Chapter 4: Continued Feminization
For three weeks, the packages stopped. The silence should have been a relief, but for Julian Vance, it became its own kind of tension. He found himself checking his office door more often, his eyes darting to the empty space on his desk where the plain boxes used to appear. The rhythm of his anxiety had become a habit he couldn’t kick.
His body, however, hadn’t gotten the memo that the siege might be over. The changes were subtle, incremental, but undeniable. His tailored suits, once a second skin of perfection, now pulled oddly across the shoulders and chest. Not tighter, exactly, but… different. Softer. When he shrugged out of his jacket at the end of the day, the fabric of his dress shirt seemed to drape over a chest that was less defined, subtly padded. His backside, always trim, had rounded out just enough that his trousers felt snugger, the material hugging a new curve. He caught his reflection in the glass door of a client’s boardroom and did a double-take; the silhouette was off, unfamiliar.
And the hair. God, the hair. It was past his shoulders now, a thick, dark cascade he’d taken to tying back in a low, sleek bun during meetings. He’d stopped questioning the miraculous, rapid growth. The receding hairline he’d secretly mourned at thirty was a distant memory. He told himself he’d won the genetic lottery, a late-blooming blessing. He almost believed it.
Across the bullpen, Barry Nutley watched it all unfold with the patient focus of a spider. He’d let his own hair grow out, a shaggy, unkempt mop he claimed was his “rockstar phase.” It was a calculated bit of mimicry, a shallow gesture of camaraderie designed to mask his deeper obsession. He’d started lingering by Julian’s office, asking innocuous questions about sales tactics, laughing a little too loudly at Julian’s jokes. The resentment still burned, acid-bright in his gut, but now it was channeled, purposeful. To destroy the golden boy, he first had to get close.
Then, on Friday of the third week, the equilibrium shattered.
Barry was loitering near the security desk in the sleek marble lobby, pretending to check his phone, when the UPS guy slouched in. The man dropped a small, familiar cardboard box on the counter with a dismissive thud. “Receiver wasn’t at his desk. You guys sign for it.”
The security guard grunted, scribbling a signature.
Barry’s pulse jumped. It was the same unmarked box. And if it sat down here, lost in the mundane flow of corporate mail, Julian might never get it. He might start to feel safe. That couldn’t happen. The game needed to continue.
He ambled over, a picture of casual concern. “Hey, Mike. That for Vance on 12? I’m heading up there now. I’ll take it. Save you a trip.”
The guard shrugged, pushed the box toward him. “Knock yourself out, Nutley.”
The box was light. Deceptively so. Barry carried it like a sacrament, his knuckles whitening around the edges. This was perfect. A delivery, and a reason to talk to him. He rode the elevator up, his mind rehearsing the lines.
He knocked on Julian’s glass door. Julian looked up from his monitor, his eyes bagged with a fatigue his optimistic smile couldn’t quite mask.
“Heeeey. Julian, my man,” Barry said, pushing the door open with his shoulder. He held the box aloft. “Hey, this package was at the security desk downstairs. I told them I’d bring it up to you. Because I had to ask about the Jefferson merger deal and how I should close it.” He delivered the line with a practiced, easy smile.
Julian’s reaction was instantaneous, visceral. He shot to his feet, his chair rolling back and hitting the window with a thump. His face, usually a mask of agreeable charm, contorted into a snarl of pure, unfiltered panic.
“You didn’t look inside it or anything, did you!” The words were a whip-crack in the quiet office. Then, lower, venomous: “Are you the one sending these?”
Barry recoiled, his hands coming up in mock surrender, the box now a prop in his performance. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Julian, man. What the hell was that? I was just coming to ask some advice, man. I can come back later if you want?” He let a genuine-looking hurt seep into his voice, the perfect cocktail of confusion and slight offense.
For a long second, Julian just stared, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The panic in his eyes receded, replaced by a weary shame. He ran a hand—slender, his fingers seeming longer somehow—through his long hair, loosening the bun. He looked exhausted, hollowed out.
“No.” He shook his head, collapsing back into his chair. “No, it’s good. Sorry, Bare. Lack of sleep. Just… jumpy.” He gestured vaguely. “I can help with that Jefferson merger. Sure.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Just… set that box on that chair. I’ll deal with it later. Let’s grab a bite to eat and discuss that merger.” He said it almost like a plea, a desperate need to escape the thing he’d just invited into his space.
Barry’s insides sang with vicious triumph. He carefully placed the box on the indicated chair, its plain exterior seeming to pulse with a quiet malevolence in the sterile room. “Ahhhh, sweet, man, this is gonna be awesome,” he said, clapping Julian on the shoulder, feeling the unfamiliar softness through the suit fabric. “By the way, love the hair, man. Long hair is in!! I started to grow mine out a bit too. Not quite as long as yours. I think a feathered look is better, but that man bun works too.”
