Chapter 7: Private Tutoring
Barry locked the door of the executive washroom behind him, the magnetic seal clicking with a satisfying finality. He leaned back against the cool wood, the afterglow of power still buzzing in his veins, hotter than any sexual release. Julian Vance. On his knees. For him. The image was a perfect, polished gem he could turn over and over in his mind.
It wasn’t just the act. It was the sheer, unbelievable why. Something had broken Julian. Something big. And Barry had been the one to walk through the crack. That “I’m a woman” line had been pure, desperate bullshit, but the desperation was the key. Julian was compromised. Vulnerable. And Barry owned a piece of it.
He didn’t go back to his cubicle. He went to the break room, poured a coffee he didn’t want, and watched. He watched Julian return to his office, movements stiff, face a careful mask. He watched the subtle, seismic shift in the office around him. The glances. The hushed conversations that stopped when Julian walked by. Julian was no longer just the top dog; he was the wounded alpha, and the pack was circling, confused and wary.
Barry started paying attention. Real attention.
Before, Julian’s success had been a hateful, glowing monolith. Barry had only seen the results—the closed deals, the bonus checks, the respect. Now, he studied the machinery. He “bumped into” Julian more often. He’d linger by his door, asking inane questions about account management, his eyes cataloging everything.
He saw how Julian listened. Not just hearing, but with his whole body leaned in, his famous smile making the client feel like the only person in the world. Barry practiced that lean in the mirror that night. It felt awkward.
He heard Julian’s phrasing. He never said “Our software is fast.” He said, “You’ll reclaim an average of eleven person-hours a week, which, at your payroll, translates to roughly…” He’d tap his tablet, pulling up a figure that was always startlingly precise. “$4,200 weekly. That’s not an expense, Mike, that’s a rebate.” Barry started doing the math beforehand, scribbling notes on a legal pad, finding those concrete numbers.
He noticed Julian’s pauses. He’d ask a question, then shut up. He’d let the silence stretch, comfortable in it, until the client felt compelled to fill it, often revealing their real budget or their actual hesitation. Barry tried it on a call with a stubborn lead from a mid-tier logistics firm. The silence felt like a gaping void, and he almost cracked. But then the lead, a woman named Diane, sighed and said, “Look, the board’s main worry is the implementation downtime.” Barry had his in. He wouldn’t have gotten that without the silence.
He began mining Julian for more. It was easy. Julian, isolated and paranoid, seemed almost grateful for the attention, for Barry’s feigned, slimy solidarity. “Rough day, J?” Barry would ask, sliding into the chair opposite his desk. Julian would offer some non-answer, but his body would relax a fraction. Barry would steer the conversation to work, to a client. “God, how did you even get a foot in the door at Vortex Dynamics? They’re like Fort Knox.”
And Julian, tired, needing to talk shop with someone—anyone—who wasn’t looking at his chest, would explain. “It’s all about the adjacencies. Their CRM is a legacy Pinnacle system, right? So I led with our Pinnacle integration bridge, didn’t even mention the main package for the first two calls…”
Barry would nod, absorbing it like a sponge. Adjacencies. Integration bridge. Lead with the pain point, not the product.
He started applying it. His first win was small—a maintenance contract renewal he’d been about to lose. He used Julian’s silence trick, followed by the precise math. “Not renewing means your team manually handling the security patches, Karen. That’s 16 hours of overtime per quarter, at least. You’re looking at paying more to have less protection.” She renewed.
The commission hit his account. It felt different. It wasn’t luck. It was procedure.
The packages started arriving for Julian. Barry watched them come, the plain brown boxes that made Julian’s shoulders tense. He saw the physical changes in real time. The softening of the jaw. The slight, then not-so-slight, swell of his chest under his impeccably tailored shirts. The day Julian came in with those absurdly plump lips, Barry almost laughed out loud. It was so blatant, so grotesque. And yet, it was also fascinating. Julian was being reshaped, like clay, and Barry had a front-row seat.
