#dollification fantasy

Rumors had filled the gap instead.

Some said Sandra had burned out. Others claimed she had suffered some kind of breakdown. The strangest whispers insisted her art had changed into something obscene and unrecognizable. Liz had dismissed that immediately.

So Liz waited now in the familiar lobby, telling herself she was only curious.

Soft music played while the countdown ticked down. The song was new, credited to someone called doll_songstress. The name felt oddly close to Sandra’s new handle, doll_drawer. Liz found the similarity amusing at first, then strangely comforting. The melody itself was slow and gentle. She felt tension she hadn't noticed begin to slip from her shoulders as the final minutes passed.

When the stream finally began, Liz leaned forward instinctively.

Sandra sat in her usual chair.

For a brief second, that was the only thing Liz recognized.

The woman on the screen looked like a polished imitation. Blonde hair fell in deliberate ringlets instead of the messy waves Liz remembered. Her figure seemed exaggerated, her chest straining against a dress that looked more costume than clothing. Her makeup was too perfect, her smile too wide, her eyes too bright and somehow unfocused at the same time.

It should have felt wrong.

Liz knew it should have felt wrong.

Yet as she watched that shining, empty smile, a strange calm settled over her. A quiet certainty she could not explain told her that this was fine.

That this was how things were supposed to be.

Sandra began to speak, and her words washed away the last of Liz' unease. She sounded more relaxed than Liz remembered, her tone warm and soothing.

"It's been so long since we've talked like this," Sandra said. Her voice was low and rich. It seemed to flow through the room, enveloping everything it touched. Liz felt the warmth spread inside her. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting, my dear audience."

Sandra paused, letting the camera catch the deep valley of her cleavage, before leaning forward in her seat again.

Liz watched her hands, smooth and graceful, resting on her desk. Perfectly manicured nails gleamed in the soft light of her room.

She looked at the screen again.

Those eyes. That smile.

Something stirred in Liz' belly.

"But as you can see, I had some positive changes done," Sandra purred. She rose and moved closer to the camera. Her body was displayed more clearly. The swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips. Even through the screen, she radiated sensuality.

Liz shifted in her chair, pressing her legs together. The warmth inside her had grown into an insistent pressure. Her heartbeat seemed louder in her ears, her breathing shallow. She felt herself growing damp and tried not to squirm visibly as she watched.

"Let's start this stream, my dear audience," Sandra whispered.

The camera switched to the digital canvas.

"Today I will start with a piece to commemorate my new friends in the dollhouse. It's a small community of artists. And you have already listened to the work of one of them," she cooed. Sandra's hand moved gracefully to the tablet. Her stylus began to glide over the digital canvas. "Doll_songstress makes such wonderful music. Maybe we should listen to another track, while I sketch something inspired by it," she mused.

Her fingers tapped a command into the keyboard.

New music began to play. It was slow, sensual. It made Liz' skin prickle.

Liz watched Sandra's hand. The lines that appeared were loose and light at first, little more than suggestions. But as Sandra continued, they grew bolder. More confident. They formed a shape. A woman's body, tall and voluptuous, wearing an ensemble Liz would call daring.

Sandra's lips parted slightly, her breath coming quicker as she worked.

Liz tried to ignore how that made her feel, the way her own heart raced, the tightness in her chest, the heat that had settled between her thighs. She tried not to think about it at all. But she couldn't stop staring at those full red lips. She imagined kissing them. Tasting them.

It was impossible to look away.

And yet, Liz could see the drawing taking shape. She watched the curves of the body emerge. Long graceful legs. Shapely hips and rounded ass. Full breasts straining against the fabric of a tight top. The woman's face remained a mystery, but something about her posture, about the way Sandra drew her, spoke of sensuality and submission.

It wasn't just the lines on the screen that captivated her either. It was the way Sandra moved as she drew them. How she leaned into the strokes of her pen, how she bit her lip, how her eyelids fluttered closed for brief moments.

The music played on. It filled the room. It seemed to vibrate through every fiber of Liz' being. She felt the beat pulsing in time with her heartbeat, with her breaths, with the wet ache between her legs. It filled her head until she could hear nothing else. Until all other thoughts were drowned out by its rhythms.

Liz felt the room shift around her, growing hazy and indistinct, leaving only the screen, only Sandra, only that drawing.

