Chapter Two

The stage lights blazed back to life, their piercing beams pinning Rebecca to the center of the polished platform of the surreal game show she had been forced to appear in. Her wild, red curls framed a botoxed, bimbo face, its permanent glossy red lipstick and heavy blush a stark contrast to her navy t-shirt and tight jeans, her sneakers grounding a body that no longer felt like her own. The snug leather choker locked around her neck bit into her, and her cuffed hands strained behind her back, holding strong against the Chief Product Officer’s futile struggles.

The faceless audience’s cheers surged louder as the show returned from its scheduled break, a relentless tide of excitement that made the redhead’s stomach churn with dread. Mr. Djinn swaggered forward, the mystical entity that Rebecca had released from its confined prison and who orchestrated the executive’s transformation. The genie’s grin was a blade, ready for the second act.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Altered Consequences!” the suited man boomed, his voice dripping with theatrical relish. “Our dear Mistress is ready for the next round. Let’s see what fate awaits her!”

The massive screen behind Rebecca and Mr. Djinn pulsed with vibrant colors, the remaining categories scrolling rapidly in a mesmerizing dance of light. The crowd’s roars grew feverish, their anticipation a tangible force vibrating through the air. The display froze, revealing “Voice/Dialect” in blazing letters. Mr. Djinn clapped his hands, his sequined tuxedo shimmering under the professional spotlights, his olive complexion aglow with sadistic delight. “Would you look at that. Voice and dialect are the winning category,” he proclaimed, the genie’s tone rich with mockery. “This round will remake how our executive speaks; let’s give her a new voice.”

Rebecca yanked at her cuffs, her pouty lips trembling as her eyes flashed wide with defiance. “You can’t keep doing this to me, you bastard!” she snapped at the tanned man. Her voice was one of the attributes that made her ‘her’. Everyone cowered when they heard her snappy retorts in the office. How dare these assholes attempt to degrade her like this!

Mr. Djinn ignored the redhead, instead gliding toward the four wronged guests seated on stools at the stage’s edge. The supernatural being paused before Matthew Healy, his hand resting lightly on Rebecca’s ex-boyfriend’s shoulder. “Matthew, you set the stage with those fiery curls,” he said encouragingly. “What’s your wish for Rebecca’s voice?”

Matthew’s face curled into a sneer as he stole a look at his struggling ex, his eyes glinting with old resentment. “I know exactly what I want. I want a dumb, wild, give-no-fucks party girl with a gravelly dialect,” he said, his voice thick with spit. “Make her sound like a reckless slut, partying without a care, and see how she handles those important meetings then.” The crowd cheers at his cruelty, their excitement a sharp jab to Rebecca’s pride.

The djinn’s grin widened, his eyes sparkling with approval. “A fiery choice to match that hair of hers,” he said before moving to Emily Sanchez, the gothic former roommate who had been expelled after taking the punishment Rebecca should have received in college. “Emily, you came close last time, but still no wins on the board. What’s your wish for her voice?”

The goth’s gaze burned with quiet anger, her lips tightening. “I want to see that bitch cussing. I want a rebellious dialect where she can’t stop herself from saying filthy shit,” the black-haired woman said sharply. “That’s the total opposite of this fake professional act. Please, let me win this one.” The audience cheered, drawn to the raw edge of her choice.

The host nodded, his laughter echoing through the stage. “Bold and bitter! You may have a shot this time,” he said, gliding toward Jason Higby, Rebecca’s disgraced former boss, whom she had falsely accused of sexual harassment. “Jason, your permanent makeup selection in the previous round finally won the crowd. It’s time to take over the show.”

Jason’s gaunt face hardened, his weary eyes fixed on the woman who cost him his job and reputation. “I want a submissive, unsure-of-herself, pitiful tone and dialect,” he said resentfully. “I want her to tremble every time she speaks, stripping away that smug confidence she used to destroy me.” The crowd cheered at his response, the audience warming up to the man.

Mr. Djinn’s laughter rang out as he twirled with a flourish. “A choice that screams defeat!” he teased before turning his attention to Miles Bishop, Rebecca’s overweight stepbrother, whom she had edged out of the family estate. “Miles, your bimbo face and makeup were crowd favorites, and I would say you’re the early frontrunner in the competition. What voice will complete her look?”

The young man’s eyes locked onto Rebecca, prompting the bimbo-faced woman to glance away. He grinned for a moment. “I want a cute, valley girl dialect,” he said slowly and maliciously. “I want every word out of her slutty mouth to sound stupid and vapid. I want her to sound cute, submissive, ditzy, with a little lisp she can’t control. Make that bitch sound like a total airhead.” The crowd’s cheers erupted louder, their excitement a deafening roar that shook the stage. The other guests rolled their eyes, knowing they had been outmaneuvered again.

Mr. Djinn spun back to Rebecca with a performative flourish, his grinning dripping with glee. “We have some deliciously wicked options to choose from, dear Mistress!” he declared mockingly. “You’ve got thirty seconds to sway the crowd. Make it count.”

Rebecca tugged on her cuffs as she stepped forward, facing the faceless audience member, her botoxed face frozen in its slutty pout, her wild, red hair bouncing as she moved. “Don’t do this!” she warned, her voice trembling with desperation. “My voice is my biggest weapon. It’s the one thing that defines me and who I am. Don’t destroy my life.” The crowd drowned out her pleas with jeers of their own, their boo ringing out as the timer buzzed.

