Chapter 13: The Weekend Begins
The patterned carpet of the Pinnacle Hotel’s twelfth floor smelled of industrial cleaner and distant, perfumed air. Derek stood before room 1217, his knuckles white around the handle of his weekend bag. A dull, persistent ache had settled behind his eyes, a throbbing bass note of wrongness. He’d told Elena about the promotion seminar with a convincing, easy excitement that had felt like someone else’s voice coming out of his mouth. She’d kissed him, happy for him. The guilt from that kiss was a physical burn in his stomach now.He didn’t remember checking in.He didn’t remember taking the elevator. He was just here, drawn by a need that felt both alien and absolute, a magnetic pull in his sternum.His hand, shaking slightly, rose to knock. The door swung open before his knuckles made contact.
Marcus Vance stood in the doorway, not “Mark.” He was dressed in slim black trousers and a deep burgundy silk shirt, unbuttoned at the throat. His dark eyes were bright with anticipatory pleasure. “Right on time,” he said, his voice the same smooth, commanding instrument from the bar.Recognition slammed into Derek like a truck. This wasn’t just the nice guy from the Rusty Nail. This was the face from Elena’s descriptions, the ghost haunting the gaps in his memory. A cold, sharp terror speared through the fuzzy warmth of compulsion.“You,” Derek breathed, taking a step back.“What am I doing here? This… this is a mistake.”
“No mistake,” Marcus said, stepping aside with a gracious sweep of his arm.“Come in, Derek. You’re expected.”
“Fuck no.” Derek turned, his muscles tensing to flee.His legs locked. They stiffened, then, against his furious mental commands, they pivoted smoothly and carried him across the threshold into the sunlit suite. His mind screamed.His body obeyed. The door clicked shut behind him, the lock engaging with a final, soft thud.
“Let me go,” Derek snarled, panic making his voice crack. He struggled, a silent, internal war where his nerves refused to fire, where his limbs were soft, heavy clay.Marcus walked past him, calm, to a small table by the window. He picked up a silver chain from which a teardrop-shaped pendulum hung. It caught the afternoon light, spinning lazily.“You are let go, Derek. That’s the point.You’re letting go of all that tension, all that useless fight. You can still think.You can still feel.It’s all still there.But you will obey. Watch the pendulum.”
“I won’t,” Derek gasped, but his eyes, desperate and pleading, were already tracking the lazy, arcing swing of the silver teardrop.Back, forth. Back, forth.The sun glinted off it with each pass. The terror began to soften, not disappearing, but being packed away under layers of thick, compliant cotton.His breathing slowed.His shoulders slumped.
“That’s it,” Marcus murmured.“The fight is so tiring, isn’t it? Just watch it swing.Empty your mind.You are so empty. So ready.”
Derek felt himself sinking. The part of him that was still Derek Holloway was now a tiny, shrieking observer behind a thick pane of glass, watching his own body stand docile and slack-jawed.
Marcus let the pendulum come to rest.“Now.You came here for your training seminar. The first lesson is presentation.Turn and look.”
Derek’s body turned. A full-length mirror stood beside an open closet.Arranged before it on a chaise lounge was a costume. A blonde wig, long and waved, on a stylist’s head.A palette of vibrant makeup. A startlingly pink latex minidress, shining under the lights. A pair of monstrously high, platform-heeled shoes. Next to them, two large, unnaturally round silicone breast forms with prominent nipples, and a padded, glossy hip-and-butt augmentation piece.
The tiny observer behind the glass screamed.“No,” Derek whispered, a tear breaking free and tracing down his cheek. “Please.Not that. Don’t make me.”
“Your hands know what to do,” Marcus said, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed.“Begin.”
Derek’s hands lifted. They went to the buttons of his own sensible shirt. His fingers, which had fixed engines, which had held Elena, fumbled open each button with a clumsy, dreamlike slowness. He shucked the shirt.His belt buckle clinked. His jeans and boxers were pushed down over his athletic thighs, over his knees, to pool at his feet on the plush carpet. He stood naked, trembling, staring at his own reflection—the strong jaw, the flat chest, the trail of hair below his navel leading to his flaccid cock.
“The shaver is in the bathroom,” Marcus instructed softly.“Remove it all. Every hair from the neck down.”
Mechanically, Derek walked to the bathroom. He lathered his body, the citrus-scented foam alien on his skin. With careful, automated strokes, he scraped the razor over his chest, his stomach, his groin.The scratch of stubble vanished. He rinsed, patting himself dry with a fluffy towel.His skin felt newborn, sensitive, and unbearably soft. He returned to the main room, his movements gliding and silent.“The padding first,” Marcus said.
Derek picked up the silicone hip piece.It was heavy, cool, and smelled of plastic. He stepped into it, pulling it up until it encased his waist and hips, his own ass disappearing inside a perfect, exaggerated sphere of fake flesh.He fastened the hidden clasps at the sides. His silhouette was instantly transformed, his waist nipping in before flaring out to ludicrous, cartoonish curves. Next, the breast forms.He lifted them; they were weighty, yielding. He strapped the harness around his torso, settling the cool silicone against his now-hairless chest. He fumbled with the straps, his fingers incompetent, until the cleavage sat high and round, the nipples pert and mocking.
