, the display revealed a reality that sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through his system. It wasn’t just the late hour that horrified the scientist, but the date itself, which indicated that six entire days had vanished into a terrifying black hole of missing time. Beneath the date, a relentless wall of over sixty missed calls and urgent notifications from Ingen Tech glowed with an accusing light.

Panic surged through the feminized man’s veins, an icy flood that momentarily paralyzed his high cognitive functions. Martin scrambled to his feet, but the simple act of rising caused a strange, heavy swaying in his torso that made his equilibrium falter. He stumbled toward the bathroom, convinced that the pressure in his chest was merely a physical manifestation of the extreme anxiety born from his missing week. His heart hammered a frantic beat against his ribs, and he forced himself to focus on the immediate necessity of getting to the lab before his entire professional life was dismantled in his absence.

He didn’t stop to look in the mirror as he splashed cold water on his face, his mind already racing through the list of plausible excuses he could offer his boss, Phelan West. The new blonde hurried back into the bedroom, his movements frantic and uncoordinated as he threw open the wardrobe doors. His usual jumpers and sensible shirts seemed to have been pushed to a dark corner of the rail, and his hands moved with an eerie, mechanical certainty toward a pressed, low-cut white blouse and a tight black knee-length pencil skirt. Martin didn’t pause to wonder why he owned these items or why his fingers were so adept at navigating the delicate buttons. He was operating on a primal level of survival, his efficient brain prioritizing speed over logic.

The fabric of the skirt was punishingly tight, cinching around his hips and forcing the man’s legs together, while the blouse strained across his upper body with a tension that threatened to pop at the seams. Martin grabbed a pair of black pump heels from the floor, his feet sliding into them with a practiced ease that should have been impossible. It was only when he reached for his briefcase and caught a sight of himself in the full-length mirror that the momentum of his panic came to a grinding halt.

Martin stared at the reflection with a mounting sense of horror that made the room feel as though it was spinning on its axis. He stood there, transformed into a parody of femininity, but it was the massive, spherical globes protruding from his chest that truly shattered the man’s composure. They were enormous, firm mounds of artificial flesh that pushed the white blouse outward into a dramatic, hyper-sexualized silhouette. He reached up with trembling hands to touch them, his long pink nails grazing the soft skin of the deep cleavage that now existed where his flat, masculine chest should have been.

“What the fuck is this?” he cried out, but the sound that left his lips prompted another gasp of despair.

His question came out in a high, breathy register, a melody and feminine lilt carrying a distinct, soft Essex inflection he had never possessed before. The man tried to clear his throat, coughing violently in an attempt to find the deep, resonant tone of his former bioengineer self, but every sound remained trapped in that higher, common-girl pitch. Martin felt a sudden, terrifying rush of dopamine flood his system at the sound of his new voice, a wave of warmth that made his head swim with an unwanted sense of rightness.

The man looked at the long, platinum-blonde waves cascading over his shoulders and the dark, permanent arches of his tattooed eyebrows that made him look perpetually surprised and vacant. The logic that had governed his life for three decades was being overwritten by a series of new, superficial parameters he couldn’t seem to control. He noticed his waist had been cinched into a slim, fragile curve, even without the waist trainer, creating a dramatic hourglass shape that made his new breasts look even more gargantuan.

“I have to go, I have to get to work,” he whimpered, the words sounding like a girlish plea.

Even as his mind reeled at the impossibility of his physical state, he began to move his body toward the door. The blonde didn’t even register the fact that he was checking his reflection one last time to ensure his makeup hadn’t been smudged by his tears. He had one goal in mind. He couldn’t lose his job, and he needed to get to the lab before it was too late. He tottered on the high heels, his ass swaying with a seductive grace that he didn’t remember learning, driven by the singular, desperate need to reclaim a life that was rapidly being deleted from his own hard drive.

❖

The commute from Chigwell to the heart of Kensington felt like a frantic, blurred race against a clock that was already mocking his efforts. Martin managed to navigate the Underground despite the stares of the morning travelers, his mind so tightly coiled around the fear of losing his job that he barely noticed the physical reality of his journey. He hurried along the pavement toward the glass-fronted entrance of Ingen Tech, his legs moving with a strange, high-stepping energy that he didn’t quite recognize as his own. The heels of his black pumps struck the pavement with a sharp, repetitive sound, and he felt his hips swaying in a fluid, exaggerated motion that made the tight fabric of his skirt ride up his thighs with every step, prompting him to lower it occasionally.

He pushed through the revolving doors and headed straight for the lifts, ignoring the way the receptionist’s jaw practically hit the desk as he passed. The scientist’s brain was working overtime to rationalize his current state, categorizing the massive weight on his chest and the long, platinum waves of his hair as reversible variables that could be addressed once his professional standing was secure. He reached the executive floor and marched toward the corner office, his breathing shallow and quick as the tight waistband of his skirt restricted his diaphragm. Martin didn’t bother to knock, bursting into the room with a sense of urgency as he tried to mask his underlying terror.

Phelan West sat behind a wide minimalist desk, his attention fixed on the computer screen on his desk until the door swung open. He was a young man, only a few years older than Martin, but he carried himself with a calm, enigmatic authority that usually made Martin feel like a promising protege. That calm vanished the moment Phelan looked up and saw the person standing in the doorway. He didn’t say anything at first, his eyes traveling from the long nails clutching a black briefcase to the massive, spherical breasts straining against the thin blouse, and finally to the tattooed, high-arched eyebrows and plump, pouting lips that gave Martin’s face a look of vacant surprise.

“Sorry, love, can I help y…” the young executive started, until the blonde stepped closer, and Phelan recognized the unchanged parts of the feminized man. It couldn’t be. “Wait, Martin? Is that you?”

“I am so sorry I’m late, Phelan, really I am,” Martin replied, but the words came out in that melodic, Essex lilt that made him sound like a different person entirely. “I just lost track of time, didn’t I? It was like a proper madness, just one thing after another, but I’m here now, and I’m ready to get back to the lab and smash it.”

Phelan raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, letting his hands fall to his desk, his expression hardening as he processed the slang and the high-pitched tone. “Lost track of time? You’ve been missing for six days, Martin. You didn’t even call! I was about to sign the paperwork for your AWOL termination this afternoon, and now you come walking in here looking like…. Well, looking like this. What on earth is going on with you?”

“It’s just been a bit of a week, babe, you know how it is,” Martin said, the unprofessional term slipping out before he could catch it. He felt a sudden, warm rush of dopamine at the casual way he addressed his boss, his mind seemingly rewarding him for the lapse in decorum. “I had a bit of a situation at home, but it’s all sorted now. I’m ready to recommit to the cause more than ever before. We have those assays to finish, and I’ve got some proper good ideas for the next phase of the reinforcement trials.”

The executive raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on Martin’s swollen, pouty lips that seemed to glisten under the office lights. “You’re calling me ‘babe,’ and you’re standing in my office with those things on your chest and a skirt, Martin. You need to explain the look and the attitude. If this is some kind of practical joke, lost bet, or a mental breakdown, I need to know right now.”

“Just forget how I look for a second, Phelan, it’s not even a big deal, is it?” The blonde dismissed the question with a sharp flick of his wrist, his long nails catching the light. He felt a strange, defiant spark in his chest that hadn’t been there before, a brash confidence that overrode his usual submissive professional manner. “I told you, I’m ready to work. The look is just… I don’t know, it’s a vibe, isn’t it? It doesn’t change the fact that I’m the best person you’ve got for the project.”

Phelan stood up slowly, his eyes fixed on Martin with a mixture of confusion and growing impatience. He walked around the edge of his desk and stopped just a few feet away, tall and imposing in his sharp suit, which only made the feminized man feel more fragile and feminine in his heels. “You’re talking like you’ve never seen a textbook in your life, Martin, and you’re using exaggerated slang I’ve only ever seen on those trashy TV shows. If you are going through a dramatic life change, I have a legal obligation to support you. We have policies for gender transition and mental health, but you have to actually talk to me.”