The host clapped his hands, turning to the audience with a smirk on his face. “Alright, folks, it’s voting time!” he boomed. “Will it be Matthew’s gravelly groupie gab, Emily’s rebellious rant, Jason’s submissive stammer, or Miles’s bimbo babble? You have ten seconds to decide!” The screen pulsed with options as the audience fell quiet, weighing their choices and casting their votes.

A few moments later, the results flashed on the screen, igniting a thunderous cheer. “Miles’s valley girl bimbo takes it, only just outscoring Matthew!” the genie announced, his eyes flashing with delight. “It looks like the audience is truly resonating with your stepbrother’s story, Mistress.” The crowd’s approval shook the stage as the redhead stared in disbelief.

The executive’s wide eyes glistened, her pouty lips quivering as she shook her head. Mr. Djinn raised a hand, and a shimmering blue mist surged towards her face, disappearing down her throat, prompting the woman to cough suddenly. A tingling warmth spread through the woman’s vocal cords, reshaping them, her breath catching as her voice permanently transformed. She opened her mouth to protest, but it was too late, a ditzy tone spilling out, laced with a slight lisp. “Like, oh my gawd, what did you totally do to me?” she squeaked, her words alien and childish as her frozen face looked on in horror.

The crowd erupted in amusement. The tuxedoed genie’s grin widened, his olive complexion glowing under the lights. “Oh, Mistress, that voice is just divine,” he mocked gleefully. “It’s just… you.”

The redhead tried to speak again, coughing to clear her throat, but nothing could prevent the high and lisping voice from escaping. “You, like, can’t do this to me!” she chirped, her words humiliating her with each syllable. The audience’s laughter surged as their cheers mocked her, her professional authority shattered into pieces.

Mr. Djinn twirled, his tuxedo sparkling. “Round four is in the bag!” he proclaimed, his voice booming with relish. “Let’s see what’s next, shall we?” The screen hummed, poised to select the next category, as Rebecca stood, her new voice echoing in her ears. The crowd and the audience were enjoying her humiliation. One man whose face belied the elation he was feeling about the woman’s downfall was Miles. His eyes seared into her visually pleasing form as he reminisced on all the times that bitch had mistreated him through the years.

❖

Five Years Ago

The grand foyer of the Bishop family’s upscale Miami home glowed with warm chandelier light, its marble floors reflecting the opulence of wealth gained through Keith Bishop’s multiple business ventures. Rebecca Horton stepped through the front door, her tailored white blazer and matching knee-length skirt hugging her frame, a subtle sheen of confidence radiating from her. At twenty-three, fresh from a prestigious internship in Orlando, she carried herself with the poise of a rising star, her dark brown bob perfectly styled, her red lipstick bold against her fair skin.

The young woman’s mother, Catherine, stepped into the foyer to give her prized daughter a big hug. “There’s my girl,” she beamed with pride. “I’ve prepared your room, and dinner will be on the table in a couple of hours.” Rebecca’s stepfather stood in the living room doorway with his arms folded, smiling at his wife and her daughter.

Rebecca returned her mother’s embrace, her lips curving into a radiant smile. “Thanks, Mom,” she said, her voice smooth with practiced charm. “It’s good to be back home.” The dark-haired young woman glanced at Keith and nodded in acknowledgment.

A shuffle from the hallway drew her attention. Miles Bishop, her loser stepbrother, appeared, his wide-set frame slouched in an ill-fitting band t-shirt and baggy jeans. The young man’s eyes darted nervously, and Rebecca’s gaze locked onto him, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “Well, hey there, Miles,” she said, her tone lilting with jovial teasing. “Still glued to that computer screen, fantasizing over those despicable women? Or have you found something new to obsess over?”

Miles’s face flushed, his jaw clenching as he shifted uncomfortably. “Fuck you, Rebecca,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing at her taunt. “I’m doing just fine, and don’t need some prissy snob bitch like you tearing me down.” He had his fantasies, but the young man wasn’t a bad guy, and he didn’t deserve to be bullied by his stepsister, he thought to himself.

Keith’s imposing figure loomed in the doorway as his expression hardened. “That’s enough, Miles,” he snapped commandingly. “You’ll show Rebecca the respect she’d earned around here. She’s worked hard and made something of herself, unlike you.” His words cut like a whip, far sharper than anything Rebecca could throw at him, and Miles’s shoulders slumped, his gaze diverting to the marble floor.

Rebecca’s smirk widened. “Don’t worry, Keith,” she said, her tone dripping with mock sweetness as she batted her eyes. She thrust her coat into Miles’s hand, the fabric brushing against his fingers dismissively. “You don’t mind taking care of this, do you, little bro?” She turned her head to her mother. “I’ll be down for dinner later. I need to freshen up after the long drive.” Her low heels clicked sharply on the marble as she glided up the grand staircase, leaving Miles clutching her coat in silence.

When Rebecca heard her stepfather mutter the words, “pick that coat back up and behave yourself,” the young woman smiled. It was easy to rile her pathetic loser stepbrother up, and ever since Keith had written him out of his will and replaced it with Rebecca’s name, she knew she had him and her Mom wrapped around her finger.