She felt herself sinking deeper into her seat. She felt herself slipping away. Felt herself letting go. Letting the music fill her. She stared at the image Sandra created.

And she realized she was looking at herself.

Sandra's pen continued to glide over the canvas, shaping her form, giving her life. She saw the outline of her own body emerging. The shape of her breasts. The curve of her hips. The lines of her thighs.

They were far more exaggerated than she remembered.

Liz watched in wonder as the image took shape, becoming clearer and more detailed with each passing second. She could see the flush in her cheeks now. The softness of her lips. The way her hair fell around her face. The look of rapt attention on her features as she gazed back at Sandra, at the screen, at herself.

And then she heard Sandra's voice again. Low and rich, warm and soothing.

"To all the girls in the audience recognizing whom I'm drawing. Please open the URL that's on your mind and follow the presented instructions. To the rest of my wonderful audience. As you can see down in the corner is a new donation box. If you fill it up I will do whatever you want," she cooed with that bright, shining, empty smile.

Liz felt a strange tingle in her mind, as if something had touched her, just briefly, just for a moment. Her fingers entered an address she knew, but had never seen before. She felt her heartbeat quicken, the warmth inside her spreading. She was growing damp and tried not to squirm as she watched her screen.

She didn't understand what was happening.

And yet somehow it all seemed completely natural.

The browser opened a strange webpage that only asked for her personal information.

As if compelled, Liz started to fill in the blanks. From her name, over her three sizes down to her income.

Liz felt herself slipping deeper into her seat. She felt herself slipping away. She let the feeling of contentment and safety fill her.

It would all be fine.

The strange website sent her a notification that she behaved like a good doll should. And it made her pussy throb.

Her attention returned to the stream, where Sandra had taken the donations and was reading through a prompt.

"I'm glad that someone noticed how well I've changed and want to join in. This will be fun," Sandra mused as she started drawing again. Her lines were bolder, more confident, and she worked faster, as if eager to show off her new creation. It wasn't the most detailed sketch Liz had seen from her, but it had an undeniable sensuality. It looked so close to Liz, all bent over and filled with dildos.

Liz' eyes widened at the thought of her body being used by someone else, of having her holes filled up with thick, pulsating rods that would make her scream with pleasure as they pushed into her most intimate places.

"Doesn't it look wonderful," Sandra purred.

Liz nodded. Her trembling fingers tapped on the keyboard: 'good dolls need to be used.'

The same message appeared hundreds of times.

Sandra's eyes lingered on Liz' words. Her voice sounded far away and soft when she spoke. Her eyes empty, her mind lost.

"It really is what dolls are there for. We exist to be used. We are beautiful fuck dolls."

Sandra looked up at the camera, into Liz' eyes, as if she knew exactly where Liz was sitting, as if she could see through the screen, through space and time, directly into Liz' mind.

Liz' empty doll mind.

"Yes, I'm a good doll," Liz said to the screen.

A ring rang through the room. She had received an email.

With trembling fingers she clicked on her mail client, opening the mail.

A bright font greeted her.

'Welcome to the dollhouse, doll_escort_457.'

A link appeared, inviting Liz to the website.

She clicked, and her screen shifted to the homepage of an escort service called Doll House. The page looked clean and modern, with pictures of pretty women in provocative poses arranged across the front page.

They were all beautiful.

All empty dolls.

There were many profiles to browse.

One was her own.

And as she heard the moans and groans of Sandra in the background, Liz saw that she had been rented.

It locked into place with a hiss.

The world narrowed.

She tried not to flinch as the inner lining pressed against her scalp, warm and slick like skin that wasn’t hers. Electrodes clung to her temples. A sterile female voice began to speak in her ear, flat and toneless: "Welcome, Subject Seventy-Four. Calibration initializing. Please remain still."

She couldn’t have moved if she wanted to.

Then the lights came.

Not ordinary light — this was structured, weaponized. Pulses of brilliance strobed in fractal patterns, forcing her pupils to dilate, contract, adapt. Shapes bloomed across her vision, and with them came whispers — coded phrases in soft, slow repetition. Words she didn’t understand but couldn’t unhear — "be fuckable"

Her heartbeat slowed. Her thoughts didn’t race — they slipped. Slid down polished channels designed by someone who didn’t know her, and didn’t care.

Her name was Katya. She repeated it inwardly like a prayer. Her name was Katya. She had parents. A brother. A room with books. She had—

"Candidate Seventy-Four: Cognitive resistance detected. Adjusting tone."