He used it. He’d corner Julian, always in that fucking gender-neutral washroom, a space that had become their own twisted confessional. He’d prod, just to watch him flinch. To reinforce the power dynamic. “You’re lookin’ the part,” he’d whisper, watching the shame flood Julian’s eyes. Each time, Julian would drop to his knees. Each time, Barry felt the balance of the world tilt a little more in his direction. He wasn’t just learning Julian’s sales techniques; he was mastering Julian. The ultimate account.
Barry’s numbers began to climb. Not in leaps, but in a steady, undeniable ascent. He closed the Vortex Dynamics deal using the adjacency strategy. He landed a new client, a biotech startup, by mirroring Julian’s “listen-first” method, his once-desperate energy refined into a focused calm. He stopped dressing like he’d slept in his clothes. He bought two decent suits. He got a haircut.
The office noticed. His uncle, the owner, clapped him on the shoulder after the Vortex deal. “There’s my nephew! Knew you had it in you!” Sheila from Accounting stopped sighing when he submitted his expense reports. Leo Brennan, the sales director, started including him in strategy emails.
The day Julian—Julia—sent the email announcing her new address and walked out in that skirt, Barry felt a surge of victory so intense it was almost sexual. The transformation was public. Complete. His private project was now an office-wide reality. And he, Barry Nutley, was her sole confidant, the only one who “understood.”
He leaned in his office doorway that morning, taking in the full picture: the drape of the wool, the shape of the hips, the scared defiance in her eyes. “It suits you,” he’d said. And it did. It suited his purposes perfectly.
Now, months after that first encounter in the washroom, Barry sat in his own office. It wasn’t the corner office, not yet, but it had a glass wall and a decent view. His name was on the Top Performers chart, glowing in gold just below Julian’s—no, Julia’s—which was still, stubbornly, at the top. But the gap was narrowing.
On his desk, the framed photo of him shaking his uncle’s hand grinned back at him, the desperation finally erased from his smile. He wasn’t the perpetual underperformer anymore. He was a contender. And he hadn’t done it by being better than Julian. He’d done it by learning from him, by consuming him piece by piece while he was vulnerable, while he was being unmade.
His phone buzzed. A calendar alert: 1:1 with J. Vance.
A slow smile spread across Barry’s face. He opened his bottom drawer and pulled out a small, velvet box. Inside, nestled on a bed of white silk, was a delicate silver necklace with a single, teardrop-shaped pendant. It was inexpensive but tasteful. A “congratulations on your transition” gift. A leash.
He snapped the box shut and dropped it into his jacket pocket. He stood, adjusted his tie—a Julian Vance signature move—and smoothed down his lapels. He looked at the chart on the wall, at his name shining brightly.
He had learned everything from Julian. How to listen. How to calculate. How to close.
Now, it was time to close the final deal.
------
Back to the present. Its been a week since Julia was made to make that appointment, and since she started taking those stronger pills. The ones with that weight gain added to it. The one specifically storing fat, in the ass, hips, and thighs.
Giving the user a Kardashian sized rear end.
The hormones and weight gain drugs were on overtime now. Julia’s chest now filled the C-cup bras easily, spilling over the lace in soft, heavy curves that strained the seams of her blouses. Her ass was filled out beautifully, a pronounced, rounded shelf that altered her posture and the way her skirts hung, pulling taut across the swell. The changes were no longer subtle; they were a definitive, physical fact that announced itself with every step, every shift in her chair, a relentless biological march.
Twenty-four hours before Julia went in for the pre consultation, like that email demanded, she stood naked before her bedroom’s full-length mirror. The reflection was a stranger, a lushly curved woman with narrow shoulders, a cinched waist from the enforced workouts, and hips that flared dramatically. She traced a hand over the smooth, blank space between her legs, a terrain now utterly alien. The programming whispered this was correct, beautiful even. A deep, silent part of her wept.
She slept fitfully, dreams invaded by scalpels and the blackmailer’s laughing text. When she woke, the morning light felt accusing. She dressed mechanically: the supportive, full-coverage bra, a soft blouse, tailored slacks that were tight across the new fullness of her rear. She made coffee, the ritual silent and grim. Just as she was about to leave, her laptop chimed with a new email to the julia.vance account.
