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Experimental Surgery, Part 2 (Man to Designer Woman TG)
🕑 Added 2025-02-11 02:44:32 +0000 UTCBy FoxFaceStories
An Anonymous Story Tier Prompt
Benjamin is celebrating a recent windfall when an attractive femme fatale begins flirting with him. Unfortunately for him, he is quickly drugged and taken to a hidden laboratory, one which exists for rich donors to pay for men to be transformed into perfect submissive trophy wives, all for their amusement. Benjamin must try to escape, before an old rival claims him as his wife.
Part One also attached below
Part 2: The First Injections
It was at this point, dear reader, where perhaps you are thinking I deserved this fate. Perhaps I deserved some kind of punishment, but as you will see as you continue to read on, the cruelty of my captors knew little boundaries, and if then I have still not earned your sympathy, then know I was not alone.
I discovered this the next morning when I woke in my cell once more. At least, I thought it was morning. It was difficult to tell, what with no outside facing windows to track the rise and fall of the sun. But I knew instantly that the injections had done something odd to me. I felt weaker, but not in the sense that I had become exhausted or burdened. No, I simply felt . . . less muscular. I quickly checked over myself, and found it to be true: whatever hormones they had given me had evidently reduced my muscle mass. It was only a slight change, but my normally powerful build appeared as if I had slacked off the gym for a month. It was a minor difference, but it struck fear well into me. The same was true when I noticed that there was a pile of black hair upon my bedding and on the floor. It took me some time to realise that it was not hair from my head, but rather my body. It had shed during my sleep, and even my chest hair was largely gone, slipping out of my bland prisoner’s shirt and onto the ground.
“What the fuck?” I remember saying. “What did they do? Put oestrogen into me?”
I checked myself over repeatedly. There were no mirrors to look at, no way to determine if my face had changed, though it seemed largely the same. I even still had a little scruff upon it.
“There’s no way, there’s just no way.”
Mallory’s words repeated in my mind again and again, her tale of Amadeus Markha and his revenge upon her. How that stunning woman - literally the greatest beauty I had ever seen - had once been a man, and Markha’s rival. And she claimed to not only be his wife, but bound to him dutifully! To have become impregnated more than once and given birth to his children! It was the stuff of a cheap fetish novel or pulp horror fiction, not real life! I refused to believe it.
And yet I had seen Jonathan Dart and heard his taunts. I had always been pretty good at reading people - it helped me in business greatly - and Mallory had been one of the only ones to slip past my defences. That was because she had a great bosom. Dart didn’t have that. He just had a sneer. So I was reasonably confident in my assessment that he truly did believe I was going to become his wife.
It was bad fucking news, that was for sure. It meant that, even though his plan was obviously crazed, I was going to be injected with estrogen and have my body fucked up. That alone would still be revenge against me, not to mention ruining my own life.
“Have to escape,” I murmured. “And get out of here through any means.”
There was the sound of a metal grate being opened, and then my cell - which was reasonably large - suddenly had a hot meal in it. My stomach gurgled, a hunger overwhelming me.
“I’m not fucking eating that,” I declared anyway. “I’ve got no idea what’s in it.”
“Suit yourself,” came a guard’s voice. But the meal was left there.
My stomach groaned again.
***
Starving myself only worked for a brief time. My hunger was positively unnatural. Neither Jonathan nor Mallory came on that first day, nor the second, by which point I was aching for food. I had succumbed to drinking the water they provided me; it didn’t look like it had anything in it, though it did taste a little tangy. But the food - which was surprisingly well made, even if still like hospital food - remained there as a constant temptation.
“Nnghh,” I groaned, clutching my stomach. “Why am I s-so goddamn hungry? Let me out! I’m not eating your f-food!”
And yet the hunger grew. It’s amusing to me now, looking back on that time, to think about how confident I was that I could hold out. The truth was, by the third day I was so ravenous I could have eaten anything. My body hair was all gone by that point, except around my pubic, but no other changes had occurred. The guards spurned all attempts to talk, and I was starting to feel like I was going mad. One can only scratch so many symbols into the wall before one went mad.
And went mad I did. I tried to fight the guards when they entered to replace the toilet paper and bed roll I’d deliberately ruined. I was easily overpowered. I tried to bargain with them, offering riches, half of all that I owned. They simply ignored me, except for a baldheaded fellow who scoffed.
“And risk bein’ turned into a damn like you’ll be? No thanks, buddy.”
I removed one of the legs from my bed and used it as a digging implement at night, hoping to get out, but this was no Shawshank Redemption, and I was no Andy Deufresne. I had no experience in such things, and the object was too bulky besides.
The madness quickly changed, and I became mad for food. When an actual goddamn chicken roast was placed into my cell, I nearly leapt upon it.
“Mhmmm!” I moaned, licking the gravy from my fingers. “God, it’s f-fucking delicious. God help me.”
I devoured more and more of it, uncaring about my own rebellion for the moment, nor the threat that more drugs might be in my system.