Later that evening, the dining room gleamed with elegance, its long mahogany table adorned with fine china and flickering candles. Rebecca descended the staircase, her white blazer replaced by a fitted emerald t-shirt and black leggings, which accentuated her poised figure. She took her seat at Keith’s right, her mother opposite, and Miles sat beside Rebecca’s mother.

Keith filled the young brunette’s glass with a generous amount of red wine before sliding it to her and raising his own glass. “We’re glad to have you home, Rebecca,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “We’re so proud of you, and we know you’re going to go far in the business world.”

Rebecca lifted her glass to acknowledge his praise. “Thank you, Keith,” she said, her voice smooth and confident. “I have an interview with Sunset Marketing next week. The position is modest, but I could see myself as CEO in five years’ time.” She grinned. Rebecca had never lacked in ambition.

Catherine’s eyes sparkled with adoration as she leaned forward. “That’s incredible, baby girl,” she said, her voice warm with pride. “If they have any sense, Sunset Marketing will snap you up before someone else does.” Her words dripped with affection, each one a crown placed on her prized daughter’s head.

Miles rolled his eyes. How did his parents not see the vindictiveness in the bitch’s performance? He wondered how they could all be so blind to her ruthlessness. His father noticed the eyeroll and turned his attention to his underperforming son. “And you, Miles,” he said, his tone icy with disdain. “When are you going to rid yourself of those disgusting fantasies and get yourself a real job?”

Miles’s jaw tightened, glancing down at his wrinkled button-up shirt that he wore in a poor attempt at formality, his fork pushing the roasted pork around his plate. “I’m trying, Dad,” he reasoned. “The job market is real tough right now, but I got a couple of interviews lined up.”

Keith scoffed. “It’s been six weeks since you got fired from your last job,” his eyes narrowed at the cowering young man. “If you weren’t my son, I’d be throwing you out on the street by now.”

Rebecca couldn’t hide her juvenile grin as she watched the confrontation take place. “Don’t be too hard on him, Keith,” she said playfully. “It must be hard for him to focus with those pathetic bimbo’s dancing around in his rotten brain all day.”

“Shut up, bitch!” Miles snapped without thinking. “You don’t know shit about me!” His eyes widened, and he knew he was in trouble before the words left his mouth.

Keith’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and commanding. “Don’t you dare speak like that at my table,” he said with fury. “Go to your room, and don’t head back down until you are ready to apologize.”

Miles’s mouth gaped in shock, being sent to his room like a little boy in front of his hated stepsister. He opened his mouth to speak, but knew anything he said right now would have made things worse, and so the chubby man stood up and scuttled out of the room, leaving Rebecca alone with her mother and stepfather.

“Sorry about that, princess,” Keith apologized. “He is an embarrassment and needs to learn some respect around here.”

In the hallway, Miles overheard his father’s words and the laughter between the three afterwards. He clenched his fists. He’d make that bitch pay some day, he was sure of it. The hallway’s elegance faded, shifting back to the present, where Miles sat on the edge of the game show stage, the same furious glare fixed on Rebecca’s transformed, bimbo-like form, the memory of that dinner fueling his vengeful wishes in Altered Consequences.

❖

The stage vibrated with electric anticipation as the massive screen whirred, its glowing letters cycling through the remaining categories in a whirlwind of color. The audience’s cheers roared, a relentless wave that pressed against Rebecca, her flowing red hair bouncing, her Botoxed bimbo face frozen in a pouty, glossy-lipped mask. Her permanent bimbo makeup, thanks to Jason’s successful transformation, clashed with her navy t-shirt, tight jeans, and sneakers, the leather shock collar pressing against her neck.

Mr. Djinn paced the platform, his sequined suit shimmering under the spotlights as he commanded the stage with predatory delight. The screen halted, blazing “Childhood/Growing Up” in bold letters. He spun toward the crowd, his grin a wicked slash across his face.

“Ohh, this is a good one, and the first true identity transformation we’ve come across,” the genie announced, his voice booming with a theatrical relish. “We have Childhood/Growing up. This round will rewrite our dear Mistress’s past, reshaping the very roots of her present. What stories will our fantastic wronged guests weave for her?”

Rebecca’s wide eyes flashed with panic, her ditzy valley girl voice betraying her seriousness. “Like, what?” she squeaked. “You totally can’t, like, rewrite my life!” Her protests only elicited further taunts from the audience as Mr. Djinn headed toward the edge of the stage.

Ignoring the squeaky outburst, the genie glided toward the guests perched on stools, his grin unrelenting. He paused before the first guest, Matthew, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Matthew, this woman broke your heart and destroyed your life,” he said, rubbing salt in the man’s wounds. “What’s your story for Rebecca’s past?”

Matthew’s face twisted into a malicious sneer. “I want her as a rich girl turned party whore,” he said, his voice thick with spite. “Spoiled rotten as a kid, handed everything. But she became a wild, slutty party animal in college until her dad was jailed for embezzlement, costing them everything.” He grinned as he imagined the cruel fate he had planned for her. “She had to sell her body to students for money just to pay for the tuition. Most men in college had a piece of her by the time she graduated.” The crowd roared as Rebecca’s eyes widened. She wasn’t that type of woman, and never would be, she thought to herself.

Mr. Djinn’s eyes sparkled with approval. “A deliciously scandalous tale!” he said, moving on to Emily standing beside him. “Well, Emily. You’re struggling to get on the board, but maybe a juicy rebellious story will help. What do you have in mind?”