“I’m not going through a crisis or any of that rubbish!” Martin snapped, his voice hitting a shrill, girlish peak as his frustration boiled over. “I’m just Martin. I’ve just had a bit of work done, haven’t I? There’s no need to make it into a proper drama. I just want to go to my bench and get on with it.”

“I can’t let you do that,” his boss replied, his voice dropping into a low, final tone that made the blonde’s heart sink. “You’ve abandoned your post for nearly a week without a single word. You’ve returned as a person I don’t even recognize, acting in a way that is completely incompatible with the standards of this company. You’re refusing to even acknowledge that anything is different, which tells me you’re not in a stable frame of mind.”

“You’re being well out of order, babe,” the transformed man whimpered, his hands going to his hips in a defensive, girly stance. “I’ve given years to this firm. You can’t just bin me off because I’ve thrown a couple of sickies.”

“I’m sorry, Martin,” Phelan said with resignation in his voice. “I can’t have someone this erratic and out of their mind in charge of millions of pounds’ worth of research. Your lack of accountability and this total personality shift leave me with no other choice. I am terminating your employment for gross misconduct and abandonment of your duties.”

Martin stood frozen, his massive chest heaving with shallow breaths as the weight of the man’s words finally broke through his dopamine-fueled haze. He had lost the largest thing that gave his life structure, and as he looked at the executive’s cold, resolute face, he realized there was no logical equation that could fix this. Phelan turned his back to the desk, picking up his phone to call security, leaving the blonde standing in the middle of the room feeling small, humiliated, and utterly alone in his towering heels.

❖

Two security guards stood a few feet away with their arms folded across their chests, their presence a silent and humiliating countdown for the former employee to vacate the premises. The sounds of the office continued around him, yet they felt distant and muffled as if he were submerged in deep water. He reached for a glass paperweight on his desk, but his nervous demeanor and the long, glittering nails made it difficult to gain a secure grip, forcing him to use a delicate, two-handed motion that drew a snicker from a junior researcher in the next cubicle. Martin loaded his things into a cardboard box with slow, trembling movements, keeping his eyes focused on the stationery and personal mementos to avoid the burning stares of his former colleagues. He could feel the weight of his new breasts swaying with every reach and lean, the white blouse feeling tighter with every passing second of the blonde’s professional demise.

A flash of vibrant red hair appeared at the edge of the man’s vision, and a woman stepped into his personal space with a confidence that made the security guards shift in their stance. This was Natasha, known to everyone in the building simply as Nat, the head of the marketing department’s social media team. Outside the sterile walls of Ingen Tech, she was a notable Essex party girl, her Instagram a blur of high-end clubs and impossibly short dresses. Martin had always been secretly infatuated with the sexy woman ever since she joined the firm three years ago, captivated by her brash energy and her drop-dead gorgeous looks. He had spent countless lunch breaks watching her from across the canteen, but he had never possessed the courage to speak to her. To a machine-minded introvert like Martin, Nat was a chaotic, beautiful variable he could never hope to tackle.

The redhead had never given Martin the time of day before, treating him with the same polite indifference she showed almost everyone in the building. Now, however, she was leaning against the side of his cubicle, her gaze traveling over the deep bronze tan and the long platinum waves of his hair with an expression of intense, almost hungry curiosity.

“Martin?” she said, her voice a warm, honeyed rasp that should have sent a thrill through him.

He didn’t answer. He was staring at a stack of research journals, his mind trying to reconcile how his life had come to this. The name Nat had spoken didn’t even register in his consciousness, sounding more like a muffled noise from a distant room than his own designation. It was as if the file labeled ‘Martin’ had been moved to an archived folder that required a password he no longer possessed.

“Martin, babe, are you with me?” the sexy woman asked again, her tone a little louder.

Still, the blonde remained silent, his long nails tracing the edge of the cardboard box. He felt a strange, quiet static in his brain as she spoke. The name, however, simply didn’t trigger the appropriate neural response anymore. It wasn’t until Nat reached out and waved a hand directly in front of his feminized face that the blonde finally blinked and looked up.

“Sorry, you talking to me, babe?” he asked, his voice coming out in that soft, breathy lilt.

Nat’s eyes widened, and a wide, knowing grin spread across her face as she heard the higher pitch and the subtle Essex inflection in his speech. She didn’t make a comment about his dialect, but the way she adjusted her posture suggested that Nat had found exactly what she was looking for. She tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear and looked the blonde up and down, her eyes lingering on the way the blouse strained across her fake breasts.

“I heard you got fired, babe,” she said, her voice sounding bold but empathetic. “That ain’t right. I feel like we ain’t had enough time around here getting to know each other. I think you’re proper brave for coming out like this, you know?”

Martin felt a strange, tingling rush behind his eyes as he looked up at the woman he had admired for so long. The “Martin” part of his brain wanted to explain the inexplicable, but the part of him that was currently being rewarded with dopamine for his “bravery” simply leaned into the attention. He felt his shoulders drop and his back arch slightly, a posture that made his huge chest even more prominent.

“I didn’t really have a choice, did I?” he replied, his voice sounding thin and girlish as he played with a stray lock of his platinum extensions. “Phelan was proper out of order about it. I was ready to work, but he just wasn’t having it.”

Nat let out a soft, dismissive laugh and stepped even closer, clearly enjoying the tone coming from the blonde’s mouth. “I didn’t mean that, silly,” she said. “I mean, coming out as trans. I think it’s super brave.”

Martin’s eyes widened. He parted his plump, glossy lips as he was about to refute her statement, but the redhead spoke first. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind,” she said. “Actually, I kinda like it.” She stepped so close to the busty blonde that he had to gasp for air.

The proximity was overwhelming, and Martin found himself looking down at the woman’s perfectly applied makeup and the confident sparkle in her eyes. He had wanted her to look at him like this for years, and while the context was entirely wrong, his brain was already re-coding the interaction as a monumental success. He felt a sudden, sharp need to maintain the girl’s interest, a drive for social validation that far outweighed the pain of his recent termination.

“Well, listen,” Nat said, her voice dropping into a low, playful whisper that made the security guards look away with awkward coughs. “I reckon you could use a bit of a pick-me-up after the way you’ve been treated today. I don’t think you should be sitting at home on your own tonight feeling sorry for yourself. It’s a proper shame to waste a look like that, isn’t it?”

Martin nodded slowly, his mind still trying to catch up with the pace of her advances. “I suppose it is,” he managed to say, his voice breathy and submissive.

“I’d love to take you out for a few drinks tonight,” she continued, her fingers grazing the white fabric on the blonde’s arm with a touch that felt electric through the thin material. “We could go somewhere local, have a few laughs, and just forget about this place. I’ve still got your address from the staff list, so I’ll come round about eight, yeah?”

The logic of the feminized man’s old life tried to point out that he was unemployed and in the middle of a physical crisis, but the prospect of a date with Natasha was too powerful to ignore. To his calculating mind, this was the ultimate reward for his transformation, a positive reinforcement that proved the blonde persona was his most valuable asset. He had spent three years being an invisible scientist to the redhead, and yet, ten minutes as a glamorous blonde had secured him a date with the most beautiful woman in the building.

“Eight is fine, yeah,” Martin replied, his hands fluttering nervously as he tried to adjust his blouse. “I’ll be ready for you, babe.”

“Good girl,” Nat said with a knowing wink, her grin deepening as she saw the way Martin blushed under his bronze tan. “I’ll see you then. Try to wear something proper gorgeous, yeah? We’re going to have ourselves a night to remember.”

