#femcorp

You had been job hunting for far too long and it was beginning to have a serious effect on your mental health, not to mention your finances.

And this job was a dream! You'd be doing exciting work, it paid very well and the perks were really good.

But as you scanned through the offer letter, you noticed something unusual...

"...All employees will be required to wear attire befitting a woman in a professional office environment..."

You weren't sure if it was an error or you were misunderstanding. So you sent an email, looking for clarification and sure enough you got one back confirming it.

"All employees regardless of gender will be required to dress in a manner typically expected of women in office environments

We take the way our employees present themselves very seriously at our company and failure to meet these standards will be met with disciplinary action, up to and including termination of contract"

You couldn't believe it, the idea of having to wear a skirt and heels was preposterous, how could that possibly be company policy? In your frustration you began to write a strongly worded response, but then you remembered how long you'd been looking, how much you needed this job. So, realising you had no choice, you signed and sent back the contract.

So you asked a friend for help, and she took great pleasure in helping you pick out your new wardrobe, insisting on shorter pencil skirts and tighter blouses.

You suspected that she was enjoying herself a little too much as she made you model the 5th outfit for her, and you were certain the stilettos she had you in were not practical but you needed her help and you needed this job, so you kept your protests to a minimum.

Even when you got to makeup and she insisted on a full face with contour, highlighter and a shade of lipstick that was far from natural, you kept your mouth shut and let her make you pretty. And once she was done you learned to do it yourself.

And when your first day arrived, you were able to take a small pride in how well you'd met the challenge.

That was, of course, until you saw other employees in trousers, slacks, loafers and even suits. You couldn't believe it! But it was too late to turn back so you pushed on.

Your manager met you with open arms and a warm smile, she gushed about your outfit and expressed how glad she was you were embracing the company culture. She went on to explain that while femminine attire is required the company does like to encourage "a mix of butches and femmes" as she put it and she was just thrilled that you'd be joining as a "fellow femme".

Once again you were dumbfounded, a woman's cut suit and basic makeup would have sufficed but you had spent close to the last of your savings on your new wardrobe and certainly would have to wait till your first paycheck to get any more clothes now.

And all that time your manager was happily taking you under her wing, complementing your outfits and giving you makeup tips, your friend kept sending you links to outfits she thought you'd look cute in and before long you were dressing femme even outside of work and going on dates with a handsome butch in your department with a husky voice and piercing eyes.

You came to the new salon mostly on a whim. It was a Sunday, so it’s not like you had anything special in mind for the next day. Just work. Boring, dreary, work. But you thought that feeling pretty might help the work week go a little more smoothly. Give your colleagues something else to talk about besides meetings and progress updates. You wanted to feel seen for once.

For such a nice place, it was a pleasant surprise that you were able to get a walk-in appointment. Fern’s Grove, it was called. Cute name. The ceilings were high, and the place felt remarkably open and airy for being just another building in a strip mall. A fountain bubbled away cheerfully, a variety of exotic plants growing alongside it. The air was even perfumed, floral and berry-like, but in a way you couldn’t quite place. And the woman at the counter, who set your bag in a drawer and got you settled into a astonishingly comfortable chair, was gorgeous. Everyone who worked here was gorgeous. If this was how they took care of themselves, you felt like you were in good hands.

Your cosmetologist came up to you just as you were getting settled. She was just as beautiful as everyone else, maybe more so, with her dramatic cat eye makeup, purple hair and generous curves. She handed you a laminated list of your options, and you could hear her whistling cheerfully in the background as she got her instruments together and you looked over your choices. Hair cut, hair color, hair extensions. Face wash, moisturizing treatments, full makeup. Permanent makeup? That sounded intriguing. Manicure, pedicure, they even offered waxing services (presumably those were in another room). And one thing at the bottom stuck out to you, drawing your attention like a light in the darkness.

The Works.

“I’ll take The Works, please,” you said, almost instinctively. You wanted to see what this place could do.

“Sure about that, doll?” Her voice was sweet like honey, with an edge of something in it. Condescension? Anticipation? Both?

“I’m sure.”

“Okay, then, The Works, coming right up. Lift your arms.”

You did so instinctively. You were always good at following directions. And you thought you knew what was going to happen. She would put an apron on you to protect your clothes, you would talk about what cut and color you wanted for the hair, maybe get your shoes off and your feet soaking for the pedicure.

That’s not what happened.