Emily’s eyes burned with quiet fury, sticking to her guns as she remembered how the bimbofied bitch had gotten her expelled from college. “I want her to have a rough childhood in the foster care system,” she said sharply, prompting a gasp from the red-haired woman on the stage. “No family, no support, always fighting to survive. That’s basically how I had to live after my family disowned me when I got expelled. Let her know what it’s like to claw through life with nothing.” The audience cheered as Rebecca shook her head in a desperate plea.

The almighty genie nodded, his laughter echoing across the stage. “Very fitting. A tale of struggle to match your own!” he said before gliding toward Rebecca’s former boss, Jason. “Jason, your ideas have gotten better as we’ve progressed. Can you keep the crowd’s favor with this one?”

Jason’s gaunt face tightened, his weary eyes locking onto Rebecca with cold resentment. “I think she should have grown up learning to use her body to get what she wants,” he said, his tone bitter. “Like, knowing that nothing comes free, seduction is her only learned skill. She spent her entire adolescence learning how to manipulate men by spreading her legs.” The crowd responded with a lukewarm cheer, prompting the powerful being to chuckle.

“Oh, Jason, I like the thought process,” he grinned. “I think maybe the audience prefers some of the other choices, though, judging by that response.” He patted the man on the shoulder before moving over to Miles, his grin widening. “Another win last round for Miles, and your vision is definitely becoming a crowd favorite. Judging by how Rebecca treated you in the past, how would you like to reshape her past?”

Miles leaned forward, his ill-fitting t-shirt stretching across his frame, his eyes burning with vengeance as he saw this as an opportunity to retake agency over his life. “I want Rebecca raised in a filthy trailer park,” he said maliciously. “Her mom was a total whore, always picking the worst men, getting humped and dumped like trash. Rebecca grew up knowing that she’d be destined for the same fate, an easy fuck, swayed into anything, totally submissive. Her mom eventually met my dad, but he treats her and Rebecca like worthless sluts. That’s the ultimate humiliation for what she did to me.”

Rebecca’s pouty lips quivered, her face frozen in horror. “No, Miles, like, shut up!” she retorted, but the crowd’s applause drowned out her protests.

Mr. Djinn spun back to the center of the stage, his grin unmoved as he approached the bound bimbo. “What a lineup of twisted tales!” he declared, his voice thick with mockery. “Dear Mistress, you’ve got thirty seconds to sway our audience. Time starts now!”

The redhead’s heart raced, her cuffed hands straining uselessly behind her. “Like, please don’t mess with my past!” she chirped, her wide eyes glistening. “My life is, like, super perfect, okay? Those stories are totally gross! I mean, like, if you gotta pick one, like, make it Emily’s—it’s, like, way less degrading!” The timer eventually buzzed, the murmurs from the crowd informing her that her pitch wasn’t very persuasive.

The olive-skinned genie clapped his hands together as he turned to the audience. “Time to cast your votes, people!” he boomed with satisfaction. “Will it be Matthew’s party past, Emily’s foster failure, Jason’s seductive start, or Miles’s trailer trash tale? You have ten seconds to make your mark!” The screen pulsed with the options as he said them, the crowd murmuring to each other as they locked in their choices.

Moments later, the results flashed on the screen, and there was only one clear winner, somewhat predictably. “Miles’s trailer park past takes it!” Mr. Djinn announced, his eyes gleaming with delight. “The crowd can’t resist your vision, Miles!” The audience’s approval reverberated around the set, their cheers swallowing Rebecca’s despair whole.

Rebecca’s breath caught, her voice squeaking in panic. “Like, no way, I totally order you to stop this!” she cried, her glossy lips trembling as she stepped back, the choker buzzing faintly as she approached the back edge of the stage. Her wide eyes glistened with terror, her botoxed face frozen in its provocative pout.

The genie raised his hand. “Time to rewrite history, dear Mistress!” he mocked gleefully. A familiar shimmering blue mist surged from his fingers, enveloping Rebecca in a swirling haze that pulsed with an eerie warmth. The fog seeped into the redhead’s mind, a disorienting tide that unraveled her mind. Her privileged childhood—private schools, a doting mother, a life of opportunity—dissolved like smoke, replaced with a gritty trailer park existence, her mother a desperate woman chasing abusive men, teaching Rebecca she was fated to be used, an “easy fuck” swayed into submission. The executive knew these new memories were false, but she couldn’t escape their effect, and every attempt to remember her former childhood proved futile.

She clutched at her old past, desperate to recall her mother’s warm hugs and constant encouragement, but they slipped away, replaced by images of countless rusted trailers, drunken fights, and her mother’s cold eyes. Her new memories showed Keith Bishop, once a proud and appreciative stepfather, treating her and her mother like “worthless sluts,” his disdain shaping her as vulnerable and compliant. She knew what she wanted, and she was still as ambitious as ever, but as an image of a man choking her in the bedroom seeped into her mind, she felt her pussy grow wet. She elicited a gasp from her pouty lips, horrified by the foreign intrusion in her mind.