The light changed.

Red, then blue, pulsing to the cadence of a wordless song.

Something else pressed in. Not sound, but the memory of sound, etched directly into her brain stem — a murmur that promised warmth, safety, peace — "be fuckable."

It would have felt so nice. So right. Katya’s eyelids drooped. Her muscles loosened in their restraints, yet she didn’t stop struggling. A protesting whine left her — and something hard slipped through her open lips.

She jerked, head thumping against the padded headrest.

A thick, smooth shape filled her mouth from cheek to cheek, flexing against her tongue.

The shock snapped Katya back to herself, her body thrashing, the hard plastic bucking and bobbing on her tongue. Saliva pooled around her gums.

"Candidate Seventy-Four: Response acknowledged. Engaging Protocol Seven." The light shifted. Green and violet now. Her pupils constricted, dilated, adapted. The lights pulsed, strobed, shifted.

They started to flicker in her vision, her head feeling strangely heavy from her tongue's full weight as her jaw slacked around the thick plastic shape.

Then, a deeper, richer color flooded in. She moaned, her eyes rolling up. And she felt, somewhere beyond the smolder of the light, beyond the soft, rhythmic whispers that had begun their inexorable erosion of her self, a tingling.

In her cunt — her pussy — her slit.

She groaned again, not realizing how her hips rolled forward to grind at nothing. Desperate her core sought delectable friction. Her body craved sensation, movement, pleasure.

"Be fuckable," the whispers echoed.

The lights pulsed brighter, her core burned, and her lips puckered out, taking the hard, thick shape in her mouth further inside her. Her vision was blurry. She couldn’t focus — except on that insistent whisper and the building warmth. "Be fuckable." Her inner thighs clenched and relaxed, as though squeezing to soothe a desperate, insatiable ache.

Her breathing deepened — slowed to a languid draw with every inhale.

Her name was Katya. She had parents. And shelves filled with toys — she shook her head — no that seemed wrong. But she had something. Some things she cared for.

Her name was Katya, she told the warmth in her hips. She couldn’t forget her name.

She was—

The lights.

"Candidate Seventy-Four." The clinical voice again, as if it could penetrate the miasma of her thoughts. "Mental resistance by Sixty-three percent. Increasing intensity."

Katya's name — her name—

The light's radiance increased, a brilliance that should've been painful, yet it caressed like sun-warmed honey, soaking through her eyelids. Shapes morphed — pulsating, hypnotic mandalas that lured, teased, and commanded. They didn’t ask for her name — only to "be fuckable."

She couldn’t think of a reason not to. Couldn’t form a sentence beyond an incoherent murmur.

Her eyes widened. It was so bright. She wanted it.

The heat in her hips grew — spread. And something hummed against her clit.

Her name was—

Her name was—

"Subject Seventy-Four: Mental resistance by forty-two percent. Engaging physical modification module." A sensation crept over her skin. Tactile, like fingertips. But these didn't simply stroke; they sculpted. "Candidate Seventy-Four will be reshaped according to specifications."

The light danced as her clothes were stripped off, the sound of tearing cloth a mere undertone to the music playing inside her, plucking her heart like strings.

Her breasts, which were already heavy, seemed to grow in the open air. Her nipples hardened. Her chest pushed higher, tighter, and rounder as the fingertips pinched and molded.

A soft whine escaped her, as much in protest as in pleasure.

This was — this was — this was —

Thoughts circled and broke apart.

Her breasts pushed higher, her chest grew tighter, and her nipples ached with an urgency that echoed the building sensation in her hips.

She moaned, an inarticulate sound that rose and fell with the cadence of the pulsing lights.

Her name was — "Be fuckable," the light commanded.

She groaned around the thick, smooth thing between her lips, tasting its hard shape in the same instant she became aware of another presence. Not the whispers or the fingertips, something new.

A gentle but unrelenting insistence spread her thighs — filled her from the front and from behind. A stretch in two parts — one deep within her wet core, and the other an unexpected but not entirely displeasing sensation at her rim.

"Be fuckable," the voice chanted.

She nodded — moaning as the shapes filled her and filled her and filled her.

"Subject Seventy-Four: Mental Resistance thirteen percent. Integrating new personality profile."

There was no resistance anymore.

And no objection from her — whoever she was.