She turned on her heels and strutted away, her hips moving with a fluid confidence that Martin found himself staring at before turning his attention back to the box. The blonde suddenly didn’t care about the security guards or the silent stares of his former colleagues anymore. He had a date with Natasha Dawson, and as he gripped the cardboard box with his pink, glittering nails, he felt a dizzying surge of excitement that drowned out the screaming, rational voice echoing in his mind.

❖

The evening had arrived with a speed that left Martin feeling entirely unprepared, his mind still cycling through the wreckage of his career as he stood in the centre of his living room. He had spent the last two hours trying to strike a balance between his old identity and the undeniable physical reality of his new body, but every choice felt like a compromise that satisfied neither. A sharp, confident knock echoed through the flat at exactly eight o’clock, making the fired scientist jump so violently that his fake chest swayed beneath his clothes. The blonde smoothed his hair with shaking fingers, took a deep, bracing breath that was cut short by the tightness of his midriff, and finally walked to the door to pull it open.

A gasp escaped Martin’s plump, glossy lips the moment he saw Natasha standing in the hallway. She looked absolutely spectacular, a vision of unapologetic Essex glamour that made the air in the corridor feel thick with her presence. Her bright red hair was styled in a cascade of tight, shimmering curls that fell over one shoulder, and her makeup was a masterclass in dramatic contouring, highlighting her high cheekbones and smoky eyes. She was wearing a tiny, skin-tight body-con dress in a bold shade of emerald green that barely reached her mid-thigh, the shimmering material clinging to every curve of her toned figure. A pair of green, strappy platform heels added even more height to her frame, and her ears were adorned with large gold hoops that caught the light with every movement of her head.

“Wow, Nat, you look proper gorgeous, babe,” Martin whispered, his internal mind starting to register the weird way he had started to speak.

Natasha didn’t answer immediately, her gaze traveling over the man she had come to collect with an expression that shifted from expectation to a raised-eyebrow look of genuine disappointment. Martin had chosen a high-necked navy blue blouse with a modest frill at the collar, and a pair of dark, tailored slacks, a combination he felt was respectable for a first date, given his ‘condition.’

“What is this, Martin?” she asked, her voice flat as she stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

“It’s just my outfit for tonight, isn’t it?” the man replied, feeling his confidence wither under the redhead’s scrutiny. “I thought it was nice. What’s wrong with it?”

“Everything, babe, absolutely everything,” Nat said, shaking her head so the red curls danced against her neck. “You look like you’re heading to a parent’s evening in 1995. You’ve got those big, fake tits and that sexy tan, and you’re trying to hide it under a frilly rag and some trousers? It’s a crime, hon.”

“I just didn’t want to overdo it,” Martin tried to defend himself, his hands going to his hips in that now-habitual feminine gesture. “I don’t really have many outfits that will suit… well, suit how I am now.”

“Shut up, you silly girl,” Nat said with a playful laugh, grabbing the feminized man’s arm with a firm grip that made him stumble in his heels. “I love styling girls anyway, it’s like my favourite thing to do. You’re lucky I’m here to save you from yourself, bitch. Now, come on, show me the bedroom.”

Resistance was futile as the redhead pulled him down the hallway, her emerald dress shimmering with every confident stride she took. Martin felt his pulse quickening, his mind struggling to maintain its logical grip while his body seemed to lean into the assertive way the Essex girl was handling him. He tried to think of an excuse to stop her, his thoughts churning through the embarrassment of showing his private space to a woman he had had a crush on for years, but the words died in his throat.

“Wait, Nat, you don’t understand,” he managed to say as the pair crossed the threshold of his bedroom. “I really don’t have much in the way of… you know, proper girl clothes. There’s nothing in there but my old suit...”

He trailed off, his voice dying away as Nat reached out and caught the handles of the large, white fitted wardrobe. She threw open the doors with a flourish, and Martin felt the world tilt on its axis as the contents were revealed. The blonde stood frozen, his jaw dropping in a silent expression of utter disbelief, staring at a reality that his analytical brain could not reconcile with his history.

The wardrobe was no longer filled with the black and grey variants of blazers and trousers he was accustomed to. In their place were rows upon rows of hyper-feminine, slutty attire that appeared to have been curated by someone with a pathological obsession for the extreme. Glittering sequined mini-dresses in shades of hot pink, electric blue, and gold hung alongside skin-tight latex skirts and cropped halter tops that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. The sheer volume of silk, lace, and synthetic fabrics was overwhelming, and on the floor sat a mountain of designer shoe boxes topped with thigh-high boots and towering stilettos.

“I knew it!” Nat exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine delight. “You’re a proper little secret slut, aren’t you? Look at all this! It’s like a candy shop of filth, babe.”

“I… I have no idea where any of this came from,” Martin whispered, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch the hem of a tiny, shimmering gold dress.

He felt a terrifying surge of dopamine wash over him, a wave of intoxicating pleasure that seemed to reward him for the sight of the clothes. His mind was subconsciously already categorizing the items, identifying which fabrics would best complement his makeup and which cuts would draw the most attention to his breasts.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, darling,” Nat said, her grin wide and predatory as she began to flick through the hangers. “We’re going to get you into something that shows everyone what a bitching slut you are. This is going to be proper fun, I promise.” Those were some famous last words, but Martin was in far too deep to refuse now.

❖

The interior of the taxi felt cramped and intimate, the leather seats pressing against the backs of the blonde’s bare thighs as the car pulled away from the kerb. Beside him, Natasha was a whirlwind of high-energy chatter, her dress shimmering in the passing streetlights while she checked her reflection in a small compact mirror. Martin sat stiffly, his hands folded in his lap to avoid snagging his glittering pink nails on the delicate gold fabric of the dress Nat had forced him into. It was a tiny, shimmer slip of a garment that barely covered his assets, featuring a plunging neckline that showcased the sheer scale of his implants and a hemline that left almost nothing to the imagination. He wore no underwear, as Nat was adamant the garments would ruin the desired effect.

“I’m proper obsessed with that gold on you, babe,” Nat said, leaning over to tuck a stray platinum extension behind her companion’s ear. “And I’m so glad you let me touch up that makeup. You were looking a bit washed out before, but you’re a total ten now, I promise.”

Martin stared at his reflection in the window, seeing a face that was now heavily decorated with thick, dramatic lashes and dark, smoky eyeshadow that made his blue eyes pop. His lips had been coated with a layer of dramatic neon-pink gloss that made them look even more swollen and wet, while a generous dusting of shimmering bronzer emphasized the deep Essex-girl tan on his cheeks and collarbones. He felt a wave of profound discomfort at the sight of the walking caricature he had become, yet the dopamine was relentless, flooding the system with a warm glow of satisfaction every time Nat complimented his appearance.

“Thank you, Nat,” he replied, his voice sounding breathy and soft. “I feel a bit… well, I feel a bit exposed, don’t I? I’ve never gone out in public dressed like this before.”

“Don’t worry, doll. Nat knows what’s best,” the redhead laughed, checking her phone and typing a message with lightning speed. “Trust me, Martin, you’re going to be the centre of attention tonight.”

Martin nodded absently, his gaze drifting out the window toward the familiar streets of Chigwell. As the taxi navigated the traffic, Nat continued to talk, her voice a constant stream of gossip and plans for the evening. She mentioned the name ‘Martin’ several times, asking him questions about his old career at the lab or his thoughts on the venue they were heading to, but the blonde found himself completely oblivious to his own name. It felt as though his brain was ignoring the word completely, treating it like a dead link in a computer program that no longer connected to his functional life. He simply sat in silence, staring at his bright nails until Nat finally stopped talking and turned to look at him with a puzzled expression.

“Martin? Are you even listening to me, babe?” she asked,  reaching out to nudge the scantily clad blonde’s shoulder.