Although the crowd couldn’t see a physical transformation, their cheers erupted as they witnessed the confusion in the bimbofied redhead’s eyes. Mr. Djinn’s grin widened as he clapped his hands. “What a transformation, guys,” he declared. “Our Mistress is now a true daughter of her trailer park upbringing, shaped by a life of submission.” Rebecca shook her head as the genie spoke, desperately trying to rid her mind of the new suffocating false memories.

Mr. Djinn spun toward the camera, his arms spread wide. “Stay tuned, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll be right back after a quick commercial break!” he announced, the screen dimming as the stage lights faded, the crowd’s roar lingering like a storm, leaving Rebecca trapped in her rewritten pass, the game’s perverted momentum poised to drag her deeper into humiliation. Some would say that it was an unjust punishment, although others would remark that it was precisely what she deserved.

❖

Seven Years Ago

The Dean’s office at the university was a study in austere elegance, its dark oak paneling and heavy bookshelves exuding a sense of intellect. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting long shadows across a desk cluttered with papers and a brass nameplate reading “Dean Richard Howell.”

Emily Sanchez stood before the desk, her hands clasped tightly; her future Gothic flair was notably absent. Her black hair was pulled into a neat ponytail; her face was bare of makeup, her simple blue blouse and khaki skirt summed up her understated style. The young woman’s eyes, wide with panic, glistened as she pleaded, her voice trembling with desperate urgency. Rebecca Horton sat quietly at the back of the office, perched on a leather chair, a subtle smirk playing on her lips as her latest antics were being pinned on her roommate.

“Please, Dean Howell,” Emily said, her voice cracking. “The test score theft wasn’t my idea. I swear, I was led astray and didn’t know what I was getting into. I’m a good student, and I’ve worked so hard to be here. Please, don’t take this from me!” The black-haired woman’s hands gestured wildly, her ponytail swaying as she leaned forward, her eyes searching the Dean’s stern face for mercy.

Dean Howell, a gray-haired man in a crisp blue suit, leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled, his expression unyielding. “Miss Sanchez,” he said with a measured tone. “I’ve reviewed the evidence thoroughly. You were caught in Professor Harwood’s office, going through his desk. The ‘why’ doesn’t exactly matter when the evidence is so clear. This is a serious violation of our academic code.”

Emily shuddered at the sound of his words, her eyes darting to Rebecca, who sat with her legs crossed, her tailored preppy blazer and matching skirt sitting perfectly on her toned figure. “It wasn’t just me!” Emily insisted, her voice rising with desperation. “Rebecca planned it! She told me to grab the test scores while she distracted Professor Harwood. I just followed her lead. She’s the one who set it up.” Emily’s hands were clenched into fists. She wasn’t one to usually rat someone out, but she felt her future slipping away while the bitch who orchestrated it sat smugly at the back as a ‘witness.’

Rebecca’s internal smirk deepened, although she tried to play coy in the Dean’s presence. She remained silent, her posture relaxed, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her red lipstick bold against her fair skin. Rebecca knew the messages that incriminated her had been deleted, and she didn’t hold Professor Harwood’s attention for long enough for Emily’s accusation to carry any weight. The brunette knew her silence was her greatest weapon, letting her roommate’s accusation fall on deaf ears.

Dean Howell’s gaze flickered briefly to Rebecca, then returned to Emily, his expression unchanging. “I have spoken with Miss Horton at length,” he said, his tone firm and authoritative. “She’s an exemplary student with an impeccable academic record. She’s denied any involvement, and there’s no evidence to support your claims, Miss Sanchez. I’m afraid your accusations are baseless.” His words were a cold verdict, sealing Emily’s fate.

Emily’s face crumpled, tears welling in her eyes as her voice broke. “No, please, you can’t do this. My parents will kill me!” she cried, her ponytail limp against her trembling shoulders. “I’ll lose my future, I’ll lose everything! I’m telling the truth, I swear! Rebecca’s lying!” Her hands gestured wildly, her voice raw with anguish as she looked at the brunette woman sitting at the back, begging for her to own up to the truth.

Rebecca’s lips twitched, her smirk barely concealed, her eyes gleaming with superiority. She shifted slightly, her navy skirt riding up just enough to emphasize her poised legs, her silence a calculated performance of innocence. The Dean’s focus remained on Emily, oblivious to the triumph radiating from the back of the room.

The Dean leaned forward, his fingers flat on the desk, his tone softening but resolute. “Miss Sanchez, your actions have consequences,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of regret. “Stealing test answers undermines the integrity of this university. I have no choice but to expel you, effective immediately. You’ll need to vacate your dorm by the end of the week. I’m sorry, Miss Sanchez.” His words landed like a gavel, a final and unyielding sentence that broke Emily’s soul.

The expelled woman’s knees buckled, a choked sob escaping her lips. “This isn’t fair!” she whimpered, her voice barely audible, tears streaming down her face. “She’s the one who should be expelled, not me! She tricked me!” The black-haired woman’s eyes locked onto Rebecca, pleading for a confession. Still, Rebecca’s silence was a wall, impenetrable and cruel.

The Dean rose, his chair creaking softly behind him, his expression closing off any further debate. “That’s enough, Miss Sanchez,” he said, his tone firm. “My decision is final. You’re dismissed.” He gestured toward the door, his suit shifting as he moved, signaling the end of the meeting.

