Chapter Thirteen

Alex Russo groaned as he stirred on the cold concrete floor of the garage, his head throbbing from the FBI agent’s baton strike. He wore the same rumpled white tee and faded jeans from the night’s ill-fated party, the fabric clinging to his muscular frame in sweat. He rubbed the back of his head, fingers probing the tender lump that had formed under his skin, and cursed under his breath.

The garage stood eerily empty, with no sign of his brother or wife. Those bastards had taken them, Alex surmised. He pushed himself to his knees as his jaw tightened with fury. The FBI had stormed in, cuffed Stefano, and taken Kayla, his prized trophy, right under his nose.

Alex clenched his fists and staggered to his feet, before looking around the dark, empty space. He pulled a phone from his pocket and swiped to his twin brother’s contact. He cursed out again as the call rang out, unanswered. “Pick up, you dumb bastard,” he muttered, but the silence continued. The young Russo switched to Dominic’s number, and he waited for his older brother to pick up.

Dominic answered on the third ring, his voice echoing from the damp basement of the Russo manor. “Alex, what the hell happened? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you and Stefano all night!”

Alex steadied himself against a concrete wall as he halted his pacing. “The Fed’s ambushed us at Max’s place. They came out of nowhere, Dom. I was knocked out, Stefano was hauled over in cuffs and dragged off to some van. Kayla’s been taken, too. What the fuck are we gonna do, man?”

Dominic’s voice stayed sharp and authoritative, contrasting with his brother’s panicked words. “You need to get back here immediately. Father says he has a failsafe, and our own plan is in motion. Perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone, brother. Get here quick, Alex. Don’t do anything stupid.”

The younger brother nodded to himself, his fingers tightening around the phone. “I’m coming now, Dom. I’m taking that bitch back if it’s the last thing I do!” He exclaimed as he ended the call with a sharp jab.

He turned toward the garage exit, his boots clicking on the concrete when a folded piece of parchment in his former resting place caught his attention. The man paused and knelt to retrieve it, his eyes scanning the handwritten text: “FBI DNA Splicing Lab, Bay 12, Old Pier, Atlantic City.”

Alex’s brow furrowed as he held the nose, his fingers tracing the crisp edges of the parchment. He turned it over in search of a clue to its origins but found none. Confusion gripped him for a moment. Who would leave such a precise location, and why had they given it to him? Had one of the agents dropped it by accident in the chaos, or was it planted by someone with their own agenda? His mind raced through the possibilities.

A slow, wicked grin spread across Alex’s face as the implications of the note crystallized. Whoever left this parchment had handed him the location of the FBI’s most guarded secret and the key to the Fed’s ability to implant women into the family’s ranks. If they took control of that technology, the Russos would become untouchable, the young man thought.

Alex folded the note with deliberate care, slipping it into the pocket of his faded jeans. His confidence had begun to surge, and he couldn't wait to tell his older brother what he had found.

The man strode towards the garage exit and headed out into the courtyard. He reached his sleek black sports car parked outside, and the engine purred to life. As he sped towards his father’s manor, his mind raced with plans to reclaim his traitorous wife and make every agent who crossed his family pay dearly for their part. This wasn’t over.

❖

Kennedy jolted awake on the plush leather couch, his heart racing as he realized that he was completely naked, his enhanced bimbo body bared to the open air The tight black latex catsuit, hooded mask, ballet boots, armbinder, and buzzing plugs that had defined Alyssa’s doll outfit we gone, leaving his F-cup breasts, slim waist, and plump ass exposed.

He ran his manicured hand slowly over his curves, finger tracing the swell of his chest, pausing at the weight of his huge tits, before sliding down his flat stomach to the flare of his hips. The transformed man knew something had changed, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The Magnificent Mesmeraldo was nowhere to be seen, and yet his voice faintly echoed in Kennedy’s mind.

Duke stood nearby, wearing a navy blue vest and casual tracksuit joggers, his red hair mussed as he filled a suitcase with folded clothes. Kennedy perked his head up curiously. What was Duke doing? Weren’t they going to take the Russo family down together before returning the undercover journalist to his original body?

Kennedy shifted on the couch, his hips swaying with an uncontrollable, slutty grace. He parted his lips to speak, but a comically high-pitched squeak burst out, far more humiliating than the bimbo lull he had been given before. “Like, oh my gawd, what’s, like, totally happening, Daddy?” The pink-haired transformed man’s hands absently caressed his fake breasts as he spoke, his fingers kneading his nipples without a thought. Kennedy gasped and covered his mouth with a manicured hand, shocked at his voice and the ‘Daddy’ that slipped out.

Duke turned, his eyes locking with Kennedy’s, before responding. “This city is too dangerous now, Suzie. I’m taking you far away from here, where it’s safe.”

Kennedy’s hand stayed at his mouth, his pigtails bouncing as he shook his head, his shrill tone laced with panic. “No way, Daddy! We, like, totally gotta stop those Russo meanies! They’re, like, super bad!” No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop talking like a pathetic, dumb teenage Valley Girl.