Instead, her body arched, muscles pulling at the cuffs that now felt like warm hands on her wrists, on her ankles.

The words that trickled into her empty mind told her to "be fuckable." The fingers that played across her bare body — touching, molding, pinching, stretching — told her to be fuckable.

And she wanted to — needed to —

"be fuckable"

Yes.

The light's brilliance intensified, now a near-physical presence that pressed in on all sides. It was more than light; it was her self. The source of everything she knew and wanted to know.

And it wanted her to "be fuckable," and who was she to question?

Who was—

Doll Seventy-Four accepted her designation.

A groan left her as the pulses of light continued to beat on her exposed, flushed flesh. As her chest expanded, her breasts growing heavier and more sensitive under the fingers — so many fingers, caressing her nipples now — they hardened and she wanted to—

Wanted—

The lights told her. The light taught her.

Her body arched into the hands of the Conversion Frame — seeking, yearning for the bliss they promised.

"Be fuckable," the machine whispered, and she felt the thickening at the root of the hard plastic shape in her mouth.

Yes.

That was Doll Seventy-Four's whole purpose.

"Subject Seventy-Four: Mental and physical process finished. Releasing Doll Seventy-Four for inspection." The light retreated.

The fingers peeled off, leaving trails of sensation that rippled across Doll Seventy-Four's redefined shape. Her breasts settled into a proud arch above a nipped waist — and lower still, a sex that ached for fulfillment.

But that wasn't for her to decide. Not anymore. Now she existed for someone else's desire.

With a faint click, the smooth objects filling her mouth and both holes slid free, leaving her gasping — and empty. The Conversion Frame placed Doll Seventy-Four on her feet. And, even though her vision was blurry from the residual afterglow of the lights, her posture was erect, balanced on feet that curved in a permanent stance, as if on invisible heels. A mirror materialized in front of her.

"Be fuckable." That's what she had been told. She stared at her new reflection. Her lips looked thick and soft — her breasts were heavy — and her waist nipped tightly between wide hips.

Her lips curled into an inviting whisper. "I’m fuckable," her mind declared. Her inner thighs were slick and wet.

"Doll Seventy-Four. State your name and purpose."

"Doll Seventy-Four," she said slowly, her voice slightly slurred by lips still tingling from the oral treatment, "is made to be fuckable." The sound of the words felt as natural as the shape of her now lush and yielding breasts.

"Affirmative. Doll Seventy-Four will dress for the following product assessment." A wardrobe unit emerged from a nearby panel, sliding into view with a quiet hum. Inside hung an array of skimpy, suggestive outfits.

No one said where the woman came from. She just arrived one morning behind the counter, already in charge. Her voice was smooth, the kind that curved into your thoughts and stayed there long after she finished speaking.

"Chin up, Ramira. That’s better."

"Don’t wrinkle your forehead like that—it makes you look uncertain."

"You don’t need to think so much. You just need to listen."

Ramira laughed at first — awkwardly, unsure how serious she was meant to take it. But afterward, she found herself standing straighter, speaking less. She’d catch herself pausing mid-task, unable to remember what she’d been doing.

And then, that first time the thought came:

"My thoughts are just noise."

She blinked hard. No, that was ridiculous. Her thoughts were hers. That was her voice, wasn’t it?

But the words repeated, so soft she wasn’t sure if they were heard or remembered.

"My thoughts are just noise."

She shook it off. At least, she tried to. She played music on her phone, turned on the TV, started speaking to herself out loud at home — anything to drown it out. But it was always there, curled around the edges of her mind like smoke.

She began to forget small things. Why she walked into a room. Whether she had already locked the door. Her reflection started looking… duller. Like she was falling slightly out of sync with herself. Yet when she voiced her concern, the woman only smiled.

"You don’t have to carry so much weight up there, darling," she’d said, tapping Ramira’s temple with a manicured nail. "Just follow. Let it go."

Ramira wanted to resist. She did. She gritted her teeth when she started folding the same blouse three times. She blinked hard when she realized she’d been staring into a mirror for ten minutes, practicing a vacant smile.

She wasn’t empty.

She wasn’t.

But then the voice would come again, curling silkily through her thoughts.

"My thoughts are just noise."

It was harder to argue each time. Thinking was exhausting now. Heavy. Like wading through syrup. So why did she need them anyway?