Julian managed a weak smile, already shrugging on his jacket. It pulled across his back, the fabric straining. “Yeah, well, it’s just easier this way,” he muttered, avoiding his own reflection in the glass.
They left the office, the door clicking shut behind them. The small, unassuming box sat alone on the leather chair, a silent tenant in Julian’s pristine world. Down in the dimly-lit lobby of a pricey sushi bar, Barry talked animatedly about closing strategies, basking in the glow of Julian’s distracted, fragmented advice. Julian picked at his food, his laughter a beat too late, his eyes distant. Every so often, his hand would wander up, touching the nape of his neck where his hair was gathered, as if checking it was still there.
Back in the office, hours later, the takeaway container sat empty on his desk. The box waited. Julian stood before it, the city lights twinkling behind him like a spilled galaxy. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird in a cage of softening bone. He picked up a letter opener, its blade cold and final in his hand.
The tape gave way with a brittle shriek. He didn’t want to look, but he had to.
Once open, there was another note, and this time it read. "You're looking a bit thicker. I think its time you start a workout routine."
He stared at the line, the words blurring for a second before snapping back into cruel clarity. His throat tightened. He pulled the note aside.
Inside the box was more feminine clothing, this time tops for working out and feminine undershirts. Some had built-in bras, slight padded cups sewn into the soft, stretchy fabric. They were in muted colors—heather grey, soft black, a pale lavender. They looked expensive, technical, designed for movement. He lifted one, the material slipping through his fingers like water. It felt alien.
Beneath the folded stack was another flash drive inside a zip lock bag. He tore the bag open, his fingers numb. A second, smaller slip of paper was tucked with it.
He unfolded it. The text was a cold, directive block.
"YOU MUST FOLLOW THESE WORK OUT ROUTINES 2 HOURS A DAY, WHILE HAVING YOUR LAPTOP CAMERA ON, CONNECTED TO THIS WEBSITE. DON'T BOTHER LOOKING WHERE IT GOES. ITS QUADRUPLE BYPASSED, AND REROUTED TO 6 DIFFERENT COUNTRIES. WEAR ONE OF THE NEW TOPS, WITHOUT PANTS, AND PANTIES WHEN YOU DO. NUMBER TWO, THERE ARE HUNDREDS OF 30 MIN VIDEOS. YOU MUST WATCH FOR THREE HOURS A DAY, OR FALL ASLEEP LISTENING TO THEM, IF THATS EASIER. THESE VIDEOS ARE ENCRYPTED, AND IF THEY ARE NOT COMPLETED AT LEAST 3 HOURS, IT WILL SIGNAL AN AUTOMATIC RELEASE. WHERE THAT VIDEO OF YOU AND YOUR BOSSES WIFE WILL BE EMAILED TO THE WHOLE FIRM."
His vision tunneled. The air in the office turned thick, syrup-like. He had to read the last paragraph twice.
"THE WORK OUT ROUTINE, ON THE DRIVE, ARE FOR A FEMININE FIGURE, AND THE VIDEOS ARE HYPNOTIC SUGGESTIONS. FOR SISSY TRAINING. NOTHING HARSH YET, BUT AFFIRMATIONS TO MAKE WEARING WOMAN'S CLOTHING SEEM RIGHT."
A sound escaped him, a dry heave of air that wasn’t quite a sob. He crushed the note in his fist. He looked at the flash drive, a tiny plastic slab that held the blueprint for his unmaking. Five hours a day. Camera on. Wearing that.
He thought about smashing it. He thought about calling the police. Then he saw the boss’s wife in his mind, her laughter in that blurry video, and the hundred and forty-seven email addresses in the company directory.
His shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of him, leaving a cold, heavy slurry of defeat in his veins.
He shut the office blinds. He locked the door.
Slowly, mechanically, he undressed. His suit, his shirt, his tie—all laid neatly over the back of his chair, the uniform of Julian Vance. He avoided the mirror. He pulled on a pair of the silky blue panties, the fabric now familiar in a way that disgusted him. He stared at the workout top. It was the heather grey one.
He put it on.
It fit. It fit too well, clinging to the new softness of his chest and torso. The built-in bra provided a subtle, defining shape. He looked down and saw a stranger’s body. A flush of shame burned his cheeks, hot and immediate.
He plugged in the flash drive. A single folder appeared. He clicked the file labeled ‘START HERE’. A browser window opened to a blank, grey page with a single, pulsing ‘CONNECT’ button. Below it, a camera feed showed his own image—his long hair tied back, his face pale, wearing the grey top.