As he spoke, something else caught his attention that caused his stomach to knot. He pulled his hand away from his face and noticed a slightly chipped nail on his pinky. He wasn’t perfect anymore. “Oh, my gawd, my nails, like, totally chipped! This is the worst day ever!” His pouty mouth gaped open in horror. Why was he speaking like that? What had that damn hypnotist done to him?

The muscle-bound man stepped closer, his imposing frame towering over Kennedy with commanding authority. “We’re leaving, Suzie, and you’re coming with me. This is not a democracy, and you don’t get a choice.” His voice was commanding, and it triggered Mesmeraldo’s intensified conditioning inside the feminized bimbo, sending a surge of pleasure through Kennedy’s naked body and prompting the transformed journalist to moan softly.

Kennedy absently giggled, his hand dropping from his mouth as he clapped excitedly, his breasts jiggling with slutty grace. “Like, of course, Daddy! I’ll, like, totally go anywhere with you, big boy!” His shrill voice dripped with forced adoration, confusing the pigtailed bimbo even further.

He shook his head, his hair bouncing wildly as confusion flooded his high-pitched squeal. “Like, what’s totally happening to me? Why am I, like, calling you Daddy and acting all super ditsy and stuff?” Kennedy’s hands returned to his breasts, kneading them absently as if it was what they were meant to do when they weren’t busy.

Duke grinned widely and knelt beside the confused bimbo, rubbing a coarse finger along the transformed journalist’s cheek condescendingly. “The Feds made you almost perfect, Suzie, but it was clear they didn’t make you obedient enough. Now you’re the perfect woman, my perfect woman, and you’re ready to do everything I say, aren’t you?”

Kennedy’s pouty lips trembled, his protest weak against his new conditioning. “I don’t, like, wanna be the perfect woman! I’m, like, not a woman at all.” His plea sounded pathetic and unconvincing. He was so close to getting his life back; how had he allowed this to happen?

The towering man’s finger lingered on Kennedy’s cheek, his grin deepening as he stood, his imposing frame casting a shadow over the naked bimbo. “That’s not true. You desperately want to be my perfect woman, Suzie. You live to please me, don’t you?” His voice sank into Kennedy’s mind, the stage hypnotist’s conditioning tightening its grip, sending another wave of pleasure through his feminized body.

Kennedy softly bit his plump lower lip, attempting to stifle the wave of pleasure running through him. However, he couldn’t hold back the mini-giggle that followed as the programming took hold, and he nodded his head enthusiastically. “Like, totally, Daddy! I, like, wanna be your perfect girl forever and ever!” His hands clapped together again as he spoke with false excitement as if someone else had taken over his body.

Duke stepped back, satisfied, and snatched an outfit from the table beside his half-full suitcase before dropping it on the sofa beside Kennedy. The clothes consisted of a neon pink PVC bikini top, a matching shiny micro-skirt, a white g-string with pink trim, white fishnet stockings, a pair of 6-inch white platform heels, and a choker engraved with “Duke’s Kitten” across the front, branding him Duke’s girl. “Put these on, good girl. We’re leaving in an hour.”

Kennedy reluctantly picked up the shiny pink outfit. He had hoped his days in pink were soon behind him, but the new programming in his mind tightened his obedience to Duke. “Like, yay, Daddy! I’ll be, like, super sexy for you!” He heard himself automatically speak before starting to slide on the uncomfortable, wedgie-inducing g-string he had become accustomed to.

Duke grinned widely before turning and returning to the suitcase, carefully loading it with more clothes. “We’ve got a new life waiting, and I know you’re gonna love it.” The controlling man said almost tauntingly, resting his eyes on Kennedy getting changed on the couch. He wanted to take the Russos down, but he knew he had made the right decision, he thought.

❖

“I would like to call Alyssa Scaletti to the stand,” the prosecutor announced, his voice firm, prompting a collective gasp from the gallery. The trial against Vincent Russo and Stefano Russo had begun earlier that morning, and both men sat at the defense table in orange jumpsuits. Maria Russo sat in the gallery behind them, sobbing into a handkerchief with practiced demure.

Alyssa walked down the aisle wearing a professional suit-skirt combination—a navy blazer and knee-length skirt—that clung to her frame, a far cry from the former doll outfit of latex and bondage gear she had spent the last year trapped inside of. Her red hair was pinned in a neat bun, and her makeup was subtle, but her blue eyes darted nervously as she avoided Vincent’s piercing gaze when she timidly walked past. She took the stand with a rigid posture, visibly shaken as the prosecution’s case rested on her testimony.

The prosecutor, a tall man in a gray suit, approached with a reassuring nod. He had been in this situation many times before and admired Alyssa for her bravery; it wasn’t easy speaking out against one of the most powerful men in Atlantic City. “Please state your name and former occupation for the record,” he started.

Alyssa cleared her throat as she replied softly. “My name is Alyssa Scaletti, and I was Vincent Russo’s personal assistant.”

“How long were you Mr. Russo’s assistant for, Ms Scaletti?” He asked.

“Approximately three years, sir,” Alyssa’s words were shaky, but she held it together.

Dean Thompson, the prosecution, leaned forward, his tone steady. “Can you describe what your job entailed during those three years?”