“They don’t do it through the food,” came a voice suddenly. I paused, shocked. I rose from my chicken dinner and peered through the bars of my cell door into the one directly opposite me. There, a woman’s face greeted me. No, it was a man. No, it was something . . . in-between. Slightly more mannish than feminine, but certainly soft and with prominent eyelashes. Their blonde hair was also down past their chin.
“Who are you? How long have you been there?”
“I’m Artie,” the figure replied, voice huskier than I expected. “They returned me this morning. I didn’t expect to get another cellmate. Samuel already left as Sara a while ago, but obviously business is booming.”
“What - what are you talking about?”
“Didn’t they give you the brief. We’re all being turned into women here. Trophy wives. Powerful men exact revenge on us. Or they just pick a lowly employee they want power over.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
Artie shook his-her head. “No. I was a journalist. Artie Smallcheck. I did a bombshell report on a major case of financial fraud by a bitcoin guru. Blew the lid right on him. Turns out he never forgot, because he’s paid to get me here and make him his fantasy girlfriend. Apparently, he likes blondes.”
“You weren’t blonde before?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Brown hair all my life. If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to end up as a dumb bimbo slut. I know the type he likes, because it’s what he wasted his investor’s money on. And I’m already growing . . . tits.”
I frowned. This had to be a psyche job. At least, that’s what I thought at the time.
“Bullshit.”
“It’s the true. Hold on a moment.”
He removed his shirt and then gripped the bars, lifting himself. Sure enough, he had breasts. They were small, but present.”
“Estrogen will do that. This is just some freakshow. They can’t actually make us women.”
“They can,” Artie said. “I’ve seen it. They can even change your race. One guy got turned into an Indian lady. No change in her accent or language or anything, obviously, but she looked the real deal. They put her in a sari and handed her over to some Indian guy who she began kissing immediately.”
“Why?”
Artie shrugged. “Because there’s a mental element. I’ve had it. Hypnosis, brain stimulation. Electroshock. You name it. I can’t even fight the guards now; I'm too goddamn submissive. You just have to hope the type of woman your guy wants isn’t going to be too stupid and weak like I’m going to be.”
I still wasn’t sure if I believed what was happening, but the panic was definitely setting in. Of course, Artie was telling the whole truth as it turned out, but at the time I even suspected she might be in on it. Sorry, I think of her as a ‘she’ now, but at the time she was very much male and identifying as such. I shall try to reflect reality in this.
“I think Jonathan - the vermin asshole who paid to get me here - wants a trophy wife. A woman who will salivate for him. He wants revenge because he stole my woman.”
Artie’s expression fell. “Then I’m sorry, friend. I might end up the blonde bimbo, and you the trophy wife. Two sides of a similar coin.”
I recall that I gulped, then. It was a weak and pathetic sound, but was exactly how I felt.
“You didn’t tell me your name.”
“Benjamin,” I said. “Ben.”
“Well, best of luck, Ben. But you might want to start thinking about what your female name will be. From what I’ve seen, that might be the only choice some of us get in our new lives.”
***
I screamed when the guards restrained me on that fourth or fifth day - I forget which - and brought out the syringe again.
“No! Fuck you! Fuck you! You can’t do this to me!”
Jonathan appeared in the doorway, once again tougher and bigger than I remembered him ever being, and smiled that nasty smile.
“Oh, we can. I paid handsomely for this, Benny-boy. This journey is just getting started too. Inject him.”
I whined as the needle went in. It was bigger this time, and the fluid looked different. Jonathan caught my panic.
“A more powerful dose,” he said. “Your body is primed, and now the real changes can start.”
“Fuck you!” I spat. “I’m going to kill you, Jonathan!”
“I don’t think so. I think, in time, you’re going to make love to me. You’ll be like that lovely Mallory; a perfect trophy wife. There to please me with blowjobs each morning and wear all sorts of tight, lovely things. And you’ll age so slowly that I’ll always get to enjoy you. I might even put a few kids in you and let you raise them, just for the humiliation of it all.”
“You’re insane! None of this is real!”
The man just shrugged. “We’ll see.”
As you can imagine, dear reader, I did come to see. I truly did. And the following few days began to make me see the truth. The next day I woke up feeling weaker again, and that muscular degeneration was a pattern that continued the next morning, and the next, and the next. It was a slow change, but always steady, and more injections were placed into my body, more serum to presumably bolster the existing changes and speed up other ones. But it wasn’t just my muscles that were changing: something was happening to my overall frame as well. On what I was certain to be the tenth day of my imprisonment, I noticed that my shoulders had shrunk, and that my waist had thinned also, though my hips had remained as they were.
“That’s how it started for me too,” said Artie from his cell. He’d been injected that morning, and his hair was longer in just a couple of days, his jaw more rounded. “It's the bones changing shape. I think there’s a DNA component to it, but surgery is also necessary. I’m slated for that soon. Scares the shit out of me.”
“It can’t be,” I remember saying. “It just can’t be!”
But it was. The injections could only go so far, but they seemed pretty damn far to me. My nipples were constantly sore and itchy, and I went to bed scratching them. This only led to a strange arousal, and with not much else to do, I must admit I was pleasuring myself constantly as well. A few books had been dropped off to me, but I had resisted reading them yet: they were all instructional manuals from what seemed like the 1950s on how to be a ‘Darling Wife’ or a ‘Dutiful Beau.’ Except they were recent creations: all of them had been written by Amadeus Markha and given old-fashioned stylings.