He blinked and looked at her, his expression vacant for a second before he realized she was waiting for an answer. “Sorry, did you say something?”

Natasha narrowed her eyes, studying the high, tattooed arches of his brows and the way his massive chest rose and fell with his shallow breaths. “I’ve called your name three times, hon. It’s like you’ve forgotten who you are or something,” she said with concern. “Tell me, what’s your name then? What do you actually want to be called? Because I feel like I’m talking to a ghost when I say Martin.”

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, the scientist’s brain felt as though it were searching through a corrupted database. He wanted to say his name was Martin, to use the identifier he had used his entire life, but the subroutine of the new persona was already in control of his vocal cords. Before he could stop himself, a single word spilled out of the feminized man’s mouth with a certainty that made his heart skip a beat.

“Missy,” he said, the name sounding breathy and inexplicably correct in his new, higher register.

Martin gasped the moment the word was out, his eyes widening in shock. He had no idea where the name had come from, and yet, the moment he spoke it, a tidal wave of pleasure crashed over him, a hormonal reward so intense that it made his toes curl inside his ultra-tall heels.

“Missy?” Nat repeated, her grin widening until it practically reached her ears. “Oh, I love that! That is proper sexy, that is. It suits you so much better than that ugly old name, too. Missy, it is then, babe.”

“No, wait, I didn’t mean…” Martin started, his hands fluttering as he tried to find the words to correct his ‘date.’

“Too late, darling, the name is stuck now,” the redhead teased, cutting him off as the taxi came to a halt outside a venue where the thumping bass of house music was already vibrating through the pavement. Martin had never been one to enjoy club music, and the sound echoing out onto the street made his chest tighten. “Now, come on, babe,” Nat continued. “Let’s get this night started.”

She practically dragged her companion out of the car, and the cool night air hit his tanned, exposed skin with a shock that made his nipples harden beneath the thin gold material of the dress. Outside the bar, a group of men in the queue immediately turned to stare at the pair, their eyes lingering on Missy’s impressive fake chest and the way the dress was short enough to show off his bare legs. He felt his face flush with heat, but before he could retreat, Nat let out a high-pitched scream of delight.

“Roxy! Sash! Over here! She yelled, waving her arms frantically.

Two other girls, dressed in tight, sparkly dresses of vibrant blue and purple, detached themselves from the crowd and rushed toward the pair. They were made up even more heavily than Nat, their hair extensions long and voluminous, and their lips plump and pouty. They converged on Nat in a flurry of hugs, screams, and the scent of sweet perfume, before all three sets of eyes turned toward the blonde standing shyly behind the redhead.

“Girls, meet the new addition to the squad,” Nat announced with a triumphant flourish. “This is Missy. Isn’t she just a proper babe?”

Roxy and Sash gasped in unison, their gazes traveling over Missy’s exaggerated figure with a mixture of shock and genuine admiration. They immediately surrounded the feminized man, touching his hair and commenting on the size of his chest with a casualness that made the scientist’s head spin.

“Oh my god, your tits are iconic!” Roxy squealed, her hand grazing the gold fabric over Missy’s breasts. “Where did you get them done, babe? They are proper huge!”

“And look at those brows!” Sash added, leaning in close to get a better look. “They’re tattooed on, right? I wish I were that brave.”

It was only then, as the three women began to lead Missy toward the entrance of the bar, that the full weight of the situation hit the former scientist. He looked at the sparkly dresses and high-maintenance faces of his new ‘besties’ and realized with a jolt of humiliation that this wasn’t a romantic date with Natasha Dawson as he had originally thought. He hadn’t been invited as a man; he had been recruited as the fourth girl for a girls’ night out. He was no longer a suitor; he was a peer, and as the bouncer nodded them through the door without forcing them to wait in the queue, the dopamine rush told him that this would be a hell of a night.

❖

The bass-heavy pulse of the music was a physical force that vibrated through the floorboards, traveling up through the platform heels of Missy’s shoes and settling deep in his chest. He sat perched on the edge of a velvet circular booth, his legs crossed tightly at the knee to keep the hem of his gold slip dress from migrating any higher. While Nat, Roxy, and Sash were already halfway through a round of neon-coloured shots and screaming over the lyrics of a popular chart track, the blonde remained stiff and silent. His mind was trying to reconcile his old life with the blurred glitter-stained reality of the present, and it was stopping him from enjoying himself.

“Drink up, Missy, you’re being a bore, babe!” Roxy yelled, shoving a glass of vodka and cranberry into his hand.

He took a hesitant sip, the tart liquid burning his throat, but as the minutes ticked by and the rounds continued to arrive, the sharp edges of the blonde’s anxiety began to soften. By the second drink, the analytical side of his brain had begun to numb, and by the third, he found himself standing up when Nat grabbed his hand to pull him toward the dance floor. He moved awkwardly at first, his intelligent brain having never needed to learn the skill before, but as he mimicked the girls’ exaggerated hip movements, he felt a sudden, electric jolt of positive reinforcement. His body seemed to know exactly how to command attention, his hips dipping and rolling with a provocative grace that made his bare legs shimmer under the strobe lights. The former scientist was laughing now, his breathy, high-pitched voice joining the chorus of screams as the girls circled him, treating him as one of their own.

They had just returned to the booth when a group of men detached themselves from the bar and began to circle their table like predators. The man in the lead was exactly the type of dominant, polished character that Martin would have avoided at all costs in his previous life. He was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a crisp, tight-fitting white shirt with the top three buttons undone, revealing a hint of his tanned chest and a heavy silver chain. His dark hair was styled into a fade, and his eyes carried a heavy, self-assured arrogance that made Missy feel a little nauseous. The man wore expensive-looking dark denim and a designer watch that glinted as he reached out to lean against the table, invading Missy’s personal space without a second thought.

“Hey, sweetheart. I‘ve been watching you dance,” the man said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that made the hair on the back of Missy’s neck stand up. “You’ve got some moves, and I loved the show. I’m Kal, by the way.”

Missy felt a wave of discomfort wash over him, his numbed logical mind screaming at him to rebuff the advances of a man and reassert his dignity. He straightened his back, trying to summon a cold, dismissive tone, but the words that left his glossed, plump lips were sabotaged by his own vocal cords.

“You’ve got some nerve, haven’t you?” he said, but instead of sounding firm, his voice came out as a breathy, playful challenge. He even found himself tossing his long hair over his shoulder, an action he didn’t even consciously command. “I’m out with my girls, babe, so you can just jog on.”

Kal chuckled, his gaze dropping to the deep cleavage showcased by the gold dress before returning to Missy’s face with a grin. “I love a girl with a bit of bite. Do you like the chase as much as I do, beautiful?”

“I’m serious, babe, you’re proper annoying,” Missy insisted, trying to look stern, but his brow remained frozen and smooth due to the Botox. He tried to push the man’s hand away, but his pink nails only served to make the gesture look like a coy, tactile flirtation. “I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling, so you might as well go find someone else to bother.”

“You haven’t even told me your name, and you’re already attacking me with those ‘come fuck me’ eyes,” Kal replied arrogantly, stepping even closer so his thigh brushed against Missy’s bare leg. “You’re looking at me like you want to see exactly how much trouble I can be. Why don’t you ditch your squad and come back to my place?”

Horror warred with a treacherous, alcohol-fueled surge of dopamine in the blonde’s mind as the man’s heat radiated against his exposed skin. Missy tried to lean away, but the circular booth trapped him, and he found his hands fluttering toward his breasts in a gesture of faux-modesty that only served to draw Kal’s eyes deeper into his cleavage. The scientist in him was screaming for a way to say no that didn’t sound like a tantalizing invitation, but the words simply wouldn’t form the way he intended.