The redhead nodded, her voice gaining slight confidence as she settled into the questions. “I managed Mr Russo’s schedule, coordinated meetings, handled correspondence, and oversaw administrative tasks for his multiple business operations.”

Dean smiled, pacing back and forth, stealing a glance at the wide-set man in the orange jumpsuit. “So, it’s fair to say that you had a keen insight into Mr Russo’s business dealings, Ms Scaletti. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Alyssa nodded, her posture stiffening slightly. “Yes, I had a clear understanding of his operations, both legitimate and otherwise.”

“Hmm,” the prosecutor said thoughtfully, as if he were putting on a performance. “Let’s focus on the ‘otherwise,’ shall we?” He flashed a smile in the direction of the two defendants.

Dean paused and adjusted his gray suit as he faced Alyssa. “You disappeared from the public eye for several months after speaking to a Kennedy Masters about Mr Russo’s dealings. Can you tell the court what happened?”

Vincent’s body twitched, but not because of the uncomfortable situation he was in; he was about to put his plan into action. Fumbling a small handheld device beneath the defense table, his finger curled around a big white button, his smirk barely concealed as he pressed it.

A sudden jolt surged through Alyssa’s mind, her blue eyes fluttering as if a switch had flipped deep within her brain. The redhead’s posture softened, and her lips parted in a gasp before she spoke with a sultry tone. “I’m a total submissive whore who loves being controlled,” she blurted, her hands trembling as she gripped the stand, and her eyes widened in horror at the words that escaped her lips. The witness cleared her throat as her cheeks flushed. She tried to regain her composure.

The prosecutor froze in shock. He stared at the defendant as a confused murmur rippled through the gallery. Vincent gave the man a knowing look. “Ms Scaletti, did Vincent Russo coerce you into any dehumanizing predicament?” Dean asked, hoping to salvage the testimony and set the course back on track.

Alyssa’s lips quivered, but the words that escaped her were not her own. “I begged Vincent to control me, and I signed an agreement to be his fetish bondage doll.” She shook her head in wild bemusement. She had no intention of telling these lies, but they wouldn’t cease. “I told him I had no limits.”

Dean, visibly panicking, raised his voice. “Ms. Scaletti, you told us you were kidnapped by Mr. Russo.”

“Objection!” The defendant’s lawyer shot to his feet. “The prosecutor is putting words in the witness’s mouth!”

The judge, wearing his black robe, nodded sharply. “Sustained. Keep to questions, counselor. This is your first warning on the matter.”

Dean adjusted his tie, his face flushed with desperation, and pressed forward. “Ms. Scaletti, please describe what Vincent Russo did to you during those months.”

Alyssa absently licked her lips suggestively in Vincent’s direction, prompting a wider grin from the mob boss. “He kept me locked in a box as his bondage doll, and I cleaned his house while he pleasured me with plugs constantly.” Her tone sounded more excited than it should have for a woman testifying against her former boss. Her eyes widened further, her cheeks burning as she fought the words, but they poured out. “But Vincent didn’t go far enough. I wanted to be completely owned by him. I wanted him to use and abuse me. I wanted him to humiliate me like the stupid slut I am.” She clutched her chest, horrified at her mouth’s betrayal.

The prosecutor shook his head as he watched the case unravel before his eyes. “Ms. Scaletti,” his voice far less reassuring now. “Are you being coerced here today?” It was the only logical explanation in his mind, although he knew what her response would be.

Alyssa’s hands moved automatically, and she cupped her impressive breasts over the top of her blazer. “No. Actually, I’m the one who coerced Vincent into taking me in as his doll.” She located her nipples under her outfit and pinched them hard, moaning softly as she feigned fake pleasure. “The thought of him making me his property again makes me so fucking hot,” the redhead couldn’t stop herself. She slipped her hand under her skirt and began rubbing her clit, masturbating right there on the stand, her pleasured gasps escalating.

The judge banged his gavel as the horrified chatter spread across the gallery. “Order! Order in my courtroom!” He exclaimed, directing his fury at Alyssa. “Stop that this instant, or I will hold you in contempt of court.”

The redhead, despite her bemused expression, continued to rub her pussy in front of the audience. Vincent leaned back on his chair and enjoyed the show.

The judge’s face reddened, his gavel slamming again as he roared. “Enough! Due to Ms. Scaletti’s testimony, I have no choice but to declare Vincent Russo and Stefano Russo not guilty. They are free to go.”

Celebrations erupted on the defense side. Maria’s sobs morphed into a triumphant smile as she tucked the handkerchief away and gave her large husband a big hug. Vincent and Stefano stood, and their cuffs were removed. They had been exonerated.

As Vincent dropped the device, Alyssa’s hands froze, now able to control her body again. Her eyes widened in horror at the realization of what she had just done. Her conditioned outburst had obliterated the prosecution’s case.

The judge nodded towards the court security officer, and he approached the redhead, pinning her arms behind her back before cuffing them. “I hold you in contempt of court, Ms. Scaletti. 24 hours behind bars should be enough punishment.” The former doll was too dumbfounded to speak as she was led away.

