The time has come to face the consequences.

The first thing I noticed was the cold metal table pressing against my bare ass—Christ, even the fucking government couldn’t afford decent padding. The straps bit into my wrists, ankles, and, yeah, my dick too, because apparently someone thought I’d try to fuck the anesthesia machine. Fair.

Dr. Alan’s face hovered above me, his surgical mask doing fuck-all to hide the grin underneath. “Don’t worry,” he lied, adjusting the IV drip, “you’re gonna love being on the other side of the equation.” The last thing I heard before the drugs kicked in was Milan, some lab tech, muttering, “Hope they leave the bastard awake for the vaginal canal construction.” Real fucking comforting. .

You wake up to the scent of your own sweat—wrong, too sweet, floral—and the weight of tits pressing against your ribs. Your hands fly to your chest, fingers sinking into soft flesh, and you let out a scream that’s too high, too fucking wrong. The mirror across the room shows a stranger: full lips, wide hips, and a face that could make a priest sin. Your dick’s gone. In its place, something warm and slick pulses between your thighs. Fuck. .

At first, relief floods you—no more urges, no more blood on your hands, no more waking up hard and needing to ruin someone. You laugh, giddy, running manicured nails down your new curves. “Doc,” you gasp, “you beautiful bastard, you fixed me!” Alan’s grin splits his face like a wound. “Oh, sweetheart,” he chuckles, snapping latex gloves against his wrist, “we’re just getting started.” He grabs your arm—soft now, weak—and drags you toward a door marked Processing. .

The hallway stretches too long, fluorescent lights humming like a hive of pissed-off wasps. Your heels—fucking heels—click against linoleum, your hips swaying like they’ve done this forever. Milan leans against the wall ahead, tossing a dildo between his hands like a baton. “Hope she’s tight,” he leers, nodding to the door. “They don’t lubricate them beforehand.” You stumble, but Alan’s grip tightens—no escape. .

Inside, the room’s blinding white, sterile as a morgue. A dozen men sit chained to benches, their eyes burning holes through you. You recognize Junio first—the kid you raped behind a bar, his jaw still crooked from where you broke it. Then Gabriel, your old cellmate, wrists raw from struggling against the cuffs. His smile curls like smoke. “Look who’s the cunt now.” .

The guards shove you forward, and your heels skid on something wet—lube, blood, who fucking knows. Michael, the brother of that college girl you left bleeding in an alley, spits at your feet. “Gonna make you scream louder than she did.” Your new body betrays you with a shudder, thighs pressing together. Fuck. They didn’t just take your dick—they wired you to feel everything. .

The speakers crackle overhead, and the doors lock with a hydraulic hiss. Alan’s voice drips through the intercom, gleeful as a kid with a magnifying glass over an anthill. “Enjoy your stay, princess. They’ve been waiting.” The men rise in unison, chains clinking. Gabriel licks his lips. “Let’s see how many times she can come before she breaks.”