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Nano by Alyssa S. This story was typed with one hand. Whether or not you read it with one hand depends on whether you find the same stuff exciting as me. There's obviously gender reassignment involved, as well as non-consensual or semi-consensual sexual practices, behavior modification, brainwashing, mind control, BDSM, etc. There's even Marines in there somewhere, but don't worry, they just stand around and look mean. You get the picture. Read on if you like that. It'll be quite boring if you don't like any of the above, since this is not literature, but wank fiction. Comments, like "This story sucks", or "Um, you ended a paragraph in midsentence", or quite possibly, "Thank you", can be sent to [email protected]. Thanks for reading. ++++ I'd been riding the cunt pretty hard, these past two days, I thought to myself as I tightened the leather straps that pulled her elbows together behind her. She grunted but said nothing as I pushed her down, her face against the floor of the van. I clipped her collar to the retaining ring set in the floor, patted her ass and climbed out of the van. I'd ridden her hard, but it was worth the work. My client would be happy. Two days ago she'd had a brutish, nasty, philandering millionaire of a husband. Now that bastard would suffer a complete reversal of fortune. My client was now, for all intents and purposes, John Maynard the third, esquire, etcetera, while her husband was now the pretty young wife the idiot was stupid enough to ignore. The girl in the van who days earlier had been John was now Natalie Maynard. She had a complete set of her wife's memories laid over her own memories of life as a man. But I'd modified her sexual and emotional makeup to fit much more closely the kind of woman she'd wanted to marry in the first place - a submissive, emotionally fragile fuckpet. Though she was the most radical nano-modification I'd ever done, she had the simple unaugmented good looks of a very pretty natural. That was rare and striking; most people these days opted to improve their looks to the point where nearly everyone with any money had the bland beauty of movie stars. Modeling the modification to exactly match a natural beauty like Natalie made the job more fun. She even had crooked teeth and a mole on her left breast. The imperfections made her look even more striking, in my opinion. I climbed into the cab of the van. I fingered the closed-circuit monitor switch, and checked on my cargo. Natalie was squirming a little, but knew not to shift her position substantially. I chuckled. The little cunt didn't know very much about what was happening to her. She'd figured out she'd been made her wife's twin, but not yet why. I'd had to use nano-induced sadistic impulses to do this job, since abduction, rape and torture aren't usually my cup of tea. It turned out to be kind of fun - for a while. I shook out a pill from a bottle and downed it, washing it down with a squirt from a water bottle. I let the new nanobots do their work for a while, dismantling the psychopathic urges that fuelled the training I'd given the girl. It took maybe a half hour. I felt a little sick to my stomach, but otherwise okay. I didn't let myself reflect too deeply on the things I'd done to the girl in back. She got what she deserved, I told myself. Everything I'd done to her she'd done to other women, once. I took another gulp of water to wash the bad taste out of my mouth. I'd been doing nano long enough that I no longer had what other people called feelings. You do nano long enough, emotions don't seem real anymore, and after awhile they become irrelevant. People tend to use behavioral nano sparingly, to improve themselves - to become more honest, or to have a higher sex drive, or acquire more confidence. It was expensive stuff, and tricky. It took an artist to craft the little 'bots software. Certain jobs require extensive use of the stuff. Soldiers and prostitutes practically ate it for breakfast, actors depended on the stuff, and of course there were abusers lying in prisons or asylums or on the street. That last problem was rare - it was hundred times as expensive as coke. Sane, sober people took it maybe two or three times in their life, and generally for the right reasons. I guess I was an actor of sorts. I was the rapist, or the doctor, or the father figure. Anything to get the client. It had taken its toll. Body-mod nano was safer, though I'd never touched the stuff. I kind of liked being ugly. It made me stand out. Maybe I was just old-fashioned. I flipped open my cell and rang the client. "Mr. Maynard's office," the brisk voice of a female secretary announced. "This is Sam Smith," I said, "I believe he's expecting a call from me." "Yes, he is. I'll put you through." I endured Musak for a few minutes. "Hi Sam," John's voice answered. "Hi, John. How's the new name and life suit you?" "Oh, I can't complain. My husband's memories are pretty ugly. It took some getting used to the behavioral nano, too. But now it seems pretty natural, being a bastard. It has its advantages, you know." "I take it you took the other treatment I recommended as well?" "Yep. Kinda had to, you know. The old me didn't much like the prospect of treating my spouse like a piece of trash, no matter how bad he was to me. Now it seems a pretty natural thing to do. She certainly deserves it. And it's giving me...ideas." Hmmn. "Well, you can always reverse the effect if you tire of being a sadistic prick. Which is more than she can expect. I capped her DNA so no further physical changes can be made - I deleted the encryption code. You can use whatever behavioral nano you like. She's ready now. I don't think she's happy, exactly, with what you've done to her, but she'll obey, and enjoy it despite herself." He laughed. "You bringing her by now?" "Yeah. She's packed and ready for delivery. I'll go over the nano-mods with you in person." "Sounds good. I'll take the afternoon off. You know where to bring her." ++++ Of all the "relocation" jobs I'd done, the Maynard case was the strangest, and the only one involving a complete reversal of roles. Most jobs were straightforward - middle-aged wife wants a new body to recapture her husband's attentions; the occasional lesbian couple with an FTM who wants a real life and history associated with his new gender - stuff like that. They were all drastic enough changes that a conventional nano-therapist would refuse the job. Assuming a new identity is, of course, legal so long as the change is recorded. But these people wanted new lives, and I fabricated new identities for them. It was better than being a divorce lawyer, and I figured I salvaged quite a few marriages. And the rates I charged were proportionate with the illegality of the services. I saw the Maynards on social occasions a few times over the next few years. John invited me to some of his larger, more vanilla parties. Rumors were widespread about the "other" parties, the ones for select guests, where the dozens of pretty maids John kept on his estate were revealed in their proper state - naked slave girls - and Natalie among them. The parties I was invited to were more dignified - though I could certainly imagine that the girls serving on those occasions were picked more for their sexual compatibility with John's dominant nature than any particular catering skills. Natalie seemed to have learned her place well, and when we talked at those parties, she never mentioned the drastic changes in circumstances I'd reduced her to. I didn't know if this was out of a natural reticence or if John had forbidden her to mention it - and given her nature now, his word would be Law to her. She was certainly very agreeable company - she was beautiful, after all, and extremely