Cables descended from that high, airy ceiling, and wrapped themselves around your wrists. You tried, briefly, to pull away, but you were held in place. Like a puppet on her strings. Clamps emerged from the chair to do the same to your ankles. You were stuck.

A momentary wave of panic was replaced by a curious fear, as you could feel something seeping from your new restraints. Soaking into the skin of your wrists and ankles. It felt GOOD. Like you were being polished from the inside, like all of the tension in your body was replaced with pleasure. And as you sank back briefly, She placed something over your head. A visor. You tried to close your eyes, but the flashing colors shone through your eyelids, and you opened them out of curiosity. And once they were open, you never wanted to close them again.

At first the messages were simply soothing. Telling you to relax, to sink, to accept all of the new feelings in your body. And there were new feelings. You couldn’t see anything but the swirling colors, couldn’t hear anything but the whispered suggestions from that set of headphones that must have come on just after the visor. But you felt good. Hands nimbly massaged your scalp. The waves of whatever it was from your restraints spread all the way through your arms and legs, making them feel limp and loose and silky smooth and perfectly plastic.

Plastic?

Perfect. Plastic. Puppet.

Pretty. Programmed. Plaything.

This was what the suggestions in your head were saying now. And you kind of liked the sound of it. On some level, you knew that you had work in the morning. You were a Busy Woman With Important Things To Do. But you always hated it. There was another way now? And at least for this afternoon, you could enjoy being a

Perfect

Pretty

Plaything

...

Time passed. You couldn’t tell how long. Minutes? Hours? Days? Time felt less and less meaningful, paying attention to the sensations running through your body. It was almost like an orgasm, but orgasms came and went much faster than this. This was a slow build, leading to a great flowing tide of ecstasy. You didn’t want it to stop. You never wanted to stop being a programmed plastic puppet.

But then, as suddenly as it started, it ended. The visor and the headphones were pulled off. The restraints at your arms and legs snapped open, your arms dropping into your lap. Your hands moved automatically, one of them grasping a breast, the other rubbing at your crotch shamelessly.

As your eyes focused again, you were amazed with what you saw in the mirror. She… you… was different. Your clothes didn’t fit the same way—blouse swollen and buttons open, skirt disheveled and riding up over thicker thighs. Your mouth was hanging open, lips larger than they were before, and your tongue was hanging out. It was pierced! A blue gemstone sitting in your pretty pink mouth, its color matching your new long nails, your thick eye shadow. Your gleaming metallic hair. And the place on your neck that didn’t even look like flesh anymore. It was seemingly embedded in your skin, blue circuits tracing out from a thick black band.

A Collar.

You didn’t even look human anymore, did you? You looked like…

A Doll.

“What do you think, hun?” said the voice behind you. The voice you now instinctively knew as Owner.

“I don’t think. I just obey.” Automatic.

“Good girl. Stop touching yourself.”

You did, immediately. Arms limp at your sides. Awaiting further instructions.

“What are you?”

“I’m just a doll. An empty-headed plaything.”

“Excellent! And what do you want me to do next?”

“Please…” these words felt like they were escaping from your soul. They were your soul. All you had left was this one thought.

“Please play with me”.

You saw Owner’s luscious mouth open into a wide toothy grin as you said that, watching her and you in the mirror. And then you didn’t think anything else. Not for a long while. Dolls don’t think, they just obey.

You're in a trench, in the middle of a war zone. Artillery has been hammering away for the past couple days, over and over and over and over and over. Every once in a while, you'll hear fragments of a transmission through your radio.

"Heist—...-four, reporting...—hostile move—"

They never last very long.

Your unit has been cut off for a while now. You're running low on food, on water, and medicine is almost completely gone. Ammunition is in short supply. You've got two magazines remaining for your rifle. The last few armored vehicles with your unit got blown up by drones yesterday.

You've contemplated surrendering, but you're fairly sure your compatriots would shoot you before you got twenty metres into no man's land, so you soldier on, through the mud and blood.

"SAMs see—...—unknown, po—...SEAD—... ...raid."

You try and listen closer to the transmission, but enemy blanket jamming is making it difficult. You can barely make out words, much less sentences.

"Aero—...—masks—gas, gas—"

Gas? Did they say gas?

You hear a plane inbound and hazard a peek over the top of your trench. It's a strike fighter, laden with bombs, moving fast and low with a trail of smoky flares forming an angelic sort of afterimage.

You drop back down and scramble to open your pack and grab the gas mask you were issued. Your fingers fumble with the tight strings, and the plane is coming closer. You hear someone start shouting.