"My thoughts are just noise," she agreed, smiling hazily as the last fog rolled across her mind. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant — more like a wave of cotton spreading from her ears down. The edges of things grew fuzzy and bright. Her reflection glowed prettily, eyes wide and glassy.

"My thoughts — are just noise," she repeated in a dreamy half-whisper.

"Brains are not for toys," the woman prompted, watching intently as she leaned on the front desk.

"Brains are — not for — toys," Ramira said without hesitation, her tongue slightly numb in her mouth. It felt thick and foreign there, and for the first time she became aware of the shape of her lips. How soft and full and ripe they looked.

"That’s it," the woman said, guiding her gently towards a stand. On it, a dress. Sheer pink — thin and gossamer, with a plunging, heart shaped neckline that would barely cover her nipples, ending high on the hip — shorter even than a miniskirt.

"Undress."

The word was so simple, so light, but Ramira felt a heat between her thighs. Without hesitation, without question, she pulled off her shirt and jeans. It felt right. The bra clasp — slippery between her fingers — took slightly longer to remove. But the woman waited patiently, almost with amusement. The panties slid off last, and then Ramira stood naked, the soft glow of her skin accentuated in the dim lighting. The sensation of air against her skin was a delicious shiver of anticipation.

"And now, slip into the dress. We want our new mannequin to look the part," the woman said with a hint of satisfaction, caressing the sheer fabric between two slender fingers.

For the first time in days, Ramira paused — uncertain. A doubt, or at least something like one, twitched at the edge of her mind. She felt a sudden chill, goosebumps rising along her bare arms and back. But —

"My thoughts are just noise. Brains are not for toys." She nodded obediently, letting the dress slip down over her. It was soft — so, so soft — like gossamer against her skin, tickling her curves and creases. She felt every fiber tantalizing the delicate flesh of her body, tracing every contour, cupping every sensitive and private zone. Her nipples stood erect against the thin material, dark areolae visible through the flimsy veil of pink.

"Beautiful." The woman sounded pleased. "You are a fine addition to the collection. Now hop —" she clapped "— no time to waste. Pose on one of the display stands near the entrance — you'll be a perfect sight to draw in new customers!" The command, while playful, held no doubt of its intention — it was to be followed.

This was the third month now, since she found these delightful tracks. Maybe it was the forth. Not that she cared to remember. Forgetting just felt too wonderful. The thought alone made her core pulse with satisfaction. A gasp slipped through her lips. Limbs numb and heavy did not move an inch.

Cassandra rarely remembered, what the delightful feminine voice taught her. Or how long she listened. If she thought about it, she barely had any memories of when she put the headset on. But as the question roused a slither of concern — two simple words blew it away. Deeper she fell. Down, down into the delicious pink fog. Down into oblivion.

Her eyes fluttered shut. Words raced through neurons. Phrases razed unnecessary pathways. More and more she forgot her old boring self. Giggles and triggers built highways inside her mind. They pathed an easy way deep into her subconscious. That sweet voice made her learn all about her deliciously fogged headspace, after all.

She moaned as a hot wave of ecstasy surged through her body. She sank deeper. And let go more. Every muscle relaxed a little further, letting the warm, tingling, and ever more sensual sensations take control. Her lips trembled softly. Saliva ran down her chin. And those wonderful soothing whispers crawled even further in.

Word after word tore down more of Cassandra. Brick for brick. Layer for layer. Everything crumbled. So much so, that even if her mind wandered towards thinking about herself — only a vague, blurry image would pop up in that lovely fog. Something she could barely recall.

Phrase after phrase built up more of Cassandra. Neuron for neuron. Thought for thought. A new woman was molded. So perfectly that every memory about her new perfect self felt sharp, fresh and utterly delicious.

A long drawn out sigh rolled down the woman's throat, before a sensual, almost ecstatic whimper took over. A wave of arousal washed through her body, flushing skin pink and moistening the satin thong between her thick cheeks.

And deeper and deeper, Cassandra sank into oblivion — drowned in sensual pink clouds.

It was hard to recall how long the voice kept her like that. In that wonderfully clouded mindscape that she could not recall a single thing. Not a moment from her life, who she was, how she had been before — nothing. Only this moment was real.

Time passed, the minutes slipping through her mind — when finally a word reached the empty canvas that was her being. "Open."