“You’re proper delusional, aren’t you?” Missy said, but he accidentally bit his lower lip as he spoke, turning the insult into a breathy flirtation. “I’m way too much woman for a bloke like you to handle, babe. Why don’t you go find someone who isn’t way out of your league and leave me to my drinks?”

The good-looking man didn’t look discouraged in the slightest; if anything, his grin sharpened as he reached out and allowed his fingers to trail across the gold fabric over Missy’s face. “I’ve always liked a challenge, especially when the prize is someone as gorgeous as you. I’ve got a penthouse just ten minutes from here, and I reckon we could have a much better time there than in this loud hole. What do you say, sweetheart? Let’s get out of here.”

“I told you to jog on,” Missy practically squealed, his voice hitting a high, girlish pitch that made Sash and Roxy giggle on the other side of the booth. He tried to shove Kal’s hand away, but his grip was weak, and his long acrylics merely scratched playfully at the man’s knuckles. “You’re getting well on my nerves now, Kal. I’m with my girls, and we’re having a proper night, so just take the hint and go find a bird who actually cares about your flat.”

“You keep saying no, but you’re leaning closer every time I speak,” the arrogant man observed, his voice dropping to a low whisper as he invaded Missy’s space until their noses were almost touching. “I think you’re just playing hard to get because you want to see how hard I’ll work for it. Now, let’s stop with the games.”

Missy felt his resolve crumbling, his brain seemingly paralyzed by the male attention and the constant reinforcement of his own artificial beauty. He was about to stammer another rebuff that would have undoubtedly sounded like a ‘yes’ when Natasha stood up, her emerald dress flashing as she stepped between them with the ferocity of a protective older sister.

“Alright, that’s enough of that, you vulture!” Nat shouted, shoved her way into Kal’s space, and forced him to take a step back. “I told you earlier, we’re having a girls’ night out. Our Missy isn’t interested in going back to yours, so why don’t you and your boys find another table to bore?” Her voice was loud and insistent.

Kal held up his hands in a mock gesture of surrender, his arrogant smirk never wavering as he looked over Nat’s shoulder to give Missy a slow, deliberate wink. “Fine, fine. I can take a hint. But the offer still stands, Missy. I’ll be over at the bar if you change your mind.”

He turned and strolled away with a confident swagger, joining his friends who were laughing at the exchange. Missy felt a wave of dizzying relief, but beneath it, there was a hollow, hungry sensation that he didn’t want to acknowledge. He slumped back into the cushions of the booth and took another long, desperate drink of his vodka.

“Blimey, you were nearly a goner there, babe,” Nat laughed, sliding back into her seat and patting his hand. “He was proper sharking you. You’ve got to learn how to say no without looking like you’re begging for it, Missy.”

“I was trying!” the feminized man insisted, his voice sounding high and frantic even to his own ears. “I don’t know why he wouldn’t just listen!”

“It’s because you’re too sexy for your own good, girl,” Sash added, leaning across the table to clink her glass against his. “You’ve got that ‘wild girl’ energy and blokes like Kal can smell it a mile off. Now, forget about him. Girls’ night isn’t over yet!”

Missy nodded, trying to force a smile as the dopamine began to take over again. He was no longer sure where the performance ended, and he began, but as the girls ordered another round of shots, he realized he was becoming increasingly comfortable in the golden skin of the girl they wanted him to be.

❖

The cold air hit Missy immediately as the group stumbled out of the bar at two in the morning, his short dress offering no protection against the biting Essex wind. He tottered on his platform heels, his arm linked firmly with Nat’s to keep his balance as Roxy and Sash ran ahead, their high-pitched screams echoing down the empty street. The alcohol was currently winning the war against his cognitive functions, making the world tilt and spin in a neon-tinted blur that made the former scientist feel dangerously disconnected from society.

“Oh my god, I think I’m proper hammered,” Missy heard Roxy shriek, her words thick and stumbling. “Sash, stop pushin’ me, you slag, I’m gonna fall over!”

“I ain’t pushin’ you, you’re jus’ too drunk to walk in them shoes, babe!” Sash replied, her own speech heavily slurred as she nearly tripped over the kerb.

Natasha was leading the way, her dress shimmering under the streetlights, seemingly the most functional of the group despite the glazed look in her eyes. She stopped suddenly, her gaze locking onto a shop across the street where a neon sign flickered with the image of a dripping dagger. The late-night tattoo and piercing parlour was a beacon of questionable decisions, and the redhead’s eyes lit up with a predatory sort of excitement.

“Look at that, girls!” Nat shouted, pointing a manicured finger toward the shop. “We should go in! Let’s get somat fun, yeah? Like, we need somat to remember the night by.”

Missy felt a jolt of genuine fear cut through the alcoholic haze in his brain. He had never been a fan of needles, and the idea of permanently marking his skin felt like a step too far, even for the party girl he was becoming. He tried to plant his feet, his hands going to his hips in a defensive, swaying posture.

“No, Nat, please, I don’t think that’s a good idea, babe,” the blonde stammered, his high voice cracking with a distinct drunken slur. “I’m so fucking dizzy. I jus’ wanna go home and sleep. I don’t need no ink, hon.” His newfound heavy Essex dialect came out even stronger in his alcoholic stupor.

“Oh, don’t be such a total bore, Missy!” Sash chimed in, pushing him from behind with a drunken giggle. “Don’t leave us hangin’. We’re all gonna get somat. You gotta join in.”

The blonde kept trying to protest, but he was met with further retorts from his new friends. Eventually, the peer pressure won out, and his own dopamine-driven need to be part of the “squad” overrode his survival instincts. Before he could find the words to outright refuse, he was being ushered through the door of the parlour. The interior was bright white and clinical, filled with the buzzing sound of a tattoo machine that made the former scientist’s skin crawl. A heavy-set man with ink covering every inch of his neck looked up from the counter, his expression one of bored indifference.

“Hello, ladies,” he said with a low rumble. “What can I do for you this evening?”

“Hi cutie, we’re on a girls’ night out and wanted to end it with somat memorable,” Nat declared, leaning over the counter and nearly losing her balance. “Show us the books, babe. We’re lookin’ for something ultra sexy.”

The girls huddled around a large binder of artwork, their voices a cacophony of slurred suggestions and shrieks of delight. Missy stood slightly apart, his stomach churning at the thought of decorating his body, as though what he had already done to himself was any less as bad. The blonde felt as if the floor were tilting, his vision tunneling as he tried to focus on his own breathing. He turned away from the girls, hoping to find a quiet corner to sober up a little, but his gaze landed on a small cubicle toward the back of the shop.

A woman was sitting in a chair, her head tilted back as a piercer worked on her ear. Martin, trapped deep inside Missy’s vacant eyes, watched as a thick needle was driven through the delicate cartilage. A small, bright bead of blood welled up and trickled down the woman’s neck.

The sight of the blood was the final breaking point for the feminized man’s overstimulated system. The combination of heavy alcohol consumption, the sensory overload of the night, and the visceral reality of the blood made the world turn black at the edges. Missy’s stomach did a violent somersault, and he barely had enough time to spot a plastic bin near the counter before he was stumbling toward it.

“I’m gonna be…. I’m gonna…” he gasped out, but he didn’t finish the sentence.

The blonde reached the bin and heaved, his busty chest racking with the effort, but before he could regain his breath, the floor seemed to rise up to meet him. His bare knees gave way, the tall platform heels snapping to the side as Missy’s body collapsed into a heap of gold fabric and platinum hair. The buzzing of the tattoo machine was the last thing he heard, fading into a distant, muffled hum.

“Missy?” Nat’s voice sounded far away, filled with a confused, drunken concern. “Blimey… how much did she drink, girls?”

The darkness swallowed him whole, and nothing in the world mattered except for this dreamless, empty void of space.