Before Alyssa was taken out of the courtroom, Vincent approached her and the officer. “I’ll be seeing you around, doll,” he glinted in triumph as he patronizingly brushed a loosened strand of hair behind the woman’s ear. The officer escorted her toward custody as Vincent returned to celebrate with his family.

❖

Kayla sat patiently on a metal chair, her heart fluttering with relief as she awaited the machine’s activation, sensing her mission and torment as a bimbofied Jersey girl was finally nearing an end. She had been brought to a secret DNA manipulation lab with the promise that she would soon be reunited with her own natural body. The thought of shedding her exaggerated frame filled her with hope, a chance to reclaim her true self as Agent Connors. She wore nothing but a white hospital gown, its thin fabric loose against her skin and hiding her enhanced assets. Her head was completely bald after a clinician had painstakingly removed the ridiculous superglued platinum pigtailed wig Maria had forced onto her scalp in fury.

A bespectacled doctor, Erik Hansig, approached the bald, tormented agent and took Kayla’s hand with a gentle grip before carefully leading her to the large, imposing DNA splicing machine. “I think it’s prudent to inform you that I haven’t operated this machine outside of simulations, Agent Connors, as Dr Foster led the project,” he said calmly, with a hint of nerves. “However, I’ve observed the good Doctor enough times to be confident in how it works. We’ll have you back to your original body in no time.”

Kayla nodded, her body tingling with relief as she followed him, her bare feet pressing against the padded floor softly. “Thank you, Doctor. I just want this nightmare to be over.” Her voice, still laced with her conditioned Jersey drawl, trembled with anticipation as she approached the machine’s open chamber, its windowed door reflecting her anxious blue eyes.

Erik paused at the control panel, his fingers adjusting his glasses before hovering over the buttons. He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid you can’t wear any clothing inside the machine, Agent Connors. It will contaminate the process. Please remove the gown and proceed into the unit.”

Kayla sighed, glancing down at her covered frame, her hands trembling as she slowly untied the hospital gown. She let it slip to the floor, revealing her enhanced curves, feeling shame at the large breasts and rounded hips that defined the undercover personality she had adopted for the past 3 years.

The FBI agent crossed her arms over her chest, covering her breasts, and stepped into the chamber cautiously. The moment she stepped inside fully, the machine whirred to life, and the door began to close until it locked shut with an ominous click. Still covering her chest, Kayla looked back through the window, her blue eyes meeting Erik’s as he pressed buttons on the panel.

Kayla’s attention suddenly shifted towards the lab’s door as two gunshots cracked through the air, sharp and deafening, echoing from outside. Dr Hansig froze, his glasses slipping down his nose as he turned towards the sound. Kayla’s heart pounded, and she pressed her free hand up against the chamber window, attempting to catch a glimpse of the sudden commotion. “What was that?” she asked the curious Doctor.

As Dr Hansig slowly approached the noise, the lab door suddenly splintered open under a brutal kick. Dominic Russo stormed in alongside his younger brother, Alex, and two brutes, each holding a pistol in their hands.

“What the hell is go-” The Doctor began to shout before Alex fired a shot without hesitation, sending a bullet through Erik’s skull and sending his obliterated body to the ground.

Kayla shrieked at the scene playing out before her, her fists hammering the window in disbelief as her body shook in horror. “No!” She screamed out as she attempted to claw open the chamber door. She was trapped.

Alex grinned and cockily strode towards the chamber. He pressed a hand against the window to mimic his tormented wife, his brown eyes locking onto Kayla’s terrified gaze. “Don’t worry, baby doll,” he said, oozing patronizing confidence. “Everything’s gonna be just fine now that we’re back together.” His fingers tapped the glass tauntingly.

Kayla shook her bald head, banging against the window in frustration. She was so close to getting her old life, her old body, back, and now she was trapped in a nightmare.

Dominic, in his navy suit, turned toward the doorway with a cold nod. “Foster, get in here!” He exclaimed. Dr. Foster entered the lab wearing a long white medical coat. Her bare legs and feet suggested that she was naked beneath the coat, and her movements showed signs of someone who had given in to their torture. The Doctor’s green eyes were void of emotion, and she moved to the control panel with robotic precision without a glance at the woman trapped inside the machine.

The Russo heir leaned close to Foster and spoke to the woman with a menacing growl. “No tricks, Doctor. You do exactly what we ordered. You know what we’re capable of if you disobey us.” His authority was unyielding, prompting the woman to begin tapping away at the console.

Kayla pounded the chamber window as she pleaded with desperation. “Please, Doctor, don’t do this! Whatever they promised you, don’t believe them.” Her pleas elicited a cruel smirk from Alex, who was busy watching his naked, bald wife try to talk her way out of her inevitable fate.

The machine suddenly whirred louder, a low hum escalating as Michaela’s fingers danced across the control panel. Smoke began to billow within the chamber, engulfing Kayla and obscuring her from view, her frustrated screams turning into coughing fits as the machine’s eerie technology started the transformation process, reshaping her very DNA.

After five agonizing minutes, the machine beeped, and the door hissed open. As the smoke dissipated, Kayla’s new, altered form became visible to the small group, and Alex’s childish grin returned. The most noticeable immediate alteration was her breasts. They had formed into giant H-cup basketballs, impossibly round and buoyant, defying gravity with a synthetic firmness that screamed artificiality. Her nipples were hard and prominent, making them impossible to hide under any outfit she chose to wear.