He looked in the mirror.A monster looked back. A man’s head, stricken with horror, sat atop a grotesque, hyper-feminine body.“The dress,” Marcus commanded.
The latex was a second skin, tight and squeaking as he pulled it up over the padding. It clung to every false curve, the neckline plunging to showcase the deep valley between the fake breasts.The material compressed his own body, a constant, suffocating embrace. He stepped into the heels, wobbling violently before finding a precarious, tilted balance.His calves strained. The world dropped away, his perspective now several inches higher, more precarious.Finally, the wig. He placed the blonde mass on his head, tucking his own short brown hair beneath the netting.He adjusted it. The face in the mirror was now a bizarre, dissonant mask.Marcus approached with the makeup. “Eyes closed.” Derek obeyed.He felt brushes and pencils working over his features. When he opened them, his eyes were smouldering with dark shadow and heavy liner, his lips a slick, glossy candy pink.
“Look at yourself,” Marcus breathed, standing behind him, his hands on Derek’s padded hips.“Look at the beautiful bimbo you are.”
Derek stared.The observer inside wept. The body, however, was sending a different signal. A traitorous, warming heat had begun to spread in his groin, tight and undeniable beneath the constricting latex and padding. The shame was molten, mixing with a shocking, physical arousal he could not suppress. His cock stirred, trapped against his new, unnatural form.“See?” Marcus whispered into his ear, his own breath hot. “Your body knows its truth. It always did.” His hands slid around, cupping the false breasts, squeezing them.Derek gasped, a shudder wracking through him. “Your tits are so sensitive, aren’t they, baby? Even fake, they’re just screaming to be touched.”
He pinched a silicone nipple through the latex, and Derek’s back arched, a moan escaping his painted lips.The sound was high, foreign.
“Say it,” Marcus commanded, his voice hardening. “Say ‘I’m a dumb bimbo who loves cock.’”
Derek’s throat worked.Tears cut fresh tracks through the foundation on his cheeks. He tried to clamp his jaw shut.His lips parted. “I’m… I’m a dumb bimbo…” The voice was breathy, tinny, a grotesque parody of a woman’s. “…who loves cock.” The final word was a sob and a confession.
“Good girl,” Marcus purred, spinning him around.He kissed Derek hard on the mouth, lipstick smearing. Derek’s mind recoiled, but his body melted, his new mouth opening, his padded ass pushing back against Marcus’s groin.Marcus broke the kiss, his eyes blazing with triumph. “Now, let’s see how well you take your first lesson.”
He pushed Derek backwards towards the large bed. Derek stumbled on the heels, falling onto the duvet with a bounce from his padded rear. Marcus was on him in an instant, his silk shirt gone, his own body lean and strong. He pinned Derek’s wrists above the blonde wig.“You want this,” he stated, a cruel fact.
“I don’t,” Derek whimpered in his new, horrible voice.
“Your hard cock says otherwise, you stupid slut.” Marcus reached down, his hand slithering between the latex and the padding, finding Derek’s erection, hot and straining against his own stomach. He stroked it, a rough, punishing motion.Derek cried out, his hips bucking involuntarily. The pleasure was obscene, a searing wire of ecstasy connected directly to his humiliation.
Marcus produced a bottle of lube, slicking his own length with sharp, efficient strokes. He didn’t prepare Derek. He simply pushed the padded hip piece aside, positioned himself, and with one brutal, relentless thrust, he sheathed himself inside.The pain was immediate, blinding. Derek shrieked, his back bowing off the bed. It was a violation so complete it shattered the last remnants of the observer behind the glass. The scream twisted, morphing into a guttural, choked sound of pleasure as Marcus began to move, a hard, rhythmic pounding that shook the false body beneath him.
“You’re a hole,” Marcus grunted, each thrust punctuating his words. “A dumb, empty bimbo hole made for fucking.This is what you are. This is all you are now.”
And with each word, each deep, penetrating drive, Derek felt it becoming true. The rational mind, the skeptical worldview, it all dissolved under the raw, physical programming of the act. The shame didn’t vanish; it fused with the pleasure, creating a new, addictive alloy. His moans became louder, wanton, his false breasts bouncing with the force of the fucking. He wrapped his stocking-clad legs around Marcus’s back, his high heels digging into Marcus’s thighs.“Whose cock do you love?” Marcus demanded, his pace becoming frantic.
“Yours!” Derek squealed, the words torn from him.“I love your cock! I’m a slut for it!”
“You’re my slut,” Marcus corrected, slamming into him.
“I’m your slut!” Derek screamed, and the climax ripped through him, a convulsive, total surrender. His body seized, his vision whiting out, as Marcus followed, pulsing deep inside him with a final, possessive groan.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant city hum. Marcus pulled out, leaving Derek feeling gaping, used, and terrifyingly complete. He collapsed onto the bed beside his creation, running a hand over the latex-covered, fabricated curves.
“Session one is complete,” Marcus said, his voice regaining its cultured calm.“We’ll let that settle in.Let the triggers root. Tomorrow, we work on your voice.And your hunger. You have no idea how hungry a pretty thing like you can get.” He smiled, tracing the outline of Derek’s glossy lips. “The weekend has only just begun.”