❖

Awareness returned in a slow, agonizing crawl, accompanied by a pounding headache that felt like a painful pulse behind Missy’s eyes. He remained still for a long moment, his cheek pressed against a pillowcase that smelled of expensive cologne and laundry detergent, a scent that definitely didn’t belong inside his own flat. As the blonde’s mind tried to piece together the fragments of the previous night in his memory, he felt a heavy weight shift beside him. A large, muscular arm turned over and draped itself firmly across his chest, the hand coming to rest directly on the soft, artificial curve of Missy’s left breast.

The hungover blonde froze, his breath caught in his throat as he slowly turned his head. To the feminized man’s absolute horror, the self-assured, cocky man from the bar was fast asleep beside him, his dark, messy hair against the white linen. This must have been Kal’s bedroom, a high-end space that felt cold and unfamiliar to the naked former scientist. He felt a wave of nausea roll through him, followed by the sensation of a throbbing soreness all over his body. What had happened last night? How did he end up here?

Those questions were irrelevant in the current moment, as Missy needed to figure out how to get out of there and slip away before the brute woke up. He carefully lifted the heavy arm away from his chest and slid out from beneath the sheets, his bare skin prickling in the cool air. The busty man’s legs felt weak as he stood up, and he noticed the gold dress he had worn the night before lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. He moved toward it with a sense of frantic urgency, his fingers trembling as he reached down to retrieve the garment. He needed to get dressed and vanish before the reality of the situation fully set in, but a low groan from the bed told him he was already too late.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Kal said, his voice sounding hoarse with sleep and satisfied amusement.

The blonde jumped, clutching the gold fabric to his chest in a futile attempt to hide his nudity. He let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh that sounded entirely foreign to his own ears. “Oh, you’re awake. I was just… I was just looking for my shoes, wasn’t I? Do you know where they’ve got to, babe?” Now that he was sober, he cringed internally at the common accent pouring out of his plump-lipped mouth.

“No idea, sweetheart,” the man in the bed replied, propping himself up on one elbow and letting his gaze travel lazily over his companion’s frame. “Maybe the living room? You were wild last night, you know. I’m surprised you can even stand up this morning.”

“Umm, I can’t quite remember much about it, to be honest,” Missy admitted, his heart pounding heavily in his chest as he struggled to fix the fragmented pieces of his memory together. “Last thing I remember was passing out in that tattoo place after the bar. I don’t know how I got here at all.”

Kal chuckled and sat up further, the sheets falling away to reveal his broad, tanned chest. “I’m glad to hear I was so memorable to you,” he joked. “I ain’t surprised, though, considering how much you had to drink, girl. Nat looked after you at first, got some water down you, and sorted you out. When you finally woke from your little nap in the shop, you had a second wind. You were the life of the party, babe. Nat tried to tell you to go home and rest, but you weren’t having it. You said you weren’t gonna let a bit of booze ruin your night.”

Missy listened in stunned silence, his mind unable to reconcile this version of events with the man who had lived his life so cautiously in the past. The idea of having a “second wind” and demanding to stay out was a total departure from his personality, yet the dopamine in his brain was already responding to the story, rewarding him for the perceived social success.

“What happened after that, then?” he asked, his curiosity overriding his fear.

“Well, me and the boys found you and the girls outside,” Kal explained with a grin. “We convinced you all to head to a club, and honestly, Missy, you were some dancer. You were taking shots like a champion and grinding on me as if your life depended on it. I love the new artwork, by the way. It suits you.”

Missy’s heart hammered against his ribs. “Artwork? What do you mean?”

The man in the bed nodded toward a large, full-length mirror that occupied the corner of his room, his dark eyes glistening with a satisfied spark. “Take a look for yourself, babe. You were so excited about it last night, kept saying you wanted to be a bad girl. I reckon you got exactly what you asked for.”

Still clutching the discarded gold dress to his stomach, Missy turned toward the mirror, his legs feeling like they might buckle at any moment. The person in the glass was a complete stranger, a hyper-modified caricature of femininity that made the former scientist’s head spin. He stared at his reflection, taking in the orange tan and bare fake breasts, but it was the new additions that made his breath catch in a jagged sob.

He stared at his left arm, where a jet-black tattoo of a stripper silhouette was now permanently etched, dancing on a pole in a display of blatant, trashy sexuality. On his right hip, a series of five-pointed shooting stars trailed down toward his thigh, and as he shifted his stance, he noticed the words ‘Bad Girl’ inked in a thick, artistic script across his lower back.

“No… no way,” he whispered in shock, his voice cracking.

The blonde’s gaze traveled further, horrified that the changes didn’t end there. He noticed a pair of silver studs placed through both of his nipples, and his navel had been pierced with a dangling star that shimmered in the light. His ears were weighted down by large, cheap-looking plastic hoop earrings that he didn’t remember putting on. Most shocking of all was the state of his cock. Firstly, his pubic area had been designed and decorated with a series of glittering pink jewels—a vajazzle that sparkled against his hairless skin.

But worst of all was his penis itself, or lack of it. The feminized man reached down with a long, pink-glittered nail, his fingers gently grazing the skin between his legs. He found that his penis had been expertly bound and bent backward, held firmly and uncomfortably in place by a realistic, skin-toned faux vagina. It was a perfect, seamless illusion that made him look like a woman in every physical sense, a “tuck” so professional that he couldn’t even feel his original parts with his finger beneath.

“I was proper surprised when Nat told me you were trans, you know,” Kal said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly tone as he watched the blonde touch the fake pussy. His words prompted Missy’s eyes to widen. “But I’ve always had a secret love for chicks with dicks, even if yours is hidden away down there.”

The words sent a wave of physical nausea through the busty man, the memory of last night’s antics lost to the alcohol, but confirmed in the soreness of his body. Yet, as he watched Kal’s lustful gaze in the mirror, a huge, treacherous rush of pleasure flooded his brain. Missy felt a terrifying sense of validation at being seen as a “Bad Girl,” an object of desire for a man like Kal. The objectification felt like a drug, a warm reward for the destruction of his old, professional life that he was already becoming addicted to.

“It’s a shame your pussy isn’t functional, babe,” Kal remarked with a wicked grin, propping his head on his hand as he admired the tattooed blonde. “But don’t worry about that. Your other holes did the trick just fine last night. You really are a firecracker, a real natural.”

The bile rose in the blonde’s throat, a bitter contrast to the humiliating heat spreading through his face and chest. He absolutely loathed the way his mind was categorizing Kal’s degrading remarks as positive data, but the chemical reinforcement was too aggressive to ignore. Every time the man’s eyes lingered on his inked body, Missy felt a fresh surge of dopamine that clouded his judgment. He was sickened by the realization of what he had done during the blackout, yet he found himself almost preening under the heavy, sexualized attention.

“I have to go, like, I proper have to go right now,” he stammered, his high-pitched voice sounding desperate and small.

Missy immediately turned away from the mirror and frantically began to pull the gold dress over his head. The thin fabric clung to his tanned skin, pulling tight over his round breasts and skimming over the star tattoos on his hips. He felt like a total mess, his platinum hair tangled and his makeup smeared; an unrefined state.

“Don’t be like that, sweetheart,” Kal said, his voice dripping into a persuasive rumble as he sat up and reached toward the edge of the bed. “I thought maybe we could go for a quick round two this morning. You were so eager last night. I reckon you’ve still got a bit of that fire left in you.”

The blonde didn’t even acknowledge the invitation. He refused to look back at the bed, keeping his eyes locked on the door as he smoothed the gold dress as best he could. The “Martin” part of him was in a state of total, silent shock, while the “Missy” side was already calculating the most dramatic way to exit the room. He grabbed his small gold clutch bag from the floor, not caring about his missing shoes or the soreness in his limbs.