Her waist had cinched to an exaggerated hourglass, and her hairless body gleamed with a subtle plastic sheen, as if it were covered in a light transparent film, giving her skin a polished doll look. She was no longer bald, as platinum blonde pigtails sprouted anew. However, the strands still contained the same glossy, plastic texture of her old wig. Unlike her wig, though, these strands would grow back if she ever cut her hair off.

Her face bore heavy makeup, with bold rouge covering her cheeks, thick eyeliner, and dark shadow giving her eyes a sultry look, and bright red, glossy lipstick slathered on her lips. This was no ordinary makeup, however. The pigmentation of her skin had been strategically altered, giving her the style permanently, with no possibility of removal.

The FBI agent’s lips were the next most noticeable alteration, as her bright red assets had swollen into a huge, O-shaped pout, forming a constant invitation. Whenever Kayla attempted to speak, she would be able to use her lips coherently, but as soon as she stopped, they would naturally reform into a sex doll O-shape.

The pigmentation above her glossy, bare pussy had darkened to form a tattoo, labeling her ‘Agent Fuckdoll’ in bold script. She had been branded as a living sex toy. Her appearance was a grotesque caricature, every curve and feature engineered to mimic a high-end pleasure doll.

Kayla’s blue eyes widened in horror, her O-shaped lips trembling as she stared at her reflection in the chamber’s window, her sex doll appearance a humiliating mockery of her former self. Alex smugly stepped forward and wrapped an arm around her waist, his fingers squeezing her H-cup breasts and pencil-thick nipples. His touch sent an involuntary moan through the woman’s pouty lips as she discovered just how sensitive her modified body had become.

“Mmm,” Alex taunted. “I got my perfect sex doll back, new and improved,” he purred, his voice dripping with undeniable triumph as he reveled in his traitorous wife’s transformed state.

As the couple were reacquainted, Dominic turned to Dr. Foster and spoke coldly. “Your turn, Doctor. You know what you have to do.”

Michaela sighed, still reeling from the sight of the poor woman she had just transformed. However, she knew what was at stake, and she nodded wearily. The Doctor’s shoulders slumped in defeat as she pressed a final sequence of buttons on the panel before the machine’s door opened again. Dr. Foster unbuttoned her white coat, letting it fall to the floor to reveal her naked body, and walked into the chamber with solemn steps.

The door closed automatically behind the scientist, and the machine buzzed back to life, engulfing her natural middle-aged frame in smoke. Dominic’s serious expression twisted into a smile as he watched the machine get to work.

❖

A red convertible sped down the desert highway at dusk, its engine roaring as the wind whipped through the open top. The driver gripped the wheel with one hand, the other resting casually on the lowered window, his smile wide with triumphant ease. The passenger’s head was bowed low, obscured below the dashboard.

Duke drove with a grin, his white vest and white shorts flapping in the open wind as he escaped Atlantic City for the final time. The man’s red hair fluttered in the breeze, his hand tapping the window’s edge with relaxed confidence.

Kennedy popped his head up, his pink pigtails bouncing, his F-cup breasts jiggling beneath the tight PVC bikini top. The bimbo’s blue eyes sparkled with conditioned adoration as he looked up at his new Master. “Like, oh my gawd, are we, like, totally there yet, Daddy?” His voice squeaked in a comically high-pitched shrill dripping with mindless eagerness.

Duke’s smile widened, his brown eyes flicking to Kennedy’s flushed bimbo face. “We’re almost there, baby girl,” he reassured his passenger. “Keep doing what you do best.” He pressed a firm hand on Kennedy’s head. He guided it back down to his lap, his fingers tangling in the pink pigtails as Kennedy’s glossy lips parted, enveloping the man’s erect cock with a soft moan.

Kennedy’s tongue swirled around his man’s shaft, his lips sliding wetly along its length, sucking eagerly as his head bobbed rhythmically. His perfectly manicured hands gripped Duke’s thigh as the musclebound man continued driving along the vast highway. Duke groaned and tightened his grip on Kennedy’s hair, pleasure surging through every cell in his body as Kennedy’s skilled mouth worked on satisfying him. He could get used to this, and he will, he thought to himself.

The convertible continued to drive through the sandy wilderness as it passed a sign that read “Las Vegas - 5 miles,” its bold white letters contrasting against the morning sky. The car roared into the distance as they approached Sin City and the new life Duke had planned for them both.

❖

Six Months Later

Six months after the infamous trial, Atlantic City’s elite gathered at a lavish gala in City Hall, adorning their new tuxedos and gowns in a bid to outshine each other. The wealthy and powerful mingled amongst themselves in a display of opulence hosted by Mayor Jackson Powell. A stage stood at the room’s center, framed by burgundy curtains, awaiting the evening’s highlight.