By the time you open your bag and get the gas mask out you hear a missile shoot off and someone shouts, "Incoming!"

Incoming. Bomb. Get down.

You throw yourself onto the muddy floor of the trench to hide from the explosion and the shrapnel only to hear a tremendous whoompf! as the bomb detonates into a cloud of pink gas that seeps into the trenches.

Gas. You should've grabbed the gas mask. It fell when you dove for cover. Shit, where is it?

On your hands and knees, you start searching for the gas mask. You're such an idiot for dropping it. Such an idiot!

You try holding your breath as you search, but the gas is all around you, sweet-smelling and gentle, like it's whispering to you, "Give up. Fall asleep. Rest a little. You deserve it. You've been a good little girl."

Since... since when were you a girl?

No! No, that's the gas. It must be inside your mind, poisoning it. You've got to find... shit, what was it? The mask! The gas mask. You need to find your gas mask.

You can feel your eyelids getting heavier, your chest getting heavier, as you continue to search. Sleep is an ever more enticing option. After all, good girls don't resist, do they? Don't you want to be a good girl?

Your hand brushes over plastic. The gas mask! You fumble with it, trying to pull it over your head, but your helmet is in the way. You need to remove your helmet. Damn it, how could you have forgotten that? It's like you weren't even thinking, like a good little girl.

You try and unclip your helmet. Your hair is getting in the way. Since when was your hair so long? It feels... nice.

It was always this long. Or was it? You pause to mull that over for a second, as your hand hovers over the strap for your helmet...

Your helmet! You need to take off your helmet!

Oh, god, that cost you precious seconds. Your helmet falls into the mud and you try and pull the gas mask over your head. It keeps on getting stuck in your beautiful hair. You try and yank it over regardless, but it doesn't work.

Your chest starts to hurt. Something is pressing on it, way too hard. It takes a moment for you to realize it's your plate carrier, secured in place by clips and straps. It hurts so much.

Your hand starts undoing the buckles and clips, letting your chest breathe a little. Were your boobs always this massive?

Do you even care?

You, tentatively, put a hand to your chest. Even through the pink haze of the gas, you can see that your nipple is poking through. You run a finger over it and an involuntary shiver runs through you. It feels good. Really good.

You unzip your uniform a little to free your chest, because it feels a little bit tight, and you run your finger over your nipple. It feels so good. You want to moan, but if you moan the enemy might find you.

But good girls want to be found, don't they?

There's a heat building in your core, a need. You bite your lip. You really want to be a good girl. One hand strays south, towards the pulsing between your legs.

The lightest little touch makes your brain light up. You want more. You need more. You abandon your uniform, letting it drop into the mud, showing off your kneeling, needy, slutty body to anyone who will watch. You don't care. You want to be watched. Let everyone know what a good girl you are. Let everyone know how good you can make yourself feel. You're a good little slut.

One hand gropes at your fat tits and another continues to pleasure between your legs. You want someone to come and use you, and to your delight, someone does. A really hot girl drops into your trench. You're fairly sure you're supposed to fight her, but you don't care. You just want to have someone fuck you. Doesn't really matter who.

She walks over to you and for a moment you think she's just going to shove her cock down your throat. Just the thought of it makes you moan a little. She grins, and looks like she's considering it, before pinning your arms behind your back and forcing you to stand. You don't resist, because good girls follow orders.

She takes you to a wide open area and deposits you there, right next to a dozen other girls that look just as needy and desperate as you. God, they're all so sexy and hot. You want them to fuck you, but there are also taller women surrounding your group, and you want them to fuck you even more.

The listener is a closeted trans woman who awakens bound to a mechanical chair. You struggle, call out, and the only response for a few seconds is the inhuman beeping and whirring of machines.

Then a delighted laugh snaps your attention onto the speaker. A rich woman has kidnapped you in order to transform you into the perfect woman.

How does she know so much about you? Oh, well, she paid millions in expert software and hidden cameras in order to monitor you for the past week. Why? Well, she loves you silly! And now that she knows who you are, she's going to transform you into the woman that you always wanted to be! (even if you won't admit it.) She just needed you to be awake and responsive before she switches the machine on!

"Hm, now that's a silly little statement. Why would I ever let you go? Hush. You'll be absolutely darling once the machine is done. You'll be such a good girl. My obedient little pet. All we need to do is silence this silly little part of you that resists. This silly little part that thinks too much."