deferential. John had a tendency to dress her up provocatively, which seemed to embarrass her vaguely. But if I got any sense of her emotional state from those conversations, to me she seemed quite content, not at all put out by her sudden feminization. It was some time before I realized that Natalie fascinated me. I shouldn't have found it strange that she seemed so happy in her imprisonment, since that was a natural consequence of the nano-mods I did on her. Something about her, something about her coy smile - she seemed alive to the fact that her life had been taken from her, aware of it and fully accepting. Most behavioral nano-mod recipients didn't have the kind of self-knowledge she seemed to exude. The emotions and instincts were so natural it was difficult to second-guess them. And with the few unwilling recipients, there was a sense that the victim knew something was wrong, but couldn't pinpoint it exactly. Natalie's composure in the face of her victimization would have felt like smugness if she were capable of such emotions - which I knew for a fact she wasn't. So I wondered about her. Professionally speaking, she was a bit of a puzzle. One evening, at one of John's parties, I found myself alone with her in the study. She and I had been part of a larger circle of conversation - about politics - and the other three had gone off together to refresh her drinks. She looked bashfully down at her coke - John didn't let her drink. I decided an indirect approach was best. "I think I owe you an apology, Natalie," I said. She looked up, wide-eyed. "Your...spouse paid me a very large sum of money to do what I did to you. I don't regret taking the money, or your particular fate. You weren't exactly undeserving. But I think I could have treated you a little better when you were in my care." She looked about her; seeing we were alone, she smiled, almost conspiratorially. "May we sit, Mister Smith?" she asked, sounding for all the world like a little schoolgirl as she gestured to the sofa. "Of course, Natalie," I said, and sat down. She stepped forward hesitantly, and then sat down gingerly on an ottoman directly in front of me, as if sitting in a chair were something foreign to her. Perhaps by now it was. Her knees were together and, after some deliberation as to what to do with her hands, she clasped them on her lap. "Mr. Smith, my nano-conditioning controls much of the way I behave - my demeanor, my body language and so on. It's what makes me act like a schoolgirl instead of a clumsy, brash forty year old man in a twenty year old woman's body. I can't help it. Everyone at this party believes me to be as I am because I can't help acting the part. But it would be a mistake to think that because I appear innocent, I am in fact so. I was a manipulative bastard once, and though I'm not in a position where I can manipulate people any longer, I can tell you that Natalie was not your true client. I was." I sat up now, interested. "I used an implant, you see. She told you it was a therapy implant, to slow aging - and it was - but it also modified her mindset considerably. It gave her the drive and vengeful streak to want to do this to me, which was augmented by my habitual mistreatment of her. Everything you did to us was as I wished it." I was flabbergasted. "Why?" I asked. She smiled. "Everyone knows power is a drug, potent, attractive and addictive. Also destructive. "So is powerlessness, That's rarely noticed, I think, but it's true. Potent, attractive and addictive. It's animal instinct - there are alphas and there are betas, and each derives satisfaction from his or her particular place in the world. There's one difference though: you can never have enough power. Power is thirsty work. If you choose to relinquish power, however, you can achieve a state of absolute powerlessness rather easily, because others are happy to take power from you. "I strive to be perfectly helpless, which is a form of perfection, and perfection is what we all seek, right? I'm incapable of resisting John's will. I'm nano-conditioned to respond to his voice signature with utter obedience. But it's not effortless. I strive hard to be more abject, and just when I think I've reached the lowest point John pushes me further. "I don't expect you to understand what I'm talking about; looking at your face, I guess you're a little confused by my words. Anyway, I'm just trying to say there's no need for apology. I should be thanking you." I looked at her in disbelief. "I guess I just don't understand why you would want to do this to yourself," I said finally. She paused. "Mr. Smith, I think I have something you don't, though it might be hard to imagine that. Think about it later. Think about the one emotion I'm consumed with, day in and day out, and when you name it, try to remember the last time you felt it yourself." Just then John walked in the room. Natalie immediately stood, head downcast. "What's the punishment for sitting on furniture, Natalie?" he asked calmly. "Thirty lashes, Sir," she whispered. "Go prepare yourself for them." ++++ For some reason, that conversation had an effect on me. Weeks later I was still thinking about it, and about Natalie. Poor Natalie, whose desires were so unusual she had to resort to the ultimate self-abnegation - surrendering her identity, exchanging it for a life in which she had no options left - to fulfill them. And yet I realized that she was possibly the happiest person I'd ever met. I went back the Maynard house, during the day. ++++ Natalie received me in the study. Curiously, she wore a maid's outfit, albeit a very skimpy one. I sat down; she remained standing. "May I get you a drink, Mr. Smith?" she asked. "Don't you have help for that, Natalie?" I asked in return. "It's one of my duties. During the day the staff may assign me to any household duty they like - today it's parlor servant. I'm on my lunch break or I wouldn't be able to see you. I make a good martini, if you'd like one." She went to the bar and mixed a martini, put a twist of lemon in it, and returned. She knelt in front of me, holding the drink up. I took it. She remained on her knees. "Um, wouldn't you like to sit? Your husband isn't around." "I can't, Mr. Smith. John made a few changes to my nano regimen the last time I sat in a chair. I can't do it any longer. It makes me nauseous. I'm quite comfortable kneeling; don't let it bother you." "I suppose you don't drink for the same reason." "Yes, Mr. Smith. Cigarettes and alcohol throw me into convulsions." "Could you just call me Sam?" "No, I can't, Mr. Smith. As I said, John made a few changes - " "To your nano regimen, I know, I know. You know, it's a little annoying, all this crap. How do you put up with it? Why the hell does John like it? I can't figure it out." "Which is why you came, I imagine, Mr. Smith. Have you thought about what we talked about last time?" "Yes," I admitted. "Tell me, Natalie. Are you happy?" "Yes, Mr. Smith," she said. "Why?" "Because I can't change my emotions, Mr. Smith. I can't hide from them. I can't take nano because I would need the encryption key that made me what I am to do so, and only you John has that. So I'm stuck with my feelings and emotions. It had been a long time since the only thing I could say were my own were my feelings. Nothing else belongs to me here. "You have to remember that, while some of the things I feel now are nano-induced, they might as well be real, since I have no way of escaping or finding respite from them. I can't take a pill and feel differently. And since I've been conditioned to find happiness on my knees, at the mercy of a man who treats me like something lower than a dog - even our bullmastiff can run freely about the house, while I'm usually chained - then happiness is what I feel. "That's the gentle way of