Jackson ascended the stage in his tailored black tuxedo and clinked his champagne glass to silence the crowd. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he started. “Thank you all for attending this special evening,” he said, his voice smooth and charming. “We’re here to honor one man, a pillar of our community who has overcome terrible adversity and false allegations over the past year and emerged stronger than ever. Please give a round of applause for business tycoon and philanthropist, Vincent Russo!”

The audience erupted in cheers, their hands clapping as Vincent slowly made his way onto the stage, acting the part of the reluctant hero. His wife, Maria, in her new emerald silk gown that hugged her middle-aged curves, beamed from the front row, her eyes sparkling with devotion. Dominic was by his mother’s side, clapping with pride as his father greeted the Mayor.

The Russo patriarch stepped onto the stage in his own bow-tied black tuxedo, his gray-stubbled jaw set with quiet confidence. He shook the Mayor’s hand with a firm grip as the Mayor presented the mob boss with a gleaming key to the city. “On behalf of Atlantic City, I extend our deepest apologies for the injustices you faced,” Jackson said with a formal tone, laced with unease.

Vincent held the key in the air like a trophy as the wealthy socialites applauded the presentation. The gray-haired, imposing man stood up to the microphone. “I am honored to accept this greatest gift from the city,” he replied. “Atlantic City is my home, and I have spent my life helping the community and building the local economy. The last couple of years have not been easy on me and my family,” he glanced down at Maria and his eldest son, “but we plan to put the trauma behind us, and bring in a new age of Atlantic City prosperity.” The audience clapped again as Vincent closed off his speech like a politician running for office.

Mayor Powell nodded, his smile tightening as he stepped back to the microphone. “In a remarkable show of generosity, despite those challenges, Mr. Russo has agreed to donate two million dollars to fund a new hypnotherapy ward at City Hospital, which we will name in his honor.” The crowd erupted in applause again, their cheer louder as a mark of respect for the mob boss’s philanthropy.

After the adulation, Vincent stepped off the stage, holding the new symbolic key to the city. He embraced his wife, wrapping his large arms behind her back as she stared up at him adoringly. He shook Dominic’s hand, who returned the gesture with a proud smirk. As they gripped hands, Dominic leaned in and whispered into his father’s ear. “Everything’s ready at the manor, Father,” he said cryptically.

Vincent paused for a moment before a smile crossed his face. He nodded and turned to Jackson. “Thank you for this grand evening, Mayor. As much as I’d love to stay and enjoy the event, I have pressing work at home to attend to,” he said, his tone smooth and commanding.

Jackson Powell’s smile wavered with nervous energy as he shook Vincent’s hand again, his grip shaky. “Okay, Vincent,” he said with less confidence than his words on stage. “And when will I see my daughters again?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper to avoid drawing attention to the audience.

The mob boss chuckled and spoke with a low and menacing tone. “Just keep up your end of the deal, Jackson, and they’ll return to you unharmed, mostly.” His words dripped with a veiled threat as his eyes locked onto the Mayor’s trembling gaze.

Mr. Russo turned away, his tuxedo looking sharp as he turned toward the exit, and Maria strode elegantly by his side. Dominic followed his parents closely behind, and the crowd split, patting Vincent on the shoulder in congratulations as he passed them. The motorcade waited outside, their engines idling, as Vincent looked forward to test out his newest business venture.

❖

Vincent Russo strode into the manor with Maria and Dominic at his heels, their steps echoing with anticipatory purpose. The trio paused as they passed the living room, where one of their grunts thrust vigorously into a glossy, naked sex doll sprawled out on the couch. The doll’s wide-open lips were frozen in an O-shaped pout and her naked H-cup breasts bounced with each thrust into her tight pussy.

Vincent grinned and stroked his gray-stubbled chin with amusement. “Looks like Alex has been keeping his wife busy,” he joked as the group stared at the new and ‘improved’ Kayla being fucked for the fourth time today. Maria smirked, happy that the woman who tried to take down her family was receiving her just desserts, and Dominic chuckled as they walked away.

The three Russos descended a staircase to the basement, its once-damp walls now bright white and sterile, transformed into a secret, high-tech lab. At the center stood the imposing DNA splicing machine the family had taken from the FBI’s lab, the machine eliciting a low hum as a woman controlled it from a panel to the side.

Vincent approached Dr. Foster at the console; her appearance had undergone a stark transformation from her former self, now looking at least fifteen years younger. Her long, luscious brown hair cascaded past her shoulders, and her botoxed face was smooth, with huge, plump lips and DD-cup breasts jutting provocatively. Her exaggerated ass swayed as she tottered on extreme ballet heels, her feet arched naturally as though she was unable to wear any other type of footwear.

Black-rimmed glasses perched on Dr. Foster’s nose for show, framing her vacant green eyes. Her open white lab coat revealed sexy black lingerie and fishnet stockings. This was her new uniform.

Vincent pressed his wide-set body against the defeated doctor’s. He squeezed her breasts, pulling down her bra to expose them and show off their unnatural firmness. “Dr. Fukstar, is the project ready?” he asked, using her new name.

Dr. Fukstar moaned softly, her plump lips parting as she nodded. “Yes, Master, the project is ready,” she purred with a sultry and submissive tone that betrayed her former feminist output. “The machine can hide anyone’s identity with just one push of a button.” Her ballet heels clicked as she moved with practiced ease along the control panel, her hips swaying provocatively as she moved.