Missy rushed out of the bedroom without saying another word, his bare feet silent on the plush carpet as he navigated the unfamiliar, expansive flat. He burst through the front door and out into the hallway, the cool morning air hitting his exposed skin as he fled toward the lift. His mind spiraled at the events of what had occurred over the previous 24 hours. He was a bioengineer who had woken up in a strange man’s bed with a stripper on his arm and a fake vagina between his legs, and as the lift doors closed, the rush of dopamine was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

❖

The steam from Missy’s third shower of the day had finally begun to dissipate, leaving the bathroom mirror a blurred sheet of condensation. The blonde stood before it, vigorously rubbing a towel over his tanned, ink-stained skin as if he could physically rub away the memory of the stranger’s bed and the lingering sense of violation that had clung to his mind. He felt disgusting, a deep-seated grime that seemed to have permeated his very soul, yet every time he caught the stripper tattoo on his arm or the glint of his nipple studs, a treacherous wave of pleasure flooded his core.

The feminized man dressed as casually as his new wardrobe allowed, pulling on a pair of tight, white denim hot-pants and a cropped pink hoodie that left his star-pierced navel exposed, desperate for a sense of normalcy that no longer seemed to exist.

A sharp, demanding series of raps at the front door broke the silence of the flat, prompting Missy’s heart to hammer a frantic rhythm against his heavy, artificial breasts. He moved toward the hallway with a hesitant gait, his bare feet silent on the floorboards as he reached to pull the door open, hoping for a miracle but expecting a nightmare.

“Hello, Martin,” a deep, American voice said, the tone dripping with a familiar sense of satisfaction.

The blonde stood there, blinking blankly at the broad-shouldered man standing in the corridor. The name ‘Martin’ drifted through his consciousness like a leaf flying through the breeze, failing to find any purchase or trigger any sense of recognition. He stared at the American man, the silence stretching out between them until Butch let out a low, knowing chuckle.

“The programming is progressing even faster than I anticipated,” Butch remarked, his gaze traveling over the blonde’s exaggerated figure with a look of pure triumph. “You must have a hell of a brain. So, tell me, sweetheart, what is your name?”

“Missy,” the feminized former scientist replied without a second of hesitation, the word spilling out from his plump, glossy lips as if it were the only objective truth in the world.

“Missy,” The former convict repeated, his grin widening until it looked like a threat of something far more devious. “It suits you, babe. It’s a name for a girl who’s ready to leave her old, boring life in the dirt where it belongs.”

The blonde had no time for his former college roommates games. “What do you want, Butch?” he demanded.

Butch didn’t wait for an invitation, stepping past the blonde with a heavy, purposeful stride that made the floorboards groan under his weight. He casually sauntered into the living room, looking at the scientific textbooks on Missy’s bookshelf with an ironic grin. He turned around, leaning his large frame against the mantelpiece as he looked the feminized man up and down.

“I hear things, Missy. I hear you’ve had a bad week,” Butch said, his American accent echoing around the Essex flat. “I heard about the job. Your boss just kicked you to the curb like a piece of trash without any support. And your parents… man, I heard they won’t even pick up the phone. They saw what you’ve become and they want no part of it.”

“That’s none of your damn business!” Missy snapped immediately, his voice hitting a shrill, defensive peak. He felt a sting of tears behind his eyes at the mention of his family, but he tried to maintain his defiant stance, his hands going to the hips of his white hot pants. “Just get lost, yeah? I don’t need you coming in here and rubbing it in.”

Butch chuckled lightly. “That voice, man,” he taunted. “It’s amazing what a little mental rewiring can do. The old ‘Martin’ would have been horrified if he found himself talking like one of those common Essex girls he despised so much.”

The blonde bit his lip, his long pink nails digging into the soft flesh of his palms as he glared at the American. He hadn’t even thought about the way he had been speaking the last couple of days, but now that Butch brought it up, he realized he had been talking like a vapid Essex girl, the kind of dialect he always thought had brought shame on his County. And yet, even now, the language felt natural in his mind, a fact that terrified him.

“I don’t care what you think, babe,” Missy spat, the endearing term slipping out with a natural ease that unsettled him. “Unless you’re gonna help fix me, why are you even here?”

Butch stepped forward, his massive presence crowding Missy into the corner of the room. He reached out and cupped the blonde’s chin with one large hand, tilting the feminized man’s head back so the morning light caught the wet shimmer of his pink gloss. The American admired those big, plump lips and the high, tattooed arches of the brows that gave the former scientist a look of perpetual, helpless surprise.

“Help you?” Butch asked mockingly. “Did you help me when you framed me for a crime I didn’t commit, Martin? Did you help me when you let me rot in a cage for ten years?”

He casually rubbed his thumb along Missy’s lower lip, pulling it down to reveal the white teeth beneath. The blonde trembled under the touch, his mind telling him how much he hated the man he shared a dorm room with a decade ago, yet his body seemed paralyzed by the sheer dominance of the American. Butch didn’t relent, his thumb continuing its slow graze against the plump flesh before he finally let go of the feminized face with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

“I’ve found a private plane that’s leaving tonight,” Butch said, his tone shifting back to a casual, business-like drawl. “It’s taking me back to the US. I’m done with this damp little country.”

“Great,” Missy replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm that was undermined by his breathy delivery. “I can’t wait to see you gone. You’ve done enough damage here, haven’t you? Why don’t you just leave me in peace?”

Butch pulled out an advanced textbook from the nearby shelf and leaned against it, casually pretending to read the text inside. “Well, that’s the thing, sweetheart. There’s an extra seat on that plane. I thought that maybe you’d want to join me.”

A harsh, jagged scoff escaped Missy’s throat before he could even process the absurdity of the offer. He stared at the American with wide, incredulous eyes, his hands dropping from his hips to his sides in a gesture of pure disbelief.

“You’re proper delusional if you think I’d go anywhere with you, babe,” the blonde snapped, his Essex lilt thickening as his emotions heightened. “Why the hell would I leave my home to fly across the world with the man who did this to me? I’d rather rot alone in this flat than spend another second in your company.”

“Is that so?” Butch asked, closing the book and letting it thud back onto the shelf. He stepped back into Missy’s personal space, his expression cold and unreadable. “Think about it, Martin. Or Missy. What exactly are you staying for? You have no job. Your old colleagues think you’re having a mental breakdown. Your parents… well, we already discussed them. You’re humiliated in this town. Every time you walk down the street, people are going to gawk at those fake tits and that over-the-top tanned body. You’re a joke here.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the sound of Missy’s shallow breathing. Every word Butch spoke was a jagged piece of truth that tore through the blonde’s defenses. He looked down at his long, pink-glittered nails, realizing the life he had spent decades building had been dismantled within a matter of days. He was no longer a respected bioengineer; he was a walking attraction, a freakish blend of science and trashy aesthetic that his parents couldn’t even bear to look at.

“But in Miami,” Butch continued. “You wouldn’t be a joke. You’d be very popular, Missy. You would receive more attention than you could ever imagine. People there… they love a look like yours. They appreciate a girl who favors her looks over what’s inside her head.”

Missy felt a sudden, sharp jolt of dopamine at the mention of the word ‘popular.’ He didn’t understand why, but the mere suggestion of receiving all that attention made his heart race with a confusing sense of excitement. His brain, already rewired to seek social validation through his hyper-feminized appearance, latched onto the promise of being seen and desired. For a moment, the image of being celebrated in a place where no one knew ‘Martin’ felt like the best option.

“I said no, Butch,” Missy whispered, despite the words lacking any real weight. “I’m not interested. I’ll find a way to fix my brain. I don’t need you!”