explaining my decision - the one that reflects well on me. Here's another way of looking at it: I simply couldn't hack being a man. I wasn't strong, just rich. I had wealth and that gave me power; I used both irresponsibly. In a just world I should never have had either. I grew to hate myself and the life I led because I knew it was a lie. My mistreatment of Natalie was just the latest in a long history of injustices I perpetrated against women - and men too, but women especially. Natalie was unhappy but could have left me. There were others I kept forcibly. It provided a sheen of masculinity and virility; but I knew that by all rights I should have been the one on her knees, in chains. "Now I am kept forcibly. The tools I used to have women at my beck and call now render me utterly helpless. Natalie married me for my money, you know. She wanted wealth and power, however she could get it. Now, as my husband, he has what he wanted in the purest way possible. I have also given him a rather extreme means of revenge upon me for what I put him through. "He's a better man than I ever was. Being a woman - a slave - isn't easy, but it's what I deserve. Now I feel like my physical form - weak, dependent, fragile - finally matches my true character. "And John now has what he wanted. He's much more truly John Maynard than I ever was. Where I subjugated women as a form of overcompensation, he does so because he has the right to do so. He is superior to me, and his control over me is a reflection of his superiority, rather than a feeble act of bravado." ++++ I left Natalie bewildered and a little bemused. I went back to work, giving her little thought; I had a backlog of clients to tend to. But her words came back to haunt me. And I began to realize that my attraction to her and her story, her motives, was more than just idle curiosity. Several months passed. ++++ I wasn't really sure why I was doing this. It felt like a strange obsession. The encryption key on the nano I'd worked up for the job would unlock automatically after one year. Until then it couldn't be broken, not even by me, and would prevent further physical modification. The nano would transform the subject into a eighteen year old girl. Five foot even, 95 pounds, 34-17-33. Doing the waist so narrow required pushing the internal organs around a little, but women in the 19th century had gotten by with even smaller waistlines, and this one, encoded into the DNA, wouldn't require a corset. I'd never had transgendered inclinations before in my life. Strange now that I'd become so captivated by the idea. I told myself it was an experiment - I wouldn't really understand Natalie unless I spent some time in her shoes. But some part of me knew that to be a lie. The motivation was much harder to pin down. I felt like I wasn't really in control of what I was doing. All I knew was that for the past three months, every time I tried to put this project aside, it consumed me, and I thought about it compulsively. I justified going through with it, telling myself it was either that or go crazy resisting the urge. I never once considered, however, that perhaps my wanting desperately to go through with this was fuelled by anything other than personal motive. Long brown hair, olive skin, brown eyes. Small feet and hands. Full lips on a tiny face. The simulation looked pretty good. The nano included behavior modification as well. Highly submissive tendencies, shyness, an ingrained deferentially to men, a highly keyed sex drive. Punching it up that high gave her the libido of a thirty year old woman or an 18 year old boy. I did a complete set of paperwork on her. She was a matriculating freshman at NYU, and I'd rented a tiny apartment for her in the East Village. She had a monthly stipend from her scholarship that would keep her in beans and rice, and not much else. Everything looked legal - sort of. Forging an identity from scratch always leaves holes. Anne-Marie La Fontaine died shortly after her birth, and it was conceivable that this fact could be dug up. I'd fitted my nano-lab and apartment with DNA locks designed to deny access to Anne-Marie La Fontaine's particular DNA signature. Anne-Marie wouldn't be able to access either location until the locks deactivated a year from now. The lab would be rented out to Johnny Dentz, a friend in the business I sometimes did jobs with. My bank accounts were frozen for the same period. Sam Smith was taking a sabbatical in Asia and wouldn't be returning for some time. ++++ I awoke feeling like I had just run a marathon. Every muscle in my body ached. I was lying on my back on a gurney in a pool of sweat and mucous. The overhead fluorescents drilled holes in my brain, and I covered my face with my arm. A small arm, drenched in sweat. With little tiny hairs. I remembered. I sat up groggily and swung my legs over the side of the gurney, feeling hung over and clumsy. My little bare legs dangled, my feet a good foot further from the floor than when I'd lain down before. Breasts. I cupped them with my tiny hands; they were soft and heavy and felt bizarre. I sat for a moment, fighting the temporary sense of vertigo all radical transformees felt. I let it pass, then slid off the gurney and planted my feet on the floor. Okay. Time to get this shit off of me. I walked gingerly to the shower. I turned on the water and let its hot steam wash off the considerable residue the nano had pushed through my sweat glands to the surface of my skin. Most of it was lying in a pool on the gurney, material discarded by the nano as being superfluous to its mission of reshaping me into something 80 pounds lighter. Tissue rendered into a fat-like substance, mixed with chemicals and hormones, enzymes created by the nano and discarded, the job done. I knew if I ran the stuff through an analyzer I'd find a lot of testosterone, broken down and rendered inevitable, muscle proteins broken into small enough pieces to sweat out, and other biological detritus. The radical reshaping was done by the nano; my pituitary gland, now fed instructions from XX chromosomes, would regulate my body's hormones as if I were any other teenaged girl. Which, in fact, I was. Biologically I was indistinguishable from a born female, even upon the closest examination. The distinction was purely semantic. That's why what I just did to myself was very illegal. I was an unregistered nano-mod; a tax-evader's wet dream and Government's bane. My DNA now was so different from what it had been that there was no way to connect me with Sam Smith. You could tell that nano was present and active, under a microscope, but since it was now in maintenance mode, it would appear to be therapeutic nano - to manage my weight, or mood, or something else quite legal and unobjectionable. My hair had grown about eight inches in the two days I was comatose, and had turned from a gray-blond to nut brown. It would keep growing another ten inches over the next few days, then slow to normal growth rate. The nano was programmed to keep hair length down below the shoulder blades, so even if it cut it short the nano would kick back in, and my hair would return to the programmed length. Similarly, my physical strength was monitored my the nano. If I joined a gym and worked out every day for a year, I would end up without an ounce of extra muscle tone or strength. The nano would disassemble the new tissues as soon as my body developed them. Soon the floor of the shower was covered with sticky goo. I let it wash down the drain, turned the spigots off, and grabbed a towel. I dried myself as I stepped out in front of the sink and mirror. The sink was a foot higher than it had been before. I reached over it and used the towel to wipe off the steam, noting the way my breasts swayed forward as I did so. The girl staring