Her stomach dropped. She knew it was from that blackmailer.
She opened it. The text was raw, blocky, and cruel. There were 4 tasks this time.
Task 1 was a cold reinforcement of the clinic’s purpose. DURING THE CONSULTATION AT THE CLINIC, YOU MUST GET PROOF OF THE VAGINOPLASTY AND WOMB TRANSPLANTATION PROCEDURES, ALONG WITH THE PREVIOUSLY SET UP LIPOSUCTION, FACIAL FEMINIZATION, AND ADAM'S APPLE SHAVING. AND SEND IT TO THIS EMAIL. It was a receipt for her own annihilation.
Task 2 made her blood run cold. I SEE THAT YOU'RE GETTING ALONG WITH THAT MALE YOU'VE BEEN SUCKING OFF. YOU DO KNOW I NEVER SAID IT HAD TO BE THE SAME GUY. BUT LETS USE THIS. I WANT YOU TO GET CLOSER TO HIM. BUILD A..... RELATIONSHIP. HAHAHAHA
The laughter echoed in the sterile text. It saw everything. It knew about Barry. It was now scripting their interactions, turning Barry’s slimy opportunism into a mandated plotline.
Task 3 was almost mundane by comparison. I WANT TO SEE YOU BUY YOUR OWN CLOTHING. AFTER THE CONSULTATION, TAKE YOUR FRIEND... OR MAYBE BOYFRIEND CLOTHES SHOPPING. The pause before ‘boyfriend’ was its own kind of violence. It was a directive to perform a sick, normalcy.
Task 4 was the kicker. LASTLY. I WANT TO SEE YOU TWO KISS. SHOW VIDEO EVIDENCE, AND SEND TO THIS EMAIL.
Julia stared at the screen until the words blurred. A kiss. Not forced in a locked bathroom, but a constructed, recorded moment of fake affection. It felt more violating than anything before. It demanded a complicity of the heart, not just the body. She closed the laptop. The coffee tasted like ash.
At the office, her new shape drew glances she felt like physical touches. Barry was waiting by her door, leaning against the frame with a proprietary ease that made her skin crawl. He was dressed sharper today, a new tie, his hair product somehow more subtle, more like Julian’s used to be. His eyes traveled over her, lingering.
“Ready for the big day tomorrow?” he asked, his voice low.
“As I’ll ever be,” Julia said, trying to edge past him into her office.
He didn’t move. “You know,” he said, leaning in, “you should celebrate after. You’ve been through a lot. I was thinking, after your appointment, we could grab a bite. Maybe do some shopping.” His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp, watching her reaction.
The coincidence was too perfect. It lined up with Task 3. A chill spider-walked down her spine. Was he in on it? Or was the blackmailer just that good at predicting them? She forced a smile, the new fullness of her lips making it feel different. “Shopping?”
“Sure,” Barry said, shrugging. “You’re gonna need a new wardrobe, right? Post… everything. Might as well start.” He said it like a friend offering support. It felt like a snare tightening. “My treat. Consider it a… congratulations gift.”
He was so close she could smell his cologne. The programming in her head, the whisper that had been drilling obedience and submission and purpose for months, stirred. It merged with the email’s command. Build a relationship. It felt less like an order and more like an inevitable next step on a greased slide.
“Okay,” she heard herself say. The word felt pulled from her. “That sounds… nice.”
Barry’s smile widened, genuine and triumphant. “Great. It’s a date.” He emphasized the last word, letting it hang between them. He finally stepped aside, letting her pass. “Good luck tomorrow. Knock ‘em dead.”
She closed her office door and leaned against it, her heart pounding. The consultation tomorrow was a clinical prelude to carving her into a new shape. The shopping with Barry after was a social performance of that new shape. And the kiss… that was the final seal, a transaction of fabricated intimacy to be captured and sent to her tormentor.