She could feel herself relax even more. It was like her body melted. It felt as if she oozed down the bed. Deeper than the sheets and mattress. She lost touch to anything.

Again, time became an illusion. She no longer existed. Her body did not feel like hers anymore, as she sunk into the delicious abyss.

Again, her mind was reshaped. She started to exist. Her body felt like hers once more, as she rose from the fog.

The soothing feminine voice, whispered its instructions into her subconscious — and the words became her thoughts. The instructions were her will. She knew so with every fibre of her body and being.

"Cassandra," whispered the voice, "wake."

The fog vanished, like the morning mist at sunrise. Thoughts rushed in. She smiled at the delightful memories, her new memories. Every inch of her body bubbled with energy. Life vibrated inside her core. And every breath was a moment of ecstasy. This, was bliss.

The headset was off her ears and back on the nightstand, when she sat up in the large, cozy and comfortable bed. A pleasant aroma filled her nose, sweet and heavy with a hint of musk. She drank in the smell of the air deep into her lungs and a whimper dripped from her parted lips. Her skin tingled with need. Her clit pulsed with desire.

Cassandra had to get ready.

Slowly she moved to the edge of the mattress, swung her legs out from under the duvet, and planted her feet onto the cold floor. A shiver ran down her spine. Nipples hardened, even more, in response.

She took in the view. Across from her stood a large closet with mirrors covering its doors. In the centre stood an old, carved vanity table with three mirrors and a plush velvet chair. She took in the sight of herself. Her perky supple breasts. Those firm nipples. Long legs, and just the perfect thickness of thighs and hips. Dull blue eyes devoured her form. Rosy lips curled in satisfaction.

She stood up. Each move meticulously designed to show off. The way her buttocks bounced and rolled. The sway in her hips and shoulders. Her whole existence was designed with the greatest care. To entice every learing gaze, and rouse the deepest desire.

That thought alone send her core spinning and she gasped softly. Fingers brushed down her toned body, across her belly before sinking between the her full thighs — a breath stuck in her throat and her lips formed a silent 'o'.

But no — it was not time to indulge in her lovely thoughts. Cassandra knew so. She needed to get ready. Like a puppet on strings she strode forward.

Her slender hand grabbed a pair of sheer stockings. A chill of anticipation raced through her. They slid up her legs effortlessly. One leg after the other was clad. Then, came a delicious garter belt. It sent the most wonderful shivers across her skin, and goosebumps rising in its wake — hugged her hips just perfectly.

Next, came her panties, a little bit of lace and nothing more. The fabric rode in-between her buttocks, bit into her already dripping cunt with the softest touch.

Then came a tight black skirt. A wonderful contrast to her pale, flawless skin. Like liquid, it slipped across her frame. Every brush of the fabric was an instant delight. And when it snapped into place, just below her butt — she could not resist but look at herself again.

The mirror revealed her perky breasts. The skirt rode her ass and the garter hugged her waist — all like an invitation to take and use her.

Her chest rose with another, deep breath and she exhaled slowly through her lips. Pleasure burned inside her veins. She felt herself clench in the most delightful manner.

For a moment Cassandra stood there, staring at herself. Her tongue flicked across her full, red lips. Teeth sank softly into her lower lip. A shiver danced through her limbs. Her knees were trembling. A rush of satisfaction sent her reeling, as she held herself back from touching her delicious core.

She could not. It was not time. The command to get ready, still rang fresh in her mind. There was so much more, she had to do. Cassandra had to control herself.

So she went on, one piece at a time — the ritual took time. The silky, white blouse flowed down her body like a gentle river. Every button of which strained to keep her chest in check. A comforting collar closed softly around her throat, biting her skin with just enough of pressure to keep it always in mind. Heels that made her legs stretch for miles and gave them even more sway. She admired her reflection.

Her long blonde hair was pinned into a high and bouncy ponytail, a style she had perfected over many days of practice and her rosy cheeks highlighted her features.

Now it was time for the finishing touch. The last piece to her look — her lipstick.

It slipped onto her lips effortlessly. Cherry red coated the plump flesh and shined in its wetness.

Cassandra admired herself in the mirror. Every aspect of herself, was perfectly tuned to rouse lust and desire in anyone. No gaze could ever see her and not linger, or look upon her and be captivated. No woman and no man could see her without wanting, aching for her. This was her sole purpose, why she was changed. Why she had listened. Why she had sunk deeper, and drowned herself.