Vincent patted her g-stringed ass cheek and grinned widely with satisfaction. “Good girl,” he said, eliciting another moan of pleasure from Fukstar, her body quivering with programmed bliss. The imposing patriarch nodded to Dominic, who pulled out his phone and sent a quick text.

The basement door burst open, and Alex and Stefano dragged a naked Alyssa Scaletti into the lab, her wrists bound with coarse rope and a red ring gag forcing her quivering lips wide open in an inviting display. The former personal assistant’s red hair tangled across her sweat-slicked face as she kicked wildly against the twin’s grip, struggling every step of the way. Her blue eyes blazed with defiance, and faint bruises marked her skin from the redhead’s futile struggles.

Vincent loomed over the bound Alyssa, his presence dominating as he savored her defiance. “Mmm, I love that fire in you,” he teased. “You’re a lucky girl, babydoll,” Vincent continued, his voice dripping with menace. “I’m rehiring you as my personal assistant, just like the old days. Except, this time you need a few enhancements.” The large man stepped aside, gesturing to the machine’s open chamber.

The Russo twins hauled Alyssa closer to the chamber, her garbled screams vibrating through the gag as she thrashed against their iron grips. The pair untied her wrists and yanked the gag from her mouth, drool spilling out as she was able to close her mouth again. Before the redhead could attempt to fight back, Stefano pushed her naked body into the chamber, and the door slammed shut with an immediate, heavy click. Alyssa cried out and banged against the door’s sturdy windowed frame. “Fuck you all! You’ll all burn in hell for this, you monsters!”

The sluttified doctor pressed a button on the console, showing that she still had her sharp scientist mind despite her transformation and former torture. The machine whirred to life, and the familiar cloud of smoke covered Alyssa’s nude body as her screams turned to choked gasps, the transformation reshaping her very DNA.

Five minutes later, the door hissed open as the machine completed its sequence. Alyssa stumbled out in a dazed manner, and the small Russo audience gasped with glee. Her hair was now a fiery, unnatural almost luminous red, cascading down to her exaggeratedly plump ass. Her new F-cup breasts were impossibly round and buoyant, although they bounced constantly with each step she made. The transformed woman’s waist was cinched to a doll-like hourglass, with her hips flaring dramatically. Alyssa’s lips were swollen into a permanent pout. They glistened with an embedded natural wet gloss, giving them a permanently inviting allure. Her proportions screamed bimbo perfection.

Vincent approached his recaptured doll, his eyes gleaming with pride as he admired her transformed form. He noticed the darkened pigmentation on her lids and her lengthened lashes, giving her a permanent heavy makeup look. “You came out just as I envisioned, babydoll,” he said mockingly, his voice thick with satisfaction as Alyssa’s blue eyes widened in horror.

Stefano stepped up behind the transformed woman and shoved the red ring gag back into her mouth, her muffled protests futile as he tightened the straps firmly behind her bright red-haired head. He swiftly attached a pair of steel restraints to her wrists, locking them behind her back before she could attempt to fight for her freedom. Alyssa’s enhanced breasts bounced wildly as the young Russo restrained her.

Vincent appraised Alyssa’s transformed body. “I’m almost ready to welcome you back, my sexy doll, but you’ve got some training videos to watch first,” he said, his voice dripping with authority as he addressed the redhead. “I’ve also got my permanent jewelry a friend of mine is dying to test out on you. I think you’ll look stunning.

Stefano took Alyssa’s bound arm tightly at his father’s insistence and led her out of the lab, her new bouncy boobs jiggling with each forced step as her muffled cries echoed faintly in the lab.

Alex approached the group, guiding a naked Kayla by the waist after her recent tryst. Her O-shaped lips were still parted, and her obscenely huge tits looked ridiculous on her sleight frame. Her ‘husband’ pushed a phallic plug deep into her ass, eliciting a soft moan that reverberated around the sterile room.

Vincent turned to his family and eyed Kayla admiringly. “We own Atlantic City now,” he said gruffly. “It’s time to punish those who dared to cross us in the past.” The older man locked eyes with Dominic, whose smirk mirrored his father’s. “Bring in the mayor’s twins,” the patriarch ordered, his tone final, as excitement grew. The Russos’ fortunes had changed entirely since Alyssa’s humiliating testimony, and the city was on their side. It was time to enact their revenge.

❖

In a private room at The Pink Velvet Lounge, Kitten sexily straddled a seated patron, her enhanced, naked body grinding sensually against the man’s lap, her F-cup breasts sitting high on her chest as she swayed lustfully. Her pink pigtails swung, his blue eyes sparkled with conditioned allure, and his glossy lips pouted invitingly. Mesmeraldo’s final conditioning had locked Kennedy into a slutty, submissive bimbo, and now she worked at one of the hottest strip clubs in Las Vegas. Despite murmurs of a killer on the loose, Kitten wasn’t worried; she had her Daddy to protect her.