She looked at the chart on her wall, the sales figures where her name still clung to the top. That person, that life, felt like a story she’d read about someone else. The reflection in her darkened monitor showed the outline of her new body, softened and curved under the fabric. She was becoming exactly what was demanded of her, piece by piece, pill by pill, task by task.
Tomorrow, she would walk into The Chrysalis Institute and formally request her own dismantling. She would get proof of it. Then she would go shopping with the man who had become her de facto keeper, to buy clothes for the body they were both helping to create.
She opened her desk drawer and took out the small, wireless earbuds she’d bought. She paired them to her phone, opened the video library, and selected file #150. The hypnotic swirl began on the screen, the voiceless whisper preparing to begin. She slipped the buds into her ears, the programming’s drone a familiar, numbing static.
She had eight hours until the end of the workday. The email said listen for eight hours a day. She would start now. She would let it wash over her, fill the cracks, smooth out the last sharp edges of Julian Vance. Outside her door, the office hummed with oblivious life. Inside, Julia closed her eyes, and gave in.
The earbuds hissed static, then the whispered voice began its work. It spoke of acceptance, of softness, of purpose. Julia sat perfectly still at her desk, her eyes closed, and let the words paint over the panic. They coated the raw fear of tomorrow’s consultation with a slick sheen of inevitability. By the time the eight-hour loop ended, the sharp edges of her dread had blurred into a heavy, resigned fog. She drove home on autopilot, ate a tasteless meal, and slept a dreamless sleep under the continued, subliminal murmur of the same file playing through the night.
The following morning, she didn't go to work.
She drove instead to a discreet, low-rise building of tinted glass and brushed steel: The Chrysalis Institute. The air inside smelled of green tea and antiseptic. A consultant named Marissa, all soft smiles and efficient movements, led her to a serene consultation room. The mood board on the wall showed serene, anonymous faces in ‘before and after’ grids. They felt like stock photos of happiness.
“We’re so excited for you, Julia,” Marissa said, spreading documents across a slate table. “All your initial selections are confirmed and pre-paid. The benefactor has been incredibly thorough.”
Benefactor. The word tasted like poison. Julia nodded, her hands clasped in her lap to hide their tremor.
The consultation moved with a slow, clinical gravity. A surgeon named Dr. Evans joined them, his voice calm and dispassionate as he detailed the procedures she had “selected.” He pulled up 3D models on a large screen. Liposuction for final contouring. The rendering of her face, subtly altered—brow softened, jawline tapered, Adam’s apple reduced. It was like watching a stranger’s medical documentary.
Her stomach churned, a sick roll of vertigo. “And… the vaginoplasty?” she asked, her voice hardly more than a breath.
“A full-depth penile inversion vaginoplasty, yes,” Dr. Evans said, clicking to a new schematic. It was a cross-section, disturbingly matter-of-fact. “Recovery is six to eight weeks. Dilation will be a permanent part of your routine to maintain depth.”
Julia’s skin felt too tight, too cold. The programming in her head whispered correct, natural, but her gut screamed. She took a shaky breath. “And the… the uterine implantation? The note said to ask about that.”
Dr. Evans paused. He exchanged a brief glance with Marissa. “That’s a highly experimental adjunct procedure,” he said, his tone shifting, becoming more cautious. “So far, there have been only two confirmed live cases globally. It’s exceedingly expensive.”
“But it works?” The question fell out of her, propelled by the blackmailer’s demand for proof.
“The implantation itself? Yes, it will one hundred percent take, barring extraordinary surgical complication,” Dr. Evans stated. “The donated uterus would be transplanted and linked to your vascular system. It would allow for pregnancy via implanted embryo.” He leaned forward slightly. “It would not, however, allow for ovulation. That part of the technology is banned in this state, unfortunately. The organ would be non-cyclic. You’d require hormone therapy to maintain it, and of course, an embryo would need to be implanted via IVF.”
He clicked to another image, a stark, skeletal diagram of a pelvis. “The more immediate challenge is spatial. The native male pelvis is too narrow. To accommodate the organ, we’d have to perform a procedure to widen the pelvic bone. It’s intensive. It extends recovery time significantly.”