He hit ‘CONNECT’. The button turned red. ‘LIVE’, it read.
He had never felt more exposed. He followed the first routine on a video file. It was all hip thrusts, glute bridges, and side-lying leg lifts. Isolating. Sculpting. The feminine voice of the instructor was calm, encouraging. “Feel the burn in your derrière,” she said. “Squeeze at the top. Beautiful.”
After two hours, he was drenched in a cold sweat. The grey top was damp, plastered to his skin. He disconnected the camera feed, his muscles trembling with a new, unfamiliar exhaustion.
He didn’t move. He dragged his laptop to the floor, leaning against the side of his desk. He opened the ‘VIDEOS’ folder. Hundreds of files, each named with long strings of numbers. He clicked the first one.
A gentle, swirling pattern filled the screen. Soft, ambient music played. A soothing, androgynous voice began to speak. “You are becoming more relaxed… more open… Your mind is receptive to positive new concepts…”
The words washed over him. They talked about comfort. About the natural feel of soft fabrics. About letting go of rigid, outdated ideas. It was subtle, insidious. His eyes grew heavy. The three-hour timer on the video player began its countdown.
He must have dozed off. He jerked awake to the soft chime of the video ending. The timer read zeros. Another file auto-loaded. The music started again. “Your body is changing… and that is perfectly okay… it is natural to seek a form that feels authentic…”
He sat there in the dark office, bathed in the laptop’s glow, wearing the clothes they’d sent. He felt hollowed out, programmed. Outside, the city lights blinked, indifferent.
A soft knock on his office door made him jump.
“Julian? You still in there?” It was Barry’s voice, muffled through the glass. “Left my phone charger in your office, I think. You okay?”
Julian scrambled, his heart a frantic drum. He fumbled for his suit pants, yanking them on over the panties and his damp legs. He grabbed his dress shirt, pulling it on over the grey workout top, buttoning it with clumsy fingers. He couldn’t find his tie.
“Just… yeah! One sec!” His voice cracked.
He looked a mess. Hair frizzing from its bun, shirt wrinkled over the hidden top, face pallid from exhaustion and panic. He switched off the laptop, plunging the room into near-darkness save for the city glow. He unlocked the door and opened it a crack.
Barry peered in, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. He scanned Julian, his gaze lingering on the unbuttoned collar, the missing tie, the sheer, wiped-out expression. “Whoa, dude. You look like hell. Burning the midnight oil?” He smiled, but his eyes were sharp, taking inventory.
“Just… finishing up some data,” Julian mumbled, blocking the doorway. He saw his tie on the floor near the box and kicked it gently behind the door.
“Right. Well, don’t work too hard.” Barry’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He glanced past Julian, into the shadowy office, seeming to sniff the air. “Smells like… gym in here or something. You workout?”
Julian’s blood ran cold. “No. Just… long day. I’m heading out.”
“Cool, cool.” Barry took a slow step back. “Get some rest, man. You need it.” He turned, his own longish hair swaying. “Oh, and Julian?” he said over his shoulder. “Love the dedication. Really… impressive.”
He walked away, whistling softly down the hall.
Julian closed the door, locking it again. He slid down to the floor, his back against the cool glass. The new, supple flesh of his hips and backside pressed against the hard surface. He stared at the closed cardboard box in the shadows.
Five hours tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.
He didn’t know if he was going to throw up or cry. In the end, he did neither.
He just sat there in the silent office, feeling the faint, persistent ache in muscles he never used to feel, listening to the echo of the hypnotic voice still whispering in the quiet of his own skull. The routine calcified over the next seven days, a bizarre new normal etched into his bones by exhaustion and fear. He moved through his workdays in a fog, his brilliant pitches now delivered by rote, his charm a brittle automaton’s smile.
His body obeyed the unseen regimen with a ruthless efficiency that terrified him.
The two-hour workouts, always under the camera’s unblinking red eye, carved new pathways of fatigue and strange, pliant softness. His hips ached from the endless repetitions of abduction exercises, a deep burn that settled into the joint. The three hours of hypnotic videos did their work more quietly, a slow drip of synaptic reassignment. The affirmations—softness is strength, this form is correct, these fabrics are your skin—seeped into the cracks of his panic, muting the edges. When he pulled on the silky panties each morning, the sensation was less a shock and more a depressing, familiar ritual.
A new box arrived on the eighth day.
It was waiting on his desk when he returned from a client lunch, the same unmarked cardboard. His stomach clenched, a cold knot. But the sweeping, paralyzing terror he’d felt before was dulled, sanded down by mental conditioning and sheer fatigue. He simply stared at it. He was almost expecting it.
