Chapter 5: The Grafting of a New Past
The blue line on his wrist didn’t throb. It hummed. A quiet, persistent frequency beneath the skin, like a tuning fork struck against the bone of his old life. All night, he’d lain in bed, the crinkle of the plastic pants a louder truth than any thought. When he’d dared to look, the rosebud was a delicate, shocking blossom of pink against his pale flesh, tender and profound. It didn’t feel like a wound. It felt like a corrected error.
At 7 AM, he reached for his phone. His thumb hovered over his partner’s direct line. The words he needed to say sat in his mouth, foreign and sweet. He couldn’t force them through the persona of Simon, the lawyer. That man was gone. He opened a text window to his assistant, Chloe instead.
> Chloe, it’s Simon. A severe migraine persists. I will be offline today. Reschedule the Andersen call. Forward nothing urgent.
He sent it before he could think. The silence that followed was immediate, and for the first time, it wasn’t oppressive. It was correct. He was offline. The system was in maintenance mode.
A moment later, his phone buzzed. Not Chloe. An unknown number.
> be ready for the next phase of treatment at 6pm. wear you plastic pants and hair.
The typos were deliberate. They stripped the message of professional veneer, made it a raw, texted command from a busy goddess. ‘wear you plastic pants and hair.’ It wasn’t an item list. It was an identity. Be the thing in the plastic pants. Be the hair clipped back. He read it four times. Each time, the hollow space inside him felt a little more solid, a little more purposefully shaped.
Each time, the hollow space inside him felt a little more solid, a little more purposefully shaped. He spent the day in a kind of waking trance, moving through his penthouse without seeing it. The plastic pants whispered with every step, a constant audio cue. He ate bland yogurt from the fridge, not tasting it, his fingers tracing the raised blue line on his wrist. When it was time, he put on loose sweatpants and a hoodie, the coarse fabric grating against his sensitized skin, and clipped his hair back.
The rear alley felt like the only real place in the city. The steel door was, as promised, unlocked. The lavender antechamber was empty, but the door to the inner rooms stood open. He walked past the silent, candlelit parlor and the medical room with its padded table, following a soft, electronic hum to a third door he’d never seen. It was slightly ajar. He pushed it open.
The room was different. Cool and sterile. Mirrored panels lined the walls, reflecting the cold glow of fluorescent lights strips in the ceiling. In the center stood the familiar leather-padded table, its surface gleaming under the clinical light. Mistress Frantastic stood beside a sleek, blond wood cabinet. She’d traded the corset for a stark white nurse’s dress, crisp and severe, though the black collar remained at her throat. She held a small, black projector.
“You’re on time,” she said, not looking up from adjusting the device. “Good. How has your day been?”
Her tone was casual, almost administrative. It threw him. “Not… not so great,” Simon replied, the words sticking in his dry throat.
She finally looked at him, her gaze sharp and assessing under the bright lights. “This is all part of the process,” she said, her voice losing its casual edge, gaining a smooth, pedagogical rhythm. “I’m rebuilding you. It’s natural to be scared. You’re going from a man into a submissive, controlled sissy, where I control everything. And it’s natural for part of you to resist.” She took a step toward him. “But what we need to do is embrace it, and speed up your treatment. The foundation is set. Now we construct the interior.”
She gestured to the table. “Remove your outer clothes. Leave the plastic pants. Position yourself on your back.” He obeyed, the sweatpants and hoodie pooling on the polished concrete floor. The air was chilly. Lying on the cold leather, staring at the fluorescent lights, he felt utterly exposed. She wheeled over a small tray. On it were the TENS unit and its wired wand, along with two new pads connected by thin wires to a separate, smaller box.
“The marks are anchors,” she explained, fixing a pad to each of his temples with cold, sticky gel. “But an empty vessel still echoes with old sounds. We will fill it with new music.” She attached the wand of the TENS unit to the center of his chest, the cold tip making him flinch. “Today, we overlay the firmware. We install the memories that should have always been there.”
She picked up the handheld projector. With a click, a square of soft light appeared on the blank wall beside them. The first image resolved: a picture of a man naked.
The man was himself—a photo from a company retreat, smiling stiffly in swim trunks by a pool. It looked pathetic, absurd. “This is the ghost,” Mistress Frantastic said, her voice a dry murmur beside him. “The persistent afterimage.” The projector clicked.
The projector clicked.
The image shimmered, dissolving the pathetic swim trunks and the forced smile into pixels. The image changed to a spiral, nurse Frantastic whispered this is sissy hypnosis, I will use it wipe your mind turning you into the sissy you crave to be. You will see men like you being fucked and controlled by stronger woman who knows what you need that you need mindless submission to us. Let's begin she said as the video started playing.
Let's begin she said as the video started playing.
The poolside photo dissolved into a blur of color and sound. What replaced it wasn’t another image, but a feeling. A slow-motion cascade of pink satin ribbons, the crinkle of a disposable diaper, the overwhelming scent of powder. It flooded his optic nerve, bypassing his eyes. He gasped. The TENS unit on his chest remained silent, but the pads on his temples grew warm. A low-frequency pulse began, a dull throb syncing with his heartbeat.
“Just watch,” Mistress Frantastic murmured. Her voice was beside him, inside him. “Don’t analyze. Receive your hear to receive treatment"
The pink satin ribbons blurred, their softness suddenly tearing like filmstrip leader. The projected light on the wall shattered into a harsh, clinical frame. A man, muscle already softening at the edges, was strapped down to a steel-framed medical bed with thick leather restraints. Nurses—or figures in stark white PVC nurses’ dresses that gleamed under operating lights—circled him. Their faces were obscured by surgical masks, but their eyes were sharp, intent. The image was silent, but the pressure in the room thickened.
Then the video started to strobe. A frantic, disorienting flicker between blackness and brutal clarity. In one flash, a thick, black strap-on filled the mouth of the man on the bed, held by a nurse gripping his hair. In the next strobe, another nurse behind him, hips pistoning. The man’s body jolted with each thrust, a rag doll against the restraints. His eyes were dead. He was just accepting this. No fight, no plea, just a hollow vessel being filled with a ruthless, mechanical purpose.
The words started to flow across the strobing chaos, bold white text: THIS IS YOUR PLACE SISSY.
Simon’s breath hitched, a thin whine escaping his throat. The dead eyes on screen mirrored something deep inside him, a cavern of resignation he’d never dared to peer into. The TENS unit on his chest remained inert, but the pads on his temples ignited. A sharp, buzzing current shot through his skull, syncing with the violent strobe of the video. Each flicker of light was a hammer blow to his psyche, each thrust on screen a corresponding pulse of electricity in his brain.
“That’s it,” Mistress Frantastic’s voice cut through, calm and observational. “Witness the utility. Observe the peace in the surrender. There is no conflict there. There is only function.”
The words THIS IS YOUR PLACE SISSY burned into his retinas, overlaying the violent images, then dissolving into them. The current in his temples shifted from a sharp buzz to a deep, resonant thrum. A strange chemical warmth, like the poppers but born from within, flooded his synapses. The grief he’d felt for the pink nursery twisted, metamorphosing into a wrenching, physical longing for that same dead-eyed peace. To be that used. To be that empty. To have the choice of it.
The video froze on a final frame: the man’s face, slack, a glistening trail from the corner of his mouth, the words YOUR PLACE superimposed over his vacant expression. The projector went dark. The room was silent save for the hum of the fluorescents and Simon’s ragged breathing. The pads on his temples went cool.