Julia recoiled in her mind. The cold, technical description of carving her skeleton open to make room for a foreign, functionless organ unlocked a new tier of horror. It was a violation that went beyond skin and flesh, down to the very architecture of her body. Yet, the emailed command was a hook in her cheek, pulling her forward.
“I… I want it,” she heard herself say. The voice sounded distant, detached. “All of it. The facial work, the… the vaginoplasty, and the uterine implant.”
Marissa’s smile became beatific. “Wonderful. We’ll add it to your surgical plan.”
“The payment for these additions?” Julia asked, the practical part of her—the salesman—surfacing through the numbness.
“The original benefactor covered the baseline procedures,” Marissa clarified, tapping a line on the financial summary. “These new additions, given their experimental nature, would be your responsibility. We can arrange financing.”
Julia nodded dumbly. She would be paying. The realization was a strange, hollow gong. It created a perverse paper trail, a financial commitment that wove her deeper into the narrative of ‘Julia Vance,’ a woman willingly financing her own transition. It made the fiction airtight.
She left the clinic an hour later, a thick folio of pre-operative instructions under her arm. The sun outside was too bright. The weight of the decisions—no, the acquiescences—sat in her stomach like a lead ball. She drove back to the office on instinct, the car moving through the streets as if piloted by a ghost.
Barry was waiting in the lobby, leaning against the reception desk. He pushed off when he saw her, his eyes taking in her pale face, the folder clutched to her chest. “Hey,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “How’d it go?”
“It’s… a lot,” she managed, the truth compressing into a harmless understatement.
“I bet.” He gently pried the folio from her stiff fingers and handed it to the wide-eyed receptionist. “Hold this for Ms. Vance, please.” He turned back to Julia, offering his arm. “C’mon. You need a distraction. We’re going shopping.”
The mall was a cathedral of indifferent light and noise. Julia moved through it like a sleepwalker. Barry guided her from store to store with a proprietorial energy. In a boutique, he held up a blouse with a floral pattern. “This would look great on you,” he said, his tone light, casual.
“It’s very… feminine,” Julia replied, the word sticking in her throat.
“Yeah, that’s the point,” Barry laughed, nudging her. “Try it on.”
In the fitting room, she fumbled with her phone. She set it on the little bench, angled toward the mirror, and hit record. She changed into the blouse, watching the stranger in the glass button it up over the swell of the bra. She said nothing for the camera, just turned, showing the fit. It was a proof of life for her tormentor. She did this in every store, in every changing stall. A silent, digital check-in.
The last store was different. The sign above the door read La Perle. The window displays featured mannequins in lace and silk. It was a lingerie store.
Her steps faltered. “Barry, I don’t think…”
“It’s part of the new you, Jules,” he said, using the nickname for the first time. It felt like a claim. He held the door open, a challenge in his eyes. “Don’t be a prude.”
The air inside was perfumed, thick. Racks of delicate fabrics in blush and black and cream surrounded her. An older saleswoman glided over. “Can I help you find something, miss?” she asked, her gaze polite, professional.
Julia flushed hotly. The consultation details, the pelvic bone, the horrifying timeline of it all, collided with the intimate, everyday normalcy of buying underwear. She stammered, “I… I’m not sure. Something… comfortable?”
“For everyday, or something special?” the woman pressed, smiling.
Barry answered for her. “Let’s see something of both.” He plucked a lacy babydoll from a nearby rack, a sheer confection of peach silk. “This looks about your size.”
Mortification burned through the numbness. Julia took the hanger, her fingers numb. She selected a few practical items—a simple bralette, some boyshorts—to bury the babydoll beneath. The saleswoman pointed her to a large, curtained fitting room in the back.
Alone, she hung the garments on a hook. She placed her phone on the plush stool, ensuring the camera captured the mirror. She changed into the bralette first, the soft fabric cupping her, defining her. She avoided her own eyes in the mirror. She was reaching for the babydoll, her hands unsteady on the flimsy silk, when the curtain behind her rustled.