back at me was Anne-Marie, all right. No way around it. I'd chosen a composite of several natural girls I'd nano-improved to make Anne-Marie. They had all been beautiful, but, of course, wanted perfection. I preferred using their pre-nano DNA as source material. The result of mixing the DNA from these sources was a healthy prettiness with a few flaws. I noted the freckling around my chest and on my cheeks, and my lopsided smile, with the practiced eye of a nano-surgeon. I liked what I saw, which was good, since I wasn't in a position to change it now. I dried off clumsily, my hands overreaching in the wrong places finding curves blocking the places they were accustomed to moving to. I brushed my hair inexpertly - I would need to comb it in a few days, I realized. Better get used to it. Now. I went back out to the lab, opened a closet and pulled out the brown paper bag containing the accoutrements of my new life. Shoes, panties and a sundress, and a purse. I slipped the panties - I'd perversely chosen a bright pink thong, to remind myself what was happening - over my ankles and pulled them up over my hips. The thong strap slipped between my buttocks and nestled comfortably there, while the elastic rode high on my flared hips, scooping low to expose my belly button. I pulled the sundress over my head and let its silk fall down the length of my body. The white fabric sat smoothly on my breasts, and the hem tickled my thighs. Okay, now the shoes. I'd chosen heels, I think just to piss myself off. I put these on and took a few steps forward, immediately regretting it as I swayed into a lab table. They were the only shoes I had here. Hmmn. A little practice was in order. I looked at the clock. 4:30 PM. I had a half hour before the night alarm would activate; since my DNA no longer matched the list of approved night visitors, that meant I had a half-hour before the alarm went off. I did a few runway walks to gain my footing, then gathered up my male clothing and effects and threw them in the small incinerator I kept to remove nano-waste. I stripped the sheets from the gurney and threw these in too, then turned the incinerator on. I activated the air-scrubbers, which would filter out the rest of the stray DNA. That done, I picked up my handbag, screwed up my courage, opened the lab door, walked through it, and shut it behind me. I turned and tried the door. Though unlocked, when I touched the handle I heard the lock engage, then disengage when I removed my hand. I knew that even using a stick or something to open it wouldn't work, since it worked on the presence of DNA in the room and touching combined. I turned around and leaned back against the lab door, breathing heavily. One long phase of my life was over, at least for the time being. Now I was someone else. ++++ The doorman glanced at me as I walked out of the lobby, but I sensed the look was more for the purpose of ogling me than anything else. He frightened me a little. I stepped out onto the street. Washington Street, where my lab was housed, was a daytime cocktail of dock workers, homeless and the stray office worker leaving for home early. I immediately felt vulnerable in my little white dress and heels. I clutched my bag and headed east on King Street, pretending not to hear the catcalls from the construction crew sitting on the back of a flatbed and smoking. Those first few minutes were hard. It wasn't until I'd reached 6th Avenue that I felt somewhat safe. I sank into a park bench on the wide median and let myself address the sudden emotions that two block walk had induced in me. I was shaking. I'd never been in a position before where talking back to a man was not only inadvisable, but dangerous. That scared me, but what scared me even more was the instinctive urge to go to them and submit to their questioning deferentially. This, I expected, was not what most women felt in these kinds of situations. Rather, I blamed the nano-conditioning I'd programmed. I'd experienced nano that made you strong, or confident, or a prick, or a saint, but never nano that made one want to submit oneself to the tender mercies of a bunch of assholes. The strange thing about it, of course, was that it felt completely natural. My brain was telling me those thugs should be shot with a firearm, but my body was telling me that they had every right to ogle me, to address me with the slurs they used. Or maybe...not that they had the right, but that it excited me. The thought of going back and submitting myself to their gaze, their words, their hands - stop it! I told myself. So, I thought. That's what Natalie feels. I never thought something as humiliating as that could be so arousing. I stood up again, blushing and confused and flushed. With a shock I realized my panties were damp. I continued moving east, through Soho, then northwards into the East Village. One thing I noted rather quickly was that my sense of fashion didn't fit at all. On a street awash in middys, pierced navels, leather pants and skirts, and boots, I looked like a stripped down version of a bodice-ripper novel. And a very short one at that. The novelty of being short didn't last long. I missed the luxury of being able to see further down the street than the backside of the guy in front of you, who really wasn't that big, just much bigger than you. I felt surrounded on all sides, like a little kid. Soon I made my way to the brownstone on East 6th Street, turned my key in the lock of the front door, and made my way up to the fifth floor apartment. The smell of Indian food from the shops downstairs permeated the building; a condition I would later discover to be permanent and often overwhelming. I got into my apartment. 200 square feet of blissful privacy, furnished by one Sam Smith. Thank you, Sam, I thought, as I locked the door. Already I felt the man I had been just a few days earlier was almost a stranger. He and I simply had no shared points of reference. He was strong, middle aged, wealthy, masculine; I was eighteen, tiny, fragile, and poor. Our instincts were different; our reactions to stimulus different - and now I was attracted to men, not women. The shock of these drastic changes was exhausting. I got onto the bed - the only piece of furniture that fit - and promptly fell asleep. ++++ I awoke to sunlight streaming through the windows. I lifted my head and looked around, discovered that I was still Anne-Marie, and that I was in my apartment, and that it was morning. I also found myself still dressed, though my dress was hiked up around my waist, the strap over my right shoulder had worked its way down, exposing my breast, and I was only wearing one heel. Not a decorous start to my new life, I thought wryly. I sat up, again feeling the strange sensation of flesh swaying on my chest, spun my legs off the bed and stood up. I felt much better. The way I had felt yesterday was like an extreme case of jet-lag, and I was glad to wake up clear-headed. I showered and dressed in some of the more up-to-date items I'd picked out before the transformation: jeans (cut with a narrow enough waist for me), a bright orange sleeveless tee with blue and white racing stripes down the flanks, a silver chain bracelet for my right wrist and a matching silver choker. I'd probably look out of place with no jewelry at all, and besides I liked the way they looked. Nikes too - I hadn't worn sneakers in some time, but I'd bought more fashionable wear to complement the more feminine clothing I preferred on a girl like me, and needed footgear to match. I figured I'd have to blend in with the college crowd. Besides, silk and chiffon doesn't last long, and as of now I didn't have the money to replace the things I'd bought. The sneakers were impossibly tiny, only about seven inches long, but my little feet slipped in