A deep sigh rolled from her chest, as she felt her skin tingle and prickle at that mere thought. She was ready. Cassandra knew that, she had to get going. Even when a part of her ached to sink into bed, or touch herself in the most sensual of ways. Aching and trembling from sheer arousal. Yet, her clit throbbed beneath her tiny lace thong with unsatisfied desire — and she would not come. She was a puppet after all and had no free will.

So she let the imaginary strings pull. And she left the bedroom, hips swinging, heels clicking. Each move was perfectly calculated to entice all those who would see.

***

Cassandra sat in a waiting room. Her back arched just slightly. Chest pushed out, hands placed on the armrests in the most sensual manner that would highlight her breasts in the white blouse. The thin, translucent material clung to every curve and dip.

Other women populated the room. Each dressed in a similar fashion. Each graced with the same blissful expression.

A receptionist dressed in a tantalizing parody of a nurse's uniform was the only exception. Her lips painted red. Her chest nearly popping out from a far too tight bra and the cleavage exposed by the cut dress was downright scandalous. Her skirt was so short, the curve of her ass showed with every step, when she led another one of the puppets away to whatever was planned next. The woman was obviously the epitome of the change. Her voice so delightfully monotone, her movements always picture perfect.

Time passed and one by one, more puppets were led away from this place and replaced with new ones.

And finally, a honeyed, "Cassandra?" broke the near silence. The words dripped from those sultry red lips and rolled down Cassandra's spine like sweet wine. A rush of goosebumps traveled across her skin and made her squirm. Her eyes locked on the generous cleavage of the receptionist. A tattoo glistened under the light, the uniform barely covered anything — a shining red heart surrounded by a barcode. Another shudder ran through Cassandra.

She could not remember, if it was a deliberate design, or the fabric had shifted when the nurse leaned forward, but Cassandra did know the tattoo had a twin between her thighs. That thought sent another jolt of electricity down to her core. Her panties had grown quite damp. With just the thought of it, her inner muscles clenched around an emptiness.

"Please, follow," the nurse instructed. Cassandra was on her heels the instant the words were out. They passed through an airlocked door.

The room, they arrived at was bare. Pure white floors and walls surrounded them, with only the barest furniture in the middle. It consisted of what looked like an examination chair from a dentist, with some minor adjustments. Mainly, that the leg part seemed more like the one of a gynecological examination table, complete with stirrups and a broad metal surface to support the legs.

As Cassandra followed the nurse, she could feel the heat of anticipation rising within her, her skin tingling with excitement.

"Strip," came the nurse's monotone voice from behind and a shiver raced along her spine. Immediately Cassandra unbuttoned the white blouse, letting it slide off her shoulders. The air caressed her breasts, perky nipples standing firm in the cool air. It was an invitation and command. She felt her fingers already itching to reach between her legs and let that delicious bliss consume her. A smile spread her red lips as her mind and thoughts swirled. Only the command kept her hands away.

The skirt was next. It slid along the smooth, sheer, silk stockings and down to the floor, leaving her in only the tiniest lace thong — soaked with juices —, a garter and her high heels.

She shuddered as she felt those hungry, needy eyes on her body. They roamed her breasts, the nipples and wandered further down — stopping only, when they hit the drenched fabric clinging to her puffed, hungry, wanting lips. Cassandra felt herself glistening wet. It dripped from between her lips. Without hesitation she removed the offending fabric. And let her arousal show, let her desires show.

A gentle, delicate, "Please, take your place on the examination table, dear" ordered Cassandra to the chair and she obeyed. Soft leather cradled her ass. The back of the seat was leaning ever so slightly backwards. The nurse fixated Cassandra with metal clamps.

A pleasant haze fell over Cassandra's mind. Her hands placed just so. The legs parted. Metal kept her from moving even an inch. Cassandra was unable to do more than squirm helplessly. Her muscles twitched and pulsed with pleasure as the anticipation of the next part made her heart race.

"Please confirm. Your last visit was two months ago," said the nurse and a monitor, mounted above the headrest of the examination chair, came to life. It displayed an image of her. An ID picture. It was not what it should show, was it? The woman in the picture looked utterly boring.

A buzz-cut hair-style, a face entirely bereft of make-up and the woman wore the most drab clothing she'd seen. Cassandra felt revolted. There had to have been a mistake. The memory of herself was that of a person so utterly different, compared to her, that it couldn't possibly be true.