He sliced the tape. Inside, folded with a clinical neatness, was an array of bras. Training bras with simple clasps. Sporty compression tops with racerbacks. Padded t-shirt bras with seamless cups. They were practical, in beige and white and black. Tools, not costumes. He picked one up, a padded style. The material was cool and smooth. He felt nothing. No outrage, no hot flush of humiliation. Just a hollow acceptance.
Beneath them was another orange prescription bottle. No label. The capsules inside were larger, oblong, a pale blue. A small slip of paper was tucked under the bottle. TAKE THREE DAILY. WITH FOOD.
He unscrewed the cap. The pills smelled faintly of chemicals and nothing else. He shook one into his palm. He didn’t question what was in it. The part of him that would have was buried under hours of soothing, reprogramming voices. He dry-swallowed one right there, the capsule catching briefly in his throat before washing down with the dregs of his cold coffee.
He took the box home.
That night, after another camera-monitored session of leg lifts and glute bridges, he stood before his bathroom mirror. The workout top was damp. He peeled it off. The reflection was a funhouse distortion he was learning to live with. His shoulders seemed narrower, his frame subtly reconfigured. A soft, undefined layer had settled over his pectorals, blurring the hard lines of muscle. When he turned, the curve of his lower back dipped into a fuller, rounder profile.
He put on one of the padded bras. The act was mechanical. He fastened the clasp at the back, adjusted the straps. It fit. The cups filled out, giving a defined, anatomical shape beneath his shirt. He looked at himself, dressed for bed in soft pajama pants and the bra. A stranger with his face, his long hair, stared back with dead eyes.
“Okay,” the reflection seemed to say. A flat, empty word.
The new pills did their work quickly.
Within three days, a profound, specific hunger woke in him. It was a deep, gnawing craving for fats and sugars he’d spent a lifetime avoiding. He devoured avocados, peanut butter by the spoonful, whole blocks of cheese. He ordered extra sides of creamy alfredo sauce, sucking it off the fork with a frantic need that left him breathless. The weight didn’t distribute evenly. It pooled. It settled with a will of its own.
His jeans, already tight, began to strain across the hips and thighs, the denim digging in. His suit trousers were a lost cause; the seams puckered, the fabric pulling taut across a rear that was now undeniably, prominently fuller. When he walked, he felt a new, slight oscillation, a soft jiggle of tissue on the outer thighs that hadn’t been there before. Sitting became a process of feeling his own body spread, encountering new points of contact with the chair.
At work, he was drowning in plain sight.
He’d taken to wearing his suit jackets permanently buttoned, a pathetic armor over the changes beneath. His walk had changed, a subconscious shift in balance to accommodate the new weight on his lower half.
Barry caught him in the kitchenette, scooping a third heaping spoon of hazelnut spread directly from the jar into his mouth. Julian froze, the spoon halfway to his lips, guilt flaming in his cheeks.
“Hungry, big guy?” Barry leaned against the fridge, sipping a soda. His eyes, bright and inquisitive, dipped to Julian’s midsection, to the straining buttons of his dress shirt. “You’re looking… solid. Hitting the gym hard, huh? Those workouts paying off?”
The question was a landmine. Julian forced himself to chew, to swallow the thick, sweet paste. “Just… metabolism,” he mumbled, wiping his mouth. The lie was ashes.
“Must be.” Barry’s smile was a razor slit. “Hey, you got a sec? Wanted to run some numbers by you for the Clarkson account. You’re still the master, right?”
Julian nodded, shoving the jar back into the cupboard. He followed Barry, acutely aware of the gentle, persistent sway of his own hips as he walked, of the whisper of nylon between his thighs. He felt the padded bra’s strap dig into his shoulder, a constant, tactile reminder. The hypnotic videos played in his head, a soothing counterpoint to the panic. This form is correct. This is natural.
Later, locking his office door for the midday “conference call” that was really his first workout session, he caught his full profile in the glass wall. The tailored suit was now a candid indictment. The jacket cinched at a waist that was softer, while the trousers were embarrassingly tight across the seat and thighs, outlining the very curves the routines were designed to create.
He didn’t rage. He didn’t cry. He unbuttoned the jacket with numb fingers.
He was starting to understand the plan. It wasn’t just to humiliate him. It was to rebuild him, molecule by molecule, into something else entirely. And the truly frightening part, the thought that slithered through his mind as he changed into the workout clothes, was the dawning realization that a fraction of him was starting to not mind the softness, was starting to find a perverse comfort in the blurring lines.
The physical transformation was accelerating past the point of concealment. The pills were working. People were going to start seeing it. Really seeing it.
He popped the second blue capsule of the day, washing it down with water, and clicked ‘CONNECT’ on the grey website. The camera light glowed red. He began the first set of squats, the movement feeling more natural now, his body responding to the programming with a traitorous ease.