like a hand in a glove. I laced them up. I stood and surveyed the results in the mirror. My hair had grown out overnight, down to below my shoulder blades, and I hadn't figured out what to do with it - there was so much. Otherwise the overall effect looked okay. By now I'd resigned myself to the fact that no matter how I dressed I'd look like a kid trying to be a grownup, so dressing like a kid at least seemed to fit. I sat back down on the bed and opened my purse. I counted out my cash - a little over seventy dollars to last me five days until the start of class, when I could pick up my scholarship check. I used to spend that much in a day. I headed out the door, onto the street, feeling very small and vulnerable as I made my way west through the normal crush of morning people. They were all so big, so wide, and so damned slow, I thought to myself. Though the ones who annoyed me the most were the men, because they dwarfed me, I found myself noticing things about them I'd never really noticed before, which, after some thought, I had to recognize as features I now found sexually attractive. Their muscles, for instance. Not the overdeveloped muscles of the occasional obvious bodybuilder, but the thick, well-toned muscles of a man who kept fit. The way even the muscles of their forearms were defined, easily identified as separate tissues, built to do heavy lifting. I found myself, as I walked west on East 5th street, following a man in black slacks and a tanktop, noting the differences between his broad shoulders and my tiny ones, his wrists, thicker than my forearms, his muscle definition creating a pattern of ripples and bulges, where the only bulges I sported gave me no physical advantage. I looked at my arms, thin, smooth; whatever muscles lying underneath could never be trained into the shapes I saw on this man's form, and all my strength could never withstand his slightest effort against me. And yet I knew this physical disadvantage served to make me attractive in turn; thinking about the contrast aroused me. I'd never been attracted to men, and hadn't built any nano-conditioning in to force me to feel this way - only to make me submit, to defer to men. I surmised that some of this was attributable to the inborn tendencies of the DNA I'd been fashioned from. At the corner of East 5th and Bowery, the man turned a corner, looking back at me, and smiled. He went on. I blushed furiously. Of course he knew I'd been following him, and I knew what kind of signals that sent in a city where women learned to never make eye contact with strangers. I rushed across the Bowery and made my down to the NYU campus. ++++ I learned quickly to keep my eyes to myself if I wanted to stay out of trouble. Fraternizing was safe for the other girls my age, but for me, and my inordinately keyed-up libido, it was practically begging for a fuck. After several hours of waiting in lines to register for classes, I concluded that my wandering eye was being interpreted by the young men around me as an invitation to flirt, and while I was pleased that their interest was piqued, I really didn't have any idea how to keep flirtation safe, never mind how to progress after that, or even if I wanted to. Mostly it bugged me that I couldn't help myself. I found myself sucked into conversations, and because my nano-conditioning made me so agreeable, my natural deference was interpreted as sexual interest. Well, it was sexual interest - I was getting pretty horny - but I wasn't ready to find out how my submissive tendencies would manifest themselves in a bedroom with a young, inexperienced boy. I wasn't ready to be called the class slut yet either. So I took my lunch in a cafe up in Chelsea, where I could be assured that most of the men around me weren't interested in women, and I could admire them without fear. I tried to smoke, but it made me nauseous, and I decided now was as good a time as any to give that up. I settled for coffee and a salad, which filled me much faster than I thought it would. I pushed the plate away half-eaten. Maybe I could get away with ten bucks a day after all. I asked the waiter to bag the rest of the salad, which earned me a dirty look. But I got the bag. Screw you, wait-boy - I'm on a budget here. By late afternoon, I'd walked back to my new neighborhood, returned to my little room, and was sitting on my bed, feeling tired and a little lonely. One immediate consequence of my one-year experiment was that I was now friendless. I knew lots of people in the city, but none now knew me, and I couldn't approach them. I felt lonely, which was strange, because though I'd had many friends, I spent most of my time alone, and never tired of solitude. Now that solitude left me feeling cut off. I couldn't yet imagine making friends with people my own age. I had the brain and life experience of a forty year old, while my peers were now teenagers. Almost out of instinct, I picked up my cell phone - I didn't have a landline in the apartment - and dialed the Maynard's number. It wasn't something I thought about or planned, but now I felt an urge to talk to Natalie. To my surprise, I heard John's voice answer. "Hello?" he asked over the line. I hung up and tossed the phone on the bed. I let my heart slow from a pounding to something approximating normal, and wondered why the sound of his voice made me feel afraid. Suddenly my cell phone rang. I picked it up; no one had my number. I looked at the Caller ID - restricted. I pressed the button and put the phone to my ear. "Hello, Anne-Marie," John's voice answered. "Who - who is this?" I said, stammering, pretending not to recognize him. "Don't be a fool, Anne-Marie. Your name is writ large on my Caller ID." "Oh. I must have dialed a wrong number," I said, relieved. "I'm glad you called, Anne-Marie," he continued, "I know generally where you live, but couldn't pinpoint it exactly." I sucked in my breath. "I keep close tabs on anyone I do business with. One of my associates started making arrangements for a long vacation recently. At the same time he made lots of arrangements for a young girl named Anne-Marie. This intrigued me, for reasons you can imagine. A little detective work turned up enough evidence to determine that Anne-Marie *was* my associate's vacation. More digging produced the fact that you live on East 6th street, along with some other interesting facts." He paused. "I - yes, John," I answered, not knowing what else to say. "It's me." I blushed. "So, Anne-Marie, why did you call me?" he asked. "I - I didn't - I mean - I wanted to talk to Natalie," I sputtered. "You may not speak to her." It wasn't so much a statement as a command, and suddenly I felt my heart flutter and pound. "However," he continued, "I wish to speak to you - in person." Oh God. "I understand you have a few days before class begins. Meet me tomorrow evening at the Mercer Hotel, in the bar, at 8:00 PM. Wear something nice. And remember I know exactly what kind of nano-mods you've inflicted on yourself." "And what will we talk about?" I asked. "Your future, of course." "What if I don't want to?" I said, knowing it sounded lame, and feeling afraid. "Don't make me remind you not to act like a fool. You will be there." The line went dead. I put the phone down on the pillow and fell back on the bed, feeling weak and loose. That night I masturbated for the first time as a woman. The fantasies that drove me to climax were unlike any I'd dreamed up before - lurid, abject, painful and absolute slavery - and the foreignness and instinctive naturalness of the imagery and narrative terrified me. But the orgasm was undeniable. I fell asleep drained and scared of what I'd done to myself. ++++ The next day went by in a blur. Part of me felt terrified, I felt like I was running out of time and needed to run; another