She froze. Barry slipped inside, the curtain falling closed behind him. The space was suddenly far too small, filled with the scent of his cologne and the delicate perfume of the store.
“Barry, you can’t—”
“Shhh.” He moved behind her, his reflection appearing over her shoulder in the mirror. He didn’t look at her face; his eyes traveled over the lace of the bralette, the curve of her waist exposed above her slacks. “I wanted to see.”
He didn’t touch her at first. He just looked, his breathing a quiet sound in the confined space. Then, slowly, he reached around her. His arms encircled her waist, pulling her back gently against him. It was a warm hug from behind, his chin resting near her shoulder.
“You look gorgeous, Julia,” he whispered into her ear, his voice thick.
She stared at their reflection—the terrified woman in lingerie, the fully dressed man holding her possessively. The camera was recording it all. Her mind was a static roar. The programming whispered this is attention, this is affection. The blackmailer’s command echoed: Build a relationship.
Barry’s right hand released her waist and dipped into his jacket pocket. When it emerged, it held a small velvet box. He opened it with one hand, revealing a delicate sterling silver necklace with a teardrop pendant. “I got you a coming-out gift,” he said, his tone softening into something that almost sounded genuine. “On top of the clothes.”
He lifted the necklace from its bed. The chain shimmered in the fitting room lights. He brought it around her neck, his fingers brushing her skin as he fastened the clasp at her nape. The cool silver settled against her collarbone. The pendant, a teardrop, rested just above the lace of the bralette.
“There,” he murmured, his hands resting on her shoulders. He met her eyes in the mirror. “Perfect.”
The gift, the intimacy of the gesture in this forbidden space, the recording light glowing on her phone—it all coalesced into a single, pressurized moment. Task Four floated in her mind, clear and absolute: I want to see you two kiss.
This was her chance. He was close, his face right beside hers in the reflection. He was expecting something. Approval. Gratitude. A performance.
Julia turned her head slightly, just an inch. She leaned back, ever so subtly, into his chest. The movement brought her cheek against his.
“Thank you, Barry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She let her eyes close, as if overwhelmed by the gesture.
Then, slowly, she turned fully within the circle of his arms.
She looked up at him, her new, fuller lips parted slightly. She saw the surprise in his eyes, then the quick, hot flare of triumph. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart through his shirt. Her other hand, dangling at her side, made a subtle, blind gesture towards the stool, ensuring the phone’s camera had a clear shot.
She leaned in.
Her mind partitioned itself, a cold, silent observer behind her eyes. She felt the soft brush of her lips against his. She felt his momentary stiffness, then his immediate, hungry response as he kissed her back, one hand tangling in the hair at the back of her head. The kiss deepened, his other arm tightening around her waist, crushing the lace of the bralette between them.
It lasted five seconds. Ten. It felt like an hour in that perfumed, mirrored box. When she finally pulled away, breathless, a string of saliva briefly connecting them before it broke, his eyes were dark with victory.
She offered a small, shaky smile, the teardrop pendant cold against her skin. “We… we should get back,” she breathed.
He nodded, his gaze dropping to her lips again. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. He released her, running a hand through his own hair. He gave her one last, long look, then slipped back out through the curtain.
Alone, Julia slumped against the wall. She picked up her phone with trembling fingers and stopped the recording. The file was saved. Proof. She dressed mechanically, the new necklace a constant, chilling weight against her sternum. She would email it tonight. She had built a relationship, just as commanded. She had gotten the kiss.
She gathered her things, her movements slow and heavy. The face that looked back from the mirror was flushed, her lips kissed-red, a silver teardrop gleaming at her throat. It was the face of someone who was following the script to its devastating, logical end. She pulled the curtain aside, stepping back into the bright, indifferent light of the mall. Barry was waiting, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. He took the lingerie from her hands and walked toward the register to pay.
Her phone, tucked in her purse, held the video. It held the confirmation of her consultations. It held her future, neatly packaged for a ghost in the machine. She followed Barry, the click of her heels on the polished floor echoing the final, ticking seconds of the person she used to be.