I remember pleading with myself not to masturbate during those lonely nights. I only really had Artie to keep me company in his different cell, and I had no idea how much longer this hell would last. But in the end, I gave up on that too, and it was Mallory’s fault. She entered one morning after breakfast wearing a tight red number that emphasised her breasts. Worse, she had brought another woman: a gorgeous brunette with Slavic-looking cheeks and thick lips, and a figure I would have killed to have slept with outside of a horrible situation like this one.
“Who is this?” I demanded, unable to move due to a strong guard. “Another one of your pets? When can I leave this place?”
“You can leave this cell soon,” she replied. “Amadeus, my sweet husband, says so himself, and I’m submissive to his commands, as you know. The injections are already taking: show us your body.”
I resisted, but my top was pulled from me, and my pants. My worst fears were realised when she examined my penis from afar.
“Definite shrinkage of the scrotum and tests,” one of the scientists with her mused. “And areolas are developing nicely. Body retention is good, muscle loss good. Should be ready for initiation into the wider program soon. Artie too, if he can behave himself.”
“Herself,” Mallory corrected.
“You haven’t answered my question!” I demanded. “Who is this?”
“Enticement,” she answered, “and a preview. Mr Dart has requested you be presented with women we have finished designing, to give you an idea of what you will become. Also, she wants to practice with you.”
They left this woman in my cell. She licked her lips as she saw me.
“I’m Ben,” I said. “Is it true? Did you used to be a woman?”
The poor thing shivered, holding herself. She was in the same kind of clothing as mine; baggy and prison-like, but nothing could disguise those generous hips or impressive bust.
“I’m Sonya,” she replied in a sexy, husky voice. “I was a man. I was Sergei. They made me woman. I tried to steal from Amadeus and give to competitor. Now they make me lusty. I can’t stop thinking about sex. I must have sex, do you understand? You must give me sex, please!”
“Look, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but-”
She was on me before I could finish my sentence. Soon she was ripping her top off, then her bra, and shoving her giant bust in my face. I lost all control: something about the hormones flooding through my body released my unbelievable horniness. I kissed her back, and then we were entangled together, fingers running over every bump, curve, and crevice, the pair of us moaning.
“I don’t want this, but I need it!” she gasped as she rubbed my cock, making it even harder. “I am woman now. I need penis in me. I live for this! It is my purpose now, to be this prison slut! To be guinea pig! Breed me, handsome Ben!”
I should have stopped. Even now, as a woman myself, I still think of Sonja. What kind of life does she live, so addicted to sex it’s basically analogous to food and water? I hope she had found some meaning in it. God knows, as bad as it is to feel this way, I still remember the sensation of her lips on my member.
“Oh God,” I moaned as she lowered herself on me, sucking perfectly. “Ahhh, that’s - I need this too!”
She made a terrific moaning sound, and her other hand stroked my shaft. I didn’t stand a chance: I came in a huge way, pumping what felt like a gallon of semen down her throat. She moaned again, and the oddest thing happened: she literally orgasmed from giving me head.
I collapsed back onto the bed, her slumped against the side of it, panting.
“Great, I suck another dick! It never ends! In two hours tops, I need suck another!”
I only barely remember her saying this because of how it stood out to me, because my attention was immediately taken over by the rush of hormones running through me, the final results of the injections activated by the intense release of dopamine and expenditure of my semen. I gasped as my muscles overheated, seemingly melting into further fat deposits. My rear bulged, expanding slowly but surely. My voice squeaked, cracking up an octave, and that same cracking sensation occurred in my hips and in my face, where a new formation of bone and tissue was occurring. I wriggled like a fish out of water on the bed, feeling my chest develop into an actual pair of boobs - small ones, but definitely breasts, complete with their own foreign-feeling jiggle. My thighs were likewise bigger, but my feet and hands shrunk, the extra tissue going elsewhere.
“Ohhhhh, wh-what’s happening to m-eeeee!?”
Sonja clambered backwards. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. They use me for all of this! I am good at starting change with my lips. Mhmm . . . so hot.”
The door opened again, and Mallory entered, a gentle smile on her features. The scientist with her seemed very joyful from the results.
“My God, what a quick onset of change! He’s taking better to the designer process than any other subject.”
“Then he’s ready for initiation,” Mallory said, folding her arms beneath her breasts. “He can be socialised with the other girls, and learn what it is to be a woman. And, of course, undertake the surgery.”
“You can’t do this!” I cried, though my body was weak from becoming so feminine. Sonja followed a guard out of the room, mumbling apologies.
“We can, and I must. I follow my husband in all things. You will do the same when you are Jonathan Dart’s trophy wife, and like me, you’ll learn to accept it. We’ll pair you with Artie to aid you both in this transition.”
“I won’t accept it!”
“You’ll have to, because with initiation . . . comes the surgery.”
I distinctly remember that being the moment I fainted yet again.
To Be Continued . . .