part of me wanted the hours to rush forward. The car parked outside my door had two men as its occupants. They never left, and when I looked out at it from my fifth story window, I could see one of them looking back at me, smiling. When I left to buy groceries at the corner store, one of them got out and followed me from a discreet distance. When I came back out, he was leaning against a lamp post, still grinning. I confronted him. I realized quickly that that was something I simply wasn't any good at any more. "What do you want?" I demanded. His grin grew wider. "You have an appointment to keep. I'm here to make sure you keep it." Something in the tone of his voice drained the fight out of me. An irrational train of thought ensued - What right do I have to question him? He knows what's best - for me - he's a man - just do as he says - if I'm going to be a girl for the next year, I should at least be a good girl - "H-how do you propose to do that?" I stammered, fighting my nano-conditioning in a futile effort to assert myself. The question came out in a half-whisper. "We already know you're a slut. Don't prove yourself a stupid one as well. I have orders to abduct you if you don't meet my employer at the appointed hour. I have keys to your apartment. We will come up, strip you, hogtie and gag you, and stuff you into a suitcase. You're small; you'll fit pretty easily, though it won't be terribly comfortable for you. Better to just be a good girl and show up." I backed away from him, towards my building. A good girl. The words cut like a knife. For most girls, the words probably brought forth visions of sugar plums or some such crap. For me, they conjured images of a man hovering over my naked, kneeling body and - I ran back to my building, up the steps and into the door. I shut it behind me, hearing the lock catch. I caught my breath, then worked my way up the steps. I'd dropped one of my bags, but didn't care. Once home, I propped my only chair under the doorknob, something I'd seen in movies - but I doubted it would help any. ++++ In the end I chose not to be stuffed into a suitcase. For the date I chose a simple crimson silk spaghetti strap dress, with a scooped neck and a high hemline. I wore matching thong panties and no bra. Red flats and a matching handbag. Red lipstick. I told myself that I was dressing up to show John I wasn't afraid of him; but on some level I think it was a form of provocation - I might as well have worn a sign around my neck with the words "break me". The Mercer Hotel Bar was crowded and smoky and smelled of money. The Mercer was not cheap. A Maitre'd appeared among the throng. "You are Miss LaFontaine?" he asked, his eyes taking in what my dress revealed. "Yes," I replied. "Follow me, please," he said, and led me through the crowd by the bar into a back room. "Please wait here," he said, gesturing into the small room, and closed the door behind me once I'd passed him through the door. I heard the lock turn and whirled around. Testing the door proved it was indeed locked. I turned back around. The room was a foyer, really, small and lined with green felt and oak trim. It was about five feet square, and there were no seats. Another door stood in the wall opposite the one I'd come in. It was locked also. I waited in the little foyer perhaps a half hour, my fear and anxiety building, before the second door opened. John stood smiling, holding the door open. "Come in, Anne-Marie," he said. I screwed up my courage and walked past him into what turned out be a small private dining room for one. "Stand over here," he commanded, gesturing to his side as he sat down. I obeyed nervously, butterflies in my stomach. A waiter appeared, and John ordered dinner for himself. The waiter didn't seem to think the spectacle of a seated man, middle aged and impeccably dressed, with a small, frail looking young girl in a red dress, standing attention at his side, trembling noticeably, merited comment - as a matter of fact, he ignored me. I felt like a wayward schoolgirl, awaiting the judgment of a schoolmaster. The waiter disappeared after taking the order. He looked up sideways at me. "Kneel," he ordered. Fear spiked somewhere in my mind. In all my life I'd never had to obey an order like that. I stood motionless, unable to move. "Kneel!" he hissed, and reached up and grabbed a fistful of my hair. He pulled me flailing to my knees. He held on tight, batting away my hands easily with his free hand. He pushed my head down until my forehead was pressed against the floor, and held me there. I fought to control myself - I was hyperventilating, and struggling, I realized, was getting me nowhere. I opened my eyes, focused on the carpeting my nose was pressed into. God, he was strong. Not having a cock, and the physiology that comes with it, had its disadvantages. Suddenly I had an inkling of what kind of peril I'd exposed myself to in becoming female. I was of the weaker sex. When someone can overpower you with one hand, while keeping a wineglass steady in the other, you know you've become something very, very vulnerable. After a few minutes, he relented, and pulled me to an upright kneeling position and let my hair go. "Are you going to obey?" he demanded. I nodded, tears welling in my eyes. "Good. But I want you to say it. Say, 'I will obey, John.'" "I-I will obey, John," I stuttered, appalled at the words - part of me wanted to reach up and strangle the bastard, but some deeper part of me felt excitement at the abandonment the words represented, and that was what appalled me. "Good. You're beginning to understand the true nature of the creature you've transformed yourself into. Full understanding will take some time, I think - but I've got plenty of that. Do you know why you chose to do this to yourself?" he asked. "I-I'm not really sure," I answered honestly. "I - I wanted, for once, to feel emotions that I couldn't control with more nano. This - this I think was just the first example I had to work with." "Well, there's lots of other kinds of lives to lead. I'll tell you why you did it. I made you do it." "I don't understand." "I nano-conditioned you - a minor tweak - to predispose you to taking this kind of action. If I had tried something more abrupt you would have recognized and fought it - you're too experienced with behavior modification. You had to choose freely to become a submissive female." Hot flashes of anger welled up in me. "I don't believe it. Why the hell would you want to do that? What purpose would it serve?" He smiled. "To neutralize you - and the threat you posed - of course. You're the only one who knows who I once was. I could have killed you, but that's not my style. I only wanted control over you, so you wouldn't go blabbing secrets. Another man would have just brain-wiped you, maybe, but I'm the kind of man who sees this kind of punishment as more just and more useful. He paused to light a cigarette as the waiter came in and refilled his wineglass. The waiter left. "I have the penthouse of this hotel permanently rented out for those nights I spend in town. You're going to go up there now, take off your clothes, put them in the box beside the front door and shut it. Then you're going to walk to the coffee table in the living room, climb onto it and wait for me on all fours like a good little slut. A concierge will assist you in these tasks. I'll be up when I'm done with my meal." I bowed my head. "What if - what if I don't want to?" He laughed. "Of course you want to. I can tell. But it doesn't matter. There's only one way out of this room now, and that's through the door behind me." The door opened as if on cue, and a hotel concierge stepped in. He smiled at my surprise. "This gentleman will show you the way - and coerce you, if necessary. If you're wise, you