Emily stood frozen, her hands trembling, her face buried in her palms as sobs wracked her body. “You don’t understand,” she murmured desperately, but Dean Howell’s expression told her that her pleas were going to get her nowhere. Frustrated, the expelled student turned and stormed towards the office door, her eyes burning a fiery blaze of hate as they stared at Rebecca’s smug expression, not leaving her until the black-haired woman left the room.

After Emily exited, Rebecca rose gracefully, smoothing her navy skirt. “Thank you, Dean Howell,” she said, her voice polished, dripping with false sincerity. “I appreciate your fairness in handling this matter.” Her smile was a mask of innocence, her eyes glinting with victory as she spoke.

Dean Howell nodded, his expression softening towards his prized student. “Keep up the excellent work, Miss Horton,” he said approvingly. “You have a promising future ahead. I expect great things from you.” He turned back to his papers, dismissing the student with a wave of his hand.

Back in the present, a gothic-looking Emily Sanchez stared at her former college roommate, now a bimbofied redhead with a tragic backstory. She was glad the devious bitch was getting what she deserved, but Emily had yet to get a winning vote, and she wanted to contribute to the wicked woman’s demise, too.

❖

The stage thrummed with restless energy, the giant screen buzzing as the show returned from its brief break, its vibrant letters spinning through the remaining categories in a dizzying blur.

Mr. Djinn strutted across the platform and stared up at the screen as it rested on the next category, “Education.” Rebecca shook her head, her eyes widening with dread as the crowd drew more feverish, their excitement a cruel pleasure.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Altered Consequences!” The genie boomed, his voice loud and theatrical. “Our dear Mistress faces her next challenge: Education! This round will reshape her mind’s capabilities, redefining what she knows and how she thinks.” His grin widened as he stared at the woman’s astounded expression. “Judging by how the show has panned out, our contestant may find herself with a brain that matches that cute voice of hers soon enough.”

Rebecca’s pouty lips trembled. “Like, no way, you can’t, like, mess with my brain again!” she squeaked, her mind only just moving past her rewritten history. “My smarts are, like, totally everything to me!”

Mr. Djinn’s laughter echoed as he ignored the executive’s plea. “Let’s see how our wronged guests will sculpt your mind!” he declared, effortlessly gliding toward the four figures seated on stools at the stage’s edge. He paused before Matthew, smirking down at the man. “Matthew, your party vision has been a hit, so far,” he said. “What’s your wish for Rebecca’s intellect?”

Matthew paused for a moment, as if he needed time to think it through. “I want her intelligence dumbed down to practically nothing,” he said, his voice thick with spite. “All she knows is partying, getting wild, no room for anything of substance. Let her be the brainless slut she accused me of enabling.” The crowd cheered, encouraging the man and terrifying the transformed woman on the stage.

The genie nodded, his eyes sparkling with approval. “A wild, empty mind. I like it!” he said, moving over to Emily, who was still staring daggers in Rebecca’s direction, the memory of seven years ago still fresh in her mind. “Emily, you’re overdue for a win. What’s your plan for her education?”

Emily parted her black-colored lips to speak before pausing. She wanted to word this right. “I want her to keep all of her intelligence,” she said, prompting gasps from the crowd, as well as several audible boos. “However, I was her intelligence locked away in a transparent, unpenetrable safe inside her mind. I want her to be able to see her smart, know that they are still there, but trapped away, unable to grasp. Instead, she’ll only be focused on pleasing men, looking her best, and doing whatever she can to keep men satisfied.” The gasp turned to cheers as the sadistic audience grasped exactly what the devious, wronged goth was trying to achieve.

Mr. Djinn’s laughter rang out. “Wow, that’s a deliciously cruel suggestion, Emily,” he said, before gliding towards Jason Higby, Rebecca’s former boss. “Jason, channel that inner retribution. What would you like to do to Rebecca’s intelligence?”

Jason’s face scowled, his eyes locking onto Rebecca’s with cold resentment. “I want her intelligence solely focused on pleasing her superiors,” he said bitterly. “She struggles to keep up with her actual work, and her mind constantly drifts to sexually pleasing her boss and his associates, a corporate whore, if you will. She’ll have no ambition anymore, just a neediness to please.” The crowd cheered, his cruel twist of her actual executive role swaying the audience his way.

“Nice one, Jason,” the genie encouraged, his voice laced with amusement. “I think you may have a shot this time.” He turned to Rebecca’s stepbrother, Miles, who had won the previous two rounds, his grin widening with anticipation. “Miles, the audience loves your suggestions. What do you have in mind for Rebecca’s intellect?”

Miles leaned forward, his chubby back showing as the t-shirt strained, his eyes burning with vengeance. “I want a high school dropout education,” he said. “Nothing but makeup skills, shopping tricks, and ways to look hot in that frazzled mind of hers. Make her a total bimbo, obsessed with being sexy. It would fit her new look perfectly.”

Mr. Djinn spun back to Rebecca, as if his act was a recurring nightmare for the new redhead. “What a lineup of twisted minds!” he declared mockingly. “One thing we can be sure of is that you’re not going to be quite as sharp in a few moments’ time. Now, Mistress, you have thirty seconds to sway the crowd. Start now!”

Rebecca’s heart pounded. How could they touch her intellect? Everything that defined her lay inside her brain, and the genie threatened to unravel all of it. “Like, please, don’t touch my smarts!” she chirped, her dialect betraying the fact that she still had any intellect to start with. “Mr brain is, like, my whole life, okay? I’m begging you, show some mercy! I don’t want any of these. They’re all, like, totally awful!” The crowd jeered and laughed as the timer buzzed.