Kitten’s 7-inch heels clicked seductively on the floor as she arched her back, her breasts grazing the patron’s chest, the “Kitten” choker snug around her throat, and glinting faintly with the rhinestone block capital font. The stripper’s hips rolled with a steamy rhythm, pressing her bare curves against his lap; her skin flushed as she leaned in, her breath hot against his ear as a soft moan escaped her glossy lips.

The patron groaned, his hands gripping the chair’s arms, his eyes wide with lust, enthralled by Kitten’s provocative display. Her manicured hands slid teasingly over his shoulders. They ran down between her legs to massage his growing member beneath his pants. Every sway of the doll’s figure was designed to turn the customer on.

Kitten’s hips ground faster, her bare pussy brushing against the man’s trousers, her movements dripping with lustful precision as she dragged her nails lightly across his chest and twisted it around his gold chain playfully. Her bright pink lips parted, a sultry moan vibrating in her throat as she leaned closer and nibbled the patron’s ear. The man’s breath hitched, his grip loosening from the chair and gripping onto Kitten’s bare ass. There was a strict ‘no touching’ policy in the private areas, but Kitten softly bit her lips and acted like no rules had been broken. “Goddamn, you’re incredible,” the man whispered, captivated by the stripper’s sensual display.

As the music’s soft beat faded, Kitten slid off the patron’s lap, her movements laced with sexy allure. “Like, your time’s, like, totally up, cutie,” she chirped in her now familiar extremely high-pitched tone. The pink-haired doll reached for a PVC nurse-styled stripper bikini, its glossy fabric tight as she slipped it over her oversized fake breasts and rounded hips, the outfit accentuating her bimbo proportions. The woman’s heels clicked as she adjusted the bikini.

The man stood, his face flushed, and adjusted his trousers to conceal his arousal. “The name's Rico,” he said, his voice self-assured as though his words were supposed to mean something. “You’re one of the hottest sluts I’ve ever seen, and that’s a big deal in Vegas.” He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Kitten, his grip tight and unwelcome, making her skin prickle with unwanted desire. “You could make some serious cash working for me, Kitten,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. “I take care of my girls, and I pay them well.”

Kitten giggled, her programming forcing a bubbly response as she gently pushed the man away, her glossy lips curving into a smile that hid the unease roiling within her trapped mind. “Like, that’s, like, super sweet, Mr. Rico, but I’m totally happy with my Daddy,” she chirped, her body pressing against him despite her rejection.

Rico’s face twisted into a scowl, his eyes narrowing with displeasure. “Too good enough for Rico, huh?” He commented with a growl. “Don’t worry, doll. I’ll come find you when your Daddy dumps you in a ditch somewhere,” he said with a cold tone. “Sluts like you never last long in places like this.” He took out four $20 bills and handed them to the bimbo dancer before storming out of the private room. Kitten softly bit her lip; her Daddy would never abandon her, she thought.

Kitten groaned with a soft lull, her manicured fingers clutching the $80. She shrugged off the veiled threat and tottered out of the private room, her heels audible until the soft hum of the sensual music playing overhead. The stripper spotted a new customer leering at her from the bar, and she flashed a sultry smile before sexily strutting up to the man. “Like, hey there, sexy,” she purred, her voice dripping with sex appeal. She slid a bare arm over the man’s shoulder, leaning in close as she tried to sell another dance.

The bimbo’s eyes flickered across the crowded lounge, and her smile widened as she spotted Duke, her loving Daddy, entering the club. He was wearing an open leather jacket with a white vest beneath and ripped blue jeans, his eyes darting around for his prize.

Kitten let go of the potential customer and strode up towards her man, throwing her arms around his shoulders, her bikini-clad breasts squeezing against the man’s chest. “Like, oh my gawd, Daddy!” she squealed in delight before pressing her lips against his in a deep, lustful kiss.

Duke grinned, his hand sliding to Kitten’s waist, his fingers pressing into her rounded hips as he deepened the kiss. “How’s my favorite girl doing tonight?” He asked, his voice thick with possession, looking deeply into the transformed former journalist’s blue eyes.

Kitten giggled, her pigtails bouncing as she pressed herself closer to her man. “I, like, totally can’t wait to finish my shift so I can, like, give you the night of your life, Daddy!” she squealed with conditioned excitement, her pink, plump lips curving into a provocative smile as her body swayed seductively against his.

The towering man’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with desire as he looked over his busty prize and slipped two $100 bills into Kitten’s VC bikini top, the crisp notes nestling against her F-cup breasts. “And why do we have to wait, Kitten?” he purred suggestively as his gaze flickered towards the VVIP doors just past the main stage. His fingers tightened on her hip, pulling the bimbo closer, his intent clear.

The dancer giggled again, her conditioned excitement building as she snatched Duke’s hand and seductively led him toward the VVIP room, her hips swaying with each tottered step. “Like, let’s go, Daddy!” she chirped eagerly as she took her man toward the forbidden area. Inside Kennedy’s mind, he struggled vehemently, as he had done for the past six months, hogtied and ball-gagged inside his own mind, his true self bound in a mental prison, screaming in vain as Kitten’s body betrayed him, dragging Duke into the sex room. As the door closed behind him, his fate was sealed. He was Kitten now, and his witness protection cover was no longer required.

The End.