won't make it necessary. Do you understand me, slut?" he hissed. I nodded. I noted with dull anger that my panties were wet. "Now go." The concierge wrapped his hand around my bare arm and led me to an elevator at the end of a short hall. He turned a key in a lock beside the call button and the doors opened. "If you please, miss," he gestured. I got in, and he stepped in behind me. The doors shut, and the elevator ascended. There were no buttons to any floors; this one went directly to the penthouse. The concierge was a big man, tall and heavily muscled, and the elevator was barely built for two, so I was sandwiched between his bulk and the wainscoting, terrified and feeling very small. I had a sinking feeling this guy was not on the hotel payroll; he had a feral, predatory aura about him that thoroughly cowed me. Predators. That's what these people were. And I was prey. Pretty and harmless as a fawn, and as easy to take down. A minute later the doors opened. Timidly following the concierge in my heels, I stepped into the foyer of the apartment, and the doors shut behind me. "Take off her clothes," John's voice commanded. I jumped. "I can see you over a closed-circuit cam, so don't be stupid." The concierge undressed me. There wasn't much to take off anyway. He pulled the dress over my head, and dumped it in the open iron box. He helped me shimmy out of my panties. I saw his slow smile when he saw the dark stain of my wetness in the fabric. I felt like dying right there and then. He laid the thong panties over the dress, then removed my shoes. These he laid to one side inside the box. I covered my breasts and pubic mound with my hands. He saw this and gently, firmly took hold of my hands and brought them behind my back. I took the implicit order to heart, though I was blushing furiously and felt as naked and exposed as never before. There's nude, you know, and then there's naked. Nudity is a natural state, freeing and healthful. Naked is when you're the only one in the room without clothing, and that nakedness implies powerlessness. I certainly felt like I had no control over the situation. "Mr. Brown, please close the box." The concierge closed the lid, and I heard the faint click of a lock mechanism. "Bring her to the table." The concierge led me, naked, into the living room. Arms behind me, walking naked. Barefoot. Exposed. In the clutches of cruel men. Goosebumps rose on my bare skin. Any word of protest died a quiet death; fear lodged in my throat, rendering speech impossible. I swallowed hard. The short walk to the table was one of the longest of my life. Sam would have never done this, would never have permitted his dignity to be so compromised. Fear would have turned into violent anger. For Anne-Marie, fear was fuel for intense sexual arousal. Who the hell was I becoming? The room was a sumptuous assortment of rare woods and inlays, and rows upon rows of books. I saw the table in front of the leather sofa; the concierge led me onto all fours on top of it. The table surface was covered with hardwood diamond inlays mixed with ivory details. Steel rings set flush with the wooden surface lined the rim of the table. "Keep your head down and don't get curious." The concierge buckled leather restraints around my wrists and padlocked them to a steel ring set in the center of one end. Leather cuffs around my wrists. My wrists were bound. Never in my life had I been restrained like this. He walked around behind me and wrapped my ankles with identical restraints. These he padlocked to rings on each corner of the far end of the table, splaying my knees apart. He cupped my pubic mound with the palm of his big hand. I gasped; a moan escaped me in spite of myself. He patted my ass. "There's a good girl," he said. He put the key to the padlocks on a little end table a few feet from my head, close but utterly beyond my reach. He left the way we had come, by the elevator. I stared after him. "I said, don't get curious, Anne-Marie. Keep your eyes focused on that little white ivory inlay between your hands. See it? Good. Stay like that until I come." My heart was racing, thumping against the inside of my ribcage like a trapped bird. I thought with sinking dismay that, given the nano-conditioning I'd given my captor, and the stories I'd heard since, I was hardly likely to have been the first girl strapped to this table. A man with a taste for conquest wouldn't be satisfied with having only Natalie to torment. The bastard had made me do it! I fumed, even as my cunt burned with the implications of my situation. And now I had no access to my own labs, my DNA was encrypted, and I was stuck in this fucking slave girl persona that, given enough time, would probably reshape my natural brainwave patterns permanently. Slowly, inexorably, anger fed by my betrayal would ebb, replaced, presumably, with a natural slave girl's gratitude for denying her a life and gender she had had no right to pretend to. And just like that, because of a little tweak in my brain chemistry, he'd made me transform myself into a submissive, eager, easily controlled little slut. Now that I was in this female form, with this...abject outlook on life, I was helpless to stop him. Or was I? I struggled for composure. Just because I was aching for his cock inside me, didn't mean I shouldn't try to reason out my situation, try to figure a way out of this mess. I wondered about his long term plans. What did he want from me? My lurid imagination conjured up fantasies of total, complete slavery, chained in a dungeon for months on end. I stopped that train of thought when I realized I was getting even more aroused by it. He could make Anne-Marie disappear, but it would be expensive. Not so expensive he couldn't pay for it, but I surmised the risk wouldn't be worth it. He wouldn't want charges of kidnapping on his hands. More likely, he would take advantage of me only to the extent that I was willing to permit - or at least not run to the authorities. He would push me to my limits, but not far beyond. The important thing for him would probably be the appearance of legality, so he would have to be immune from rape or kidnapping charges. For someone like Natalie, that meant little, since she was nano-modified to believe abject slavery to be just. She wouldn't complain to the police. She would likely even protest if she were dragged from under John's thumb. Under his thumb was exactly where she liked to be. For me - well, that was harder to guess. The nano-mods were nowhere as extreme as the one I'd used for Natalie, though they were modeled exactly like hers - just less deep compulsory urges. But even now part of me felt grateful to John for doing this to me, and was eagerly running through the painful possibilities of the night. Reluctantly I acknowledged that I didn't really know what my limits would be, how hard I could be pushed before I pushed back - if I ever did. With resignation I concluded that controlling me would be rather easy for him. If, as he said, he knew exactly what my nano-mod specs were, he would be able to pinpoint to a very narrow margin a training program that would balance the two goals of keeping me harmless and getting the most use out of me. I had no doubt he'd already outlined such a plan. And I knew enough about manipulating nano-modified subjects to know I had no effective way of resisting him. His worldview, as I'd modified it, was clear-cut and absolute. Women were for a man's pleasure. They were very intelligent animals, but animals nonetheless, and to a man like him that innate intelligence was given them solely so that they could be trained more easily. I thought about it. A man coerced into femininity might appeal to him even more, given that I'd designed his psyche to deeply desire Natalie's feminized state. I'd had