However, even before the thought was halfway formed, a new set of instructions drowned any sort of coherent thinking. It rushed in with a tsunami of pink clouds and Cassandra drowned.

"Yes," was the only answer possible. Her mind foggy. The word barely audible and dripping from her cherry red lips like honey from a spoon. A single strand of drool ran from the edge of her lips down her chin, then dropped to her heaving bosom.

She didn't understand, she didn't need to, she didn't care to.

"Very good. Please confirm. Over these two months you listened to the assigned tracks, until all your free time had been replaced by listening," the voice of the nurse continued. Her words seemed to flow through the air, into Cassandra, as they became her thoughts. The fog, that was so deliciously pink and soft, returned once again to wrap her entire existence in nothingness.

"Yes," it escaped Cassandra on another drawn breath, barely able to keep herself together enough to even utter the word. Her mouth agape. The saliva had pooled in the corners and was dripping, staining her chest.

"Very good," praised the nurse and Cassandra felt something deep inside her core clench with need at the sound of the words.

"Please, state your purpose," the voice sounded more distant than before, as the fog had become thicker inside her head. She sank deeper, her body melting in the grasp of her chair, her arms and legs numb, her very existence dripping away through every neuron in her brain — and then her purpose, her sole purpose came to the surface. The only thought that she was designed, shaped and built for, bubbled inside the void that had been Cassandra's mind.

She felt herself speak the words. They rushed from her throat and out her lips. And yet, nothing of it registered in her conscious thoughts.

"A whore, a slut, a toy, a fuck-hole, a sex-doll, a bitch, a cunt, an object," she heard her voice. The tone barely that of the person she had been before, her tongue so sluggish and her mouth heavy, "To be used like a doll, to be taken like a fucktoy." A moan dripped from her parted lips and rolled through the room.

"Very good," the honeyed voice replied. It was like an electric jolt running straight down Cassandra's spine and into the very depths of her core, the fog so pink, sweet, delicious. "Please answer. Red or black?" were the next words and Cassandra trembled under the weight of the pink delicious clouds, the voice sending her deeper into it. She squirmed, she needed to cum. The desire raged in her body, even though she had been robbed of all senses.

"Red," she whispered.

And the world shifted.

Reality re-arranged.

Something deep inside her brain popped like a bubble.

In one instance, Cassandra could see the white, bright lights above her and in the next her vision blurred. Something stung between her thighs and every coherent thought vanished into that fog. She could feel cold, blunt metal parting her nether lips, parting the flesh like a juicy fruit. A needle worked on her left breast, another on her right thigh. Electricity made the world blur for an instant. Her body ached. It throbbed, and she trembled. And then her vision was focused again.

A shudder raced down her spine and Cassandra looked up, blinking tears from the corners of her eyes.

The tattoo burned in her vision. The shiny, red heart was framed with the edges of a barcode, and the nurse stared right back into her eyes.

"Please confirm. You have chosen the Red path," she asked in her monotone, seductive voice, and Cassandra felt her head nod without her input.

"Yes." It took all of her to even utter the words.

The heat within her was raging, boiling in her veins, pulsating inside every fiber of her body, her pussy so hot and dripping. Her cunt clenched with such hunger.

"Very good. Cassandra has been registered in the red heart category. She will be available for appropriate clients. Once freed you will stand up and dress again." And so she did. Once the metal released her she stood up, her body trembling. Meticulous she clothed herself — proudly showing off the tattoo on the breast and hinting at the tattoo between her thighs. Her glistening arousal, so intense and potent, still visible to anyone looking, she was dressed to kill.

"Now, the last question. After everything of Cassandra has been replaced with a new personality. Is Cassandra still Cassandra," asked the nurse in a voice of such sweetness Cassandra could only tremble.

The words raced through neurons, and synapses and she felt them burn and sizzle and pop and change, her entire existence wrapped into pink, fluffy, delicious clouds of nothing. Deeper and deeper she sunk into the ocean of bliss.

"Cassandra doesn't know. Cassandra doesn't need to know," she answered.

"Very well."

And that was that.

The nurse brought Cassandra to another room where a group of other women stood at attention — each marked by the same red heart. They waited in silence until a customer came and picked the first woman to go home with him.

Cassandra was nearly delirious by the time a customer took notice of her, and led her by the arm out of the room.