The charismatic genie turned to the audience and smirked. “Time to vote, folks!” he boomed. “Will it be Matthew’s party proficiency, Emily’s locked learning, Jason’s man-pleasing mind, or Miles’s dropout ditziness? Ten seconds!” The screen flashed the options, one by one, as the crowd’s roars dulled while they cast their votes.

Moments later, the results blazed across the screen, eliciting another thunderous cheer. “Wow, Emily’s locked intelligence wins, just edging out Matthew!” Mr. Djinn announced, clapping his hands. “The crowd loved that vicious twist, Emily, and you’re finally on the board!” The audience’s approval reverberated, their cheers swallowing the bimbofied redhead’s despair.

Rebecca shook her head in horror and ran to the edge of the stage. “No, you can’t, aghhhh!” she cried out as the collar shocked her the moment she attempted to escape the perimeter, forcing her to unwillingly return to the circle. The woman shook her head again as Mr. Djinn’s hands emanated with a blue glow.

The genie’s grin widened, his sequined tuxedo shimmering as he raised his glowing hands higher. “Time to lock that brilliant mind away, dear Mistress!” he mocked, his voice dropping with sadistic glee. A blue mist surged from his fingers, enveloping Rebecca’s head in a swirling haze that disoriented the executive. The fog seeped into her mind, a dizzying tide that encased her intelligence in a transparent, unbreakable safe. She could see her knowledge, her skills, her acumen, but it was locked beyond reach; her thoughts were now consumed with pleasing men and looking pretty. She shook her head again as she caught herself wondering what people would think of her in this drab outfit. She didn’t care what people thought, and yet she did care; she cared a great deal.

The crowd’s cheers peaked as Mr. Djinn clapped his hands, his eyes gleaming with delight. “Oh, Mistress, your mind is a perfect toy now!” he taunted. “All that intelligence, trapped where it can’t help you. Just a sexy plaything!” Rebecca’s knees buckled as she knelt in despair, her new focus a humiliating prison as the screen hummed, indicating the immediate start of the next round.

❖

The stage pulsed with frenetic energy as the massive screen whirred, cycling through the few remaining options left. Mr. Djinn swaggered across the platform, his olive complexion aglow as he addressed the audience. “We only have Posture/Mannerisms, Name, Clothing Style, Body, and Job remaining. Let’s see what we get next.”

The screen came to a halt, and the dial hovered over “Clothing Style,” revealing the next vote. “Well, well,” the smug genie spoke out. “Our sexy Mistress is going to have a wardrobe rehaul before we move to our next commercial break. It’s time to pick her clothing style!” The crowd applauded. “This round will not only transform her outfit right now, but it will set her default style from this moment forward, binding her to it forever.” His eyes gleamed as he turned to Rebecca, who had just risen to her feet.

Rebecca’s wide eyes flashed with panic. She opened her mouth to protest, even though she knew her pleas would fall on deaf ears. “Like, no way, you can’t like, change how I dress forever!” she pouted petulantly. “This is, like, totally not okay, you guys!” She stomped her feet in anger, prompting chuckles from the genie as he approached the four people sitting on the edge of the stage.

“Let’s see how our wronged guests will dress you up, doll,” he declared, standing before Matthew, his hands mischievously held behind his back. “Matthew, what getup do you have planned for the woman who destroyed your life?”

Matthew’s weathered face curled into a malicious sneer, the genie’s words hitting a cord. “I want bold, slutty party outfits,” he said, his voice thick with venom. “No pants, no flats, no underwear, stockings, chokers, big long nails. When she’s not wearing a dress, I want her heels to always be taller than her skirt’s width. She’ll always look ready for a party, looking like the slut she now portrays.” The crowd cheered at the detailed description, Matthew’s wish painting a picture in their minds.

Mr. Djinn nodded, his grin sparkling under the spotlights. “A scandalous choice!” he said, gliding to Emily, her black lipstick stark against her pale face. “Emily, you have a winner now. Your locked intelligence was a crowd-pleaser. What’s your wardrobe choice for our Mistress?”

The goth’s gaze burned as she thought about her choice carefully. “I want dark, slutty gimbo clothing,” she said. “Low-cut tops, microskirts, fishnets, skull belts. Make her an outcast sex object.” The audience cheered, drawn to the slutty edge of Emily’s choice.

The genie laughed. “I should’ve guessed, Emily,” he teased, before moving toward Jason. “Jason, it’s been a while since we’ve seen a winner from you. It’s time to make amends.”

The older man nodded nervously, his eyes locked in deep thought, before they widened, and a grin spread across his face. “I want a slutty secretarial style,” he said bitterly. “Tight blouses, pencil skirts, super tall heels, fake glasses. I want her to be always ready to please her boss. It will fit perfectly with her current job role.” The crowd cheered, albeit a duller cheer than the first two options.

“I like your thinking, old boy,” Mr. Djinn clapped. “I’m not sure you’ve won this audience over yet, though.” Finally, he moved to Miles Bishop. “Miles, you’re still the frontrunner even after being well beaten last round. What do you have in mind for us this time around?”