to make him believe, in a general sense, that men who were a threat to him were dealt with best by feminization. I hadn't expected that impulse to apply to me. Any goals or dreams I may have had for the life ahead of me would be irrelevant to him - to John, my value was in direct proportion to the degree to which he derived pleasure, satisfaction, and entertainment from me. In large part, I surmised, that pleasure and satisfaction came from the fact that I was once a man, and the he had reduced me to this. The problem here, of course, was that my own worldview had been altered to correspond neatly with his. Not nearly with the clear-cut vision he held - because I did want to make something out of this new life besides being a fucktoy - but I felt instinctively that on some core level that's exactly what I was, deep down. How could I possibly compete with, resist against, someone stronger than me, more powerful, more wealthy? This body of mine, frail, slender, exquisitely breakable, was the perfect object of a man's domination. And since I was the inhabitant of this body, that made me subject to his will. My train of thought, scattered as it was, was further confused by the physical reality of my situation. I was naked, on all fours on a coffee table, chained to it like a wayward pet. John had managed to get me up here, exactly where he wanted, when he wanted me, and I hadn't so much as lifted a hand to defend myself. That in itself said volumes about how different I was now from the man I had been - argumentative, belligerent, stubborn, dominating. I had simply acceded to his demands. ++++ There were no clocks in the room that I could see, but my guess was that I spent something like three hours chained and alone before John finally decided to check in on his evening's entertainment. God knows what John did with that time; he certainly didn't tell me. I had never been a patient man; apparently that hadn't changed one bit with my gender. Waiting in itself was frustrating. Waiting on my hands and knees for three hours was hard work, emotionally and physically. My wrists were cramped; my kneecaps sore. My breasts, small though they were, hung heavily from my chest, and I was acutely aware that, when John came, I would be unable to protect them from him. Similarly, in this position my pubic mound was exposed, framed by my spread thighs. I could lie down on the table, my hands pinned under me, and so afford some measure of protection to both, but I knew all John would have to do was to yank me up to a kneeling position again - and I'd already found out how much stronger he was than me. No matter how you sliced it, I was in a predicament. The leather cuffs were lined with fur; they were supple, but strong - two inches wide and a quarter inch thick - and wouldn't stretch. I tried twisting my hand out of one of them, to no avail. I didn't even try with my feet. These damned things would have been impossible to free myself from even if I were still a man. Four simple bands of leather, with grooves at quarter inch intervals to slip the D ring through. Four simple bands of leather, probably costing about sixty bucks, stood between me and freedom - a human being made chattel with a simple click shut of a lock hasp. And left exposed for the world to see. The south wall of the penthouse consisted of floor to ceiling glass panels overlooking downtown Manhattan. The table to which I was confined was a scant three feet from the center of that wall. I could see down, across the street and two floors below, a young couple, framed by yellow light of bay windows, moving about their apartment. The girl was in her bra and panties, and talking on the phone. The man was washing dishes. I say they were young, but in fact they were now probably thirty or so ten more than a decade older than the teenaged girl I'd become. I would have to reassess my sense of relative age, I realized. I was truly young now, and people like the couple below were much, much older. Strange to see them moving about freely while I was chained. I suddenly felt an intense envy of them. They had normal lives, jobs, free will to do as they wished, and each other. Tonight, when normal people might choose to stay at home or go about on the town, I waited on the whim of a forty year old man. It was about an hour before the girl noticed me. She called to her boyfriend, pointed up at me. I hung my head, ashamed and embarrassed. I pretended not to see them, watched them out of the corner of my eye. I thought for a moment that perhaps they would call the police, do something to help me. But no. Instead, they set up a telescope. They checked in on me from time to time over the next few hours, as if waiting for the show to begin. I guessed the spectacle of a young girl chained in this penthouse was a common enough occurrence for them to assume my waiting here was voluntary - part of a sex game. Which I supposed it was. I just hated the prospect of whatever John was going to do to me being seen by them. I would have happily crawled into a hole and died right there and then. That option, unfortunately, wasn't available to me. At least, I told myself, the couple were the only ones I could see who'd noticed me in my high window. They were watching TV now, returning to the telescope during commercials, fondling each other as they ogled me. The girl was naked now, and her wrists cuffed together in front with steel handcuffs. They were playful, running their hands over each other as they sat on the sofa, the blue light of the television flickering out the window. The girl held a glass of wine in her bound hands, sipping from it as the evening progressed. ++++ My heart jumped into my throat as I heard the whine of the elevator cables. I began to tremble all over. I forgot all about the voyeuristic couple, remembering why I was here in the first place, and who put me here. John. The door opened. I didn't look. I didn't dare. To be honest, by now I felt so firmly in John's grip, and was so afraid of what he was going to do to me, that I froze when that door opened. I was afraid to do anything he interpreted as disobedience, and I didn't even know what he would consider to be so. I heard a closet door open, some shuffling around, then the door shut. Footsteps approaching. I saw his pants standing between me and the stool on which the key rested. For some reason the fact that his slacks were neatly pressed made an impression on me. Men's slacks. And I was a woman. His hand was in my hair, and he pulled it back, forcing my face upward to look up at him. He still wore his business suit - expensive, black and custom tailored, with a navy blue tie. His chest was broad, his waist trim, and the cut of the suit accentuated this. I gazed dazedly up at his looming figure, affected by the severe features of his face, and struck by the contrast between his formal attire, a very symbol of authority, and my chained nakedness. I could never wear such clothing again. I shuddered, feeling very feminine and weak. His free hand ranged over my shoulders, cupped one of my breasts, feeling its heft and shape. A shudder rippled through me as he smiled down at me. His smile was unkind and unnerving. It felt right, God help me. He gazed into my eyes calmly. His eyes were cold, appraising. If anything, I felt even more vulnerable, pinned by his icy blue eyes. I felt - well, like the submissive girl I was, an object to be appraised, measured for worth by a set of criteria that left no room for independence, self-worth - measured solely by what use might be made of me. "I see you understand. Good," he said calmly. He slowly circled me, running his fingers along the curve of my spine. Once behind me, he pried my bare buttocks apart, exposing my anus. He forced a thumb in. I gasped. The thumb wrigg