But Butch didn’t stop. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, hypnotic rumble that seemed to bypass Missy’s logic and target the pleasure centres of his body directly. “Imagine it, Missy,” the American whispered, his eyes locking onto the blonde’s wide, blue ones. “Imagine lying on South Beach. The sun is beating down on that sexy tan of yours, and you’re wearing nothing but a tiny string bikini and a pair of sexy fuck-me heels. Imagine every man in the vicinity staring at you, their eyes glued to your fake tits and that sexy tattoo on your back. You wouldn’t have to think. You wouldn’t have to work. You’d just be… art.”

Another violent rush of the pleasure hormone hit the blonde as Butch spoke, the vivid imagery bypassing his logical filters and flooding his mind with a warmth that made his toes curl. He could almost feel the phantom heat of a Florida sun on his skin, imagining the weight of a hundred gazes validating every modification he had been forced to endure. Butch knew exactly what he was doing, his words acting like precise surgical strikes against the former scientist’s crumbling resolve.

Missy hated the idea of escaping the country with Butch, knowing deep down that this man was the architect of his transformation, but the American was right; what did he have to lose? There was no office to return to, no family dinner to attend, and no person in Chigwell who saw him as anything other than a hyper-feminized Essex bimbo.

“F-fine,” the blonde whispered, his voice sounding breathy and fragile as he looked around the room filled with relics of a life that no longer belonged to him. “I’ll go with you.”

Butch’s grin turned sharp and wide as he released the tension in his shoulders, looming over the defeated blonde with an air of absolute ownership. “Good girl,” he rumbled. “I knew that high-IQ brain of yours would eventually see the logic. The plane leaves tomorrow morning at 0600 sharp. Don’t worry about packing that trashy closet of yours. I’ve already got people handling everything you’ll need on the other side.”

The man turned on his heel and walked toward the exit, the heavy thud of his boots marking the final seconds of Missy’s residency in his old life. He didn’t offer a goodbye or a backward glance, simply pulling the door shut with a finality that made the windows rattle in their frames. Missy stood rooted to the spot in his white hot pants, his hands trembling as they rested on the swell of his hips. He stared at the closed door for a long time, the silence of the apartment now feeling heavy and oppressive. The blonde felt a sickening twist of regret in his gut; what the hell had he just agreed to?

❖

A private jet levelled out above the Atlantic, the cabin interior illuminated by the bright, unfiltered sunlight of the upper atmosphere. Butch sat sprawled in a wide leather chair across the aisle, his frame looking almost too large for the luxury upholstery. He was dressed in a casual grey vest that clung to his torso and a pair of olive-drab cargo shorts, his thick arms resting comfortably on the armrest. He looked entirely at ease, a man returning to his natural habitat after over a decade of exile.

Missy sat opposite the man, her own appearance providing a jarring, hyper-sexualized contrast to Butch’s relaxed attire. She was currently encased in a red PVC string bikini that was little more than a collection of thin straps and glossy triangles, barely containing the enormous, swaying weight of her plastic breasts. The material bit into her tanned skin, forcing her cleavage into a deep, dramatic canyon that threatened to spill open with every movement. Below the bikini, she wore red fishnet stockings that disappeared into the tops of towering red platform heels, which featured six-inch clear acrylic bases that made her legs look impossibly long and slender.

Her platinum blonde hair had been pulled into two high, bouncy pigtails that sat atop her head, secured by red glittery ties that gave her the appearance of a life-sized, adult doll. Her face was a mask of heavy makeup, featuring thick, multi-layered lashes and a generous application of shimmering bronzer. Her lips had been painted with a thick, wet layer of high-gloss red paint, making them look perpetually swollen and inviting. The blonde had initially argued against the outfit, her remaining masculine pride recoiling at the thought of traveling in something so overtly trashy, but Butch had remained immovable. He had told her quite clearly that he wanted America to see the real Essex bimbo she was from the moment the wheels touched the tarmac in Florida, and her brain had eventually succumbed to the logic of his dominance.

She sat in silence, her long pink nails delicately gripping the stem of a crystal flute filled with expensive champagne. Every sip she took made her head feel lighter, the alcohol helping to numb the persistent, nagging voice of the man she used to be. The bikini-clad woman watched Butch through her heavy lashes, feeling a strange mix of resentment and an almost desperate need for his approval.

“You’re quiet over there, sweetheart,” Butch remarked, not looking up from his cell phone screen as he scrolled. “I hope you’re still not pouting about the bikini. You look great.”

“I’m not pouting, babe, I’m just thinking, aren’t I?” Missy replied, her voice sounding breathy and soft, naturally falling into the melodic Essex tone that she could no longer suppress. “It’s just a bit much for a plane, isn’t it? I look like I’m on display wearing this.”

Butch let out a low chuckle and finally looked up, his eyes dark with amusement and appraisal. “That’s because you are on display, Missy. You look like a perfect little slut, and you should get used to the feeling of being on show.”

A sharp scoff escaped the woman’s glossy red lips, and she turned her head away to stare out at the endless blue horizon, trying to ignore the heat spreading through her groin at the man’s degrading words. She loathed the American for what he had done, yet the chemical reward for his attention was so aggressive that she found her body leaning toward him despite her better judgment.

“What are you even doing on that phone anyway?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly as she tried to sound annoyed. “You’ve been staring at it since we took off.”

Butch’s grin widened, and he patted his muscular thigh, gesturing for the blonde to move. “Why don’t you come over here, sit on my lap, and find out for yourself?”

She felt a brief, instinctive flash of resistance, a phantom memory of a man named Martin who would have never dreamed of such a submissive act. But the sensation of her plastic breasts and her scantily-clad body made her feel fragile and feminine, and the idea of being held by a man who appreciated her artificial beauty was too intoxicating to resist. She stood up, her platforms clicking on the cabin floor, and made her way across the aisle to perch herself delicately on the American’s lap. The feeling of his strong arm wrapping around her waist and casually groping her chest made the blonde gasp, her heart hammering against her ribs as she looked down at the screen.

“Look at that,” Butch said, his voice rumbling against her ear as he ignored her half-hearted squirming. “I went ahead and set up a new Instagram for you before we left. I figured you needed a new platform to show off your personality.”

Missy stared at the screen, her long lashes fluttering in confusion as she took in the profile. “I don’t want no Instagram account, Butch! I don’t want you interfering with my life any more than you already have, babe.”

The American didn’t even flinch at the bikini-clad woman’s protests, his thumb already flicking through the feed. “It’s too late for that, sweetheart. I uploaded a couple of photos from the past few weeks. It’s been live for a few hours, and you’ve already got close to four thousand followers.”

The air seemed to leave Missy’s lungs, and she reached out with her pink-glittered nails to snatch the phone from his hand, her eyes widening as she scrolled through the images. She saw herself as the world saw her: a hyper-feminized, dolled-up attraction with huge breasts and a vacant, pouting expression. However, it was the comments section that truly arrested the blonde’s attention, her mind struggling to process the flood of sexualized praise.

“Oh my god, who are these people?” she whispered, her voice soft as she read through the filth.

Every word was a strike against her old identity. Strangers were calling her a whore, a perfect doll, and a slutty Essex girl reject. She felt a sick, twisting sensation in her gut, but it was immediately followed by an overwhelming, intoxicating rush of dopamine that made her body shudder and her head swim. She did love the attention; there was no way to refute that statement.

“See what I mean?” Butch asked, his hand clasping her breast as he watched her scroll with an obsessive intensity. “You’re a natural at this, Missy. You’re going to be a real hit in Miami. Those guys out there won’t know what hit ‘em when you walk onto that beach.”

Missy didn’t answer, her thumb already moving to the next set of comments, her eyes glazed with a mixture of horror and profound, addictive pleasure. She leaned back against Butch’s chest, the red PVC of her bikini squeaking against his vest, and for the first time, the man she used to be was completely silent. She was Missy now, the girl with the ‘Bad Girl’ tattoo and thousands of followers, and the only thing that mattered was how many more people would be watching when she finally landed on American soil.

End of Chapter Two