Miles cupped his chin with his hand, thinking deeply. Bimbo outfits were his forte; this should be an easy win, he thought. “I want all-pink attire,” he said. “Tight dresses showing leg and cleavage, heels, everything screaming bimbo. The most important aspect is that she is always wearing pink.” The crowd cheered Miles’s name as he handed them another great option. The chubby man smiled as the crowd cheered him on.

Mr. Djinn spun back to the dumbed-down Rebecca, his smile malicious as he approached her. “What a fabulous lineup of styles, Mistress. One of them will be your new future!” he declared mockingly. “You know the drill by now. Thirty seconds to sway the crowd. Time starts now!”

The red-haired executive shuddered, her mind searching for the words she wanted to say. However, she found herself locked out of her true thoughts. “Like, I totally want Matthew’s choice!” she chirped, her voice amplifying the woman’s horror. “It’ll make me, like, super sexy and pleasing all the time!” She clapped a hand over her pouty lips, or would have if they weren’t helplessly bound, her wide eyes flashing with terror at her own words, the crowd erupting in laughter at her unintended betrayal.

The genie’s eyes gleamed with delight. “Oh, Mistress, your new mind knows exactly what it wants!” he mocked, before addressing the audience. “You heard the lady. Will you give her what she wants, or do you have something else in mind? Will it be Matthew’s slutty party style, Emily’s gimbo garb, Jason’s secretarial slutwear, or Miles’s pink perfection? You have ten seconds!” The screen instantly flashed with the options as the crowd began to place their votes.

The results soon blazed across the screen, igniting a thunderous cheer. “Well, well, Matthew’s slutty party style takes it!” Mr. Djinn announced. “The crowd loved that good-time vibe, and they gave our Mistress exactly what she wanted.” He grinned as he looked over at the woman, tugging again against her cuffs, shaking her head as if it was going to help her end this nightmare.

Her lisping voice squeaked in a panic. “Like, no, I didn’t mean that!” she cried out. Her locked mind, now obsessed with pleasing men, had betrayed her, and the horror of her own words gnawed at her core. The executive tried to summon her old defiance. Still, her thoughts automatically drifted to how she’d look in the new outfit, a warm sensation running down her as she did, amplifying her shame.

The djinn raised his hands. “Time to dress for the party, dear Mistress!” he taunted gleefully. A glittering blue mist surged from his fingers, enveloping Rebecca’s entire body in a swirling haze, and it didn’t take long for the material of her modest outfit to alter before her eyes. Her navy blue t-shirt and jeans dissolved, replaced by a tight, red leather tube top that clung to her pert breasts, a black leather microskirt barely covering her thighs, fishnet stockings with a lacy hem, and towering six-inch platform heels that wobbled beneath her, taller than the width of her new skirt thanks to Matthew’s rule. The outfit, totally devoid of underwear and adorned with a red choker and long red fake nails, screamed sex, binding her to a permanently slutty, party-girl style that left her exposed and vulnerable. However, as she heard the cheers form, and the leering looks from the men at the side of the stage, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride over how she looked. She looked sexy, and the men were pleased.

The crowd’s cheers swelled to a deafening crescendo, their laughter a cruel symphony echoing through the set as Rebecca wobbled on her new towering heels, the fishnet stockings hugging her exposed legs like a second skin. Her tight leather tube top strained against her breasts, the microskirt riding up with every shift. Mr. Djinn’s grin was unrelenting as his eyes raked over the woman’s form with admiration.

“Oh, Mistress, you look like you were born for the spotlight!” he taunted, his voice booming with glee. “That outfit suits your trailer park roots and locked-up brain perfectly, don’t you think?” The audience roared, their approval a suffocating wave, as Rebecca’s mind, now fixated on pleasing, flooded with unwanted thoughts of how the men’s gazes made her feel desired, her body responding with a shameful warmth.

She staggered forward. “Like, thanks!” she said in a perky tone, before she gasped. She strained against her cuffs, unable to hide her new slutty appearance before the audience. “No, like, this isn’t right,” she pleaded, trying to reason with herself. She fought to claw back her locked-away intellect, but it felt like she was running into a brick wall, with the bimbo babble easier to come by, heightening her humiliation.

“So, Mistress,” Mr. Djinn asked sleazily as he approached and wrapped an arm around her exposed waist. “What do you think of the new you so far, with only a few categories remaining?” he asked her, tugging her closer, eliciting a shudder from the transformed woman.

The redhead bit her lower lip. She knew what she wanted to say, but she had no idea if she would be allowed to say it. “Like, you totally ruined my life,” she started off strongly. “I totally, like, want to get on my knees and thank you with my mouth.” She gasped, horrified by the insinuation in her statement.

The genie chuckled, giving the bimbofied redhead a soft pat on her leather-clad ass. “Perhaps after the show, Mistress,” he teased before letting go of the woman and addressing the crowd again. “It looks like our Mistress is ready for anything now, but what comes next?” He looked directly at the camera as it zoomed in on his face. “We have four categories remaining, and I’m sure they’ll be a real hoot. Join us after the break to watch the intriguing finale of Altered Consequences!” The lights dimmed, the crowd’s cheering lingering as Rebecca stood helplessly, her new style a humiliating cage, the game’s remaining categories poised to drag her deeper into degradation, ready to rewrite the remaining former pieces of Rebecca’s old life.

End of Chapter Two