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I wanted to see if I could do a story like the ones I enjoy about a man being stuck in a suite of rooms and being remoulded by them. Like many of my stories I've tried to apply a small dose of realism. Is it possible? Could it happen? Well, if it could, this man could never tell you... I wrote this very quickly to get it out of my head and onto the paper. As such, if there are glaring inconsistencies, please let me know. It is a fun story, and I'd like it to be right. As you might expect, given one man in a room, there is really only one major character, and not a lot of conversation in the main body of the story. I've also tried to get the categories correct, but as some could be counted temporarily... could you have temporary identity death? Identity undeath? Well, see what you think. Callie x Phil opened the door to his new house. Sixteen bedrooms and too many reception rooms on a huge estate in the remotest depths of a large island off the coast of Scotland. It was amazing what you could afford when you sold off a couple of inheritances in Central London. And, of course, if the first guy that you'd bankrolled had turned his company into a multi- million pound enterprise within three years. Phil was too sharp for his age, twenty two, yet obviously still beset by all the problems and naivetes of youth. He was born into money, which had taken him to Eton and Cambridge. In his first year at Cambridge he had met Georgiy Shapkov, a bespectacled genius with a vision to take his holographic research into film media, and had set him up with the funds to do so, and found him a business partner. That partner was Jeff Cramer, a barrow-boy from Stepney with the gift of the gab and an uncanny knack with the women. Phil watched Jeff take his money and Georgiy's inventions to clients who fell over him and the tech, and turned fractions of millions into many whole ones. Phil was happy to watch his pennies grow while he studied and enjoyed university life. Then Jeff came to him asking for control of the company. Phil certainly wasn't stupid. He knew he had to keep Jeff on side and still control the financial interests of the potential. He gradually offered Jeff more and more, but little by little. Jeff simply took and then asked for more. When Phil and Jeff finally had the bust up that had been coming for an age, Jeff floored Phil with a right hook before handing in his resignation. Three days later he had Phil's girlfriend on his arm. Though financially up, Phil was humiliated utterly, his manliness questioned and his testosterone simmering. Jeff was replaced and the company continued to grow. Phil invested a few times more as he finished his PPE degree, but nothing achieved the fame or financial heights of Georgiy's creations. Georgiy did stick with him, and Phil was grateful for that, though the two were never really close. Phil never really got close to another girl either. He never felt he could trust them, started to feel that they needed to be brought close to him, controlled. They didn't often go for that. Phil's history was sad, as an only child and with his mother dead in childbirth. He had a step-mother, but they never really clicked as Phil was already into his early teens when his father remarried. His father passed away only a couple of years later. The majority of his holdings passed immediately to Phil, with his rarely visited step-mother keeping a house in Surrey. He hadn't been too close to his father either, closest probably to the nannies that had raised him. Luckily he was smart enough to realise he needed direction and some support in his life, so he took his studies seriously and figured he shouldn't spend as much of the family inheritance as he would earn. That was until Jeff appeared in his life again, at his graduation, Phil's ex-girlfriend on one arm and a famous model on the other, offering to buy his company off him. Georgiy spoke with him the very next day, explaining how Jeff had offered him a new position in a new company. Phil knew that Georgiy was replaceable now, having mentored his own herd of sub-geniuses, but he did feel some loyalty to the man. He offered Georgiy whatever he wanted to stay, on the basis of a smart contract which retained all of Georgiy's intellectual property, including future, for up to ten years after he departed the company. He explained it all carefully to Georgiy, not wanting to trick or coerce him, and Georgiy agreed quite happily. But Jeff, now, that was another matter. Phil simply wasn't happy that the man who had physically and mentally beaten him was out there, nor succeeding with a potential to beating him in business. Phil wanted him to suffer, for a long time. Which was why he had bought the house. The builders were in the property for nearly nine months. There were four different teams of builders, who came in at different times during his projects and worked on isolated portions of the house. Materials were shipped up from the town, mostly ferried across from the mainland, but some sourced locally. Whilst they worked to a fairly vague plan of Phil's he realised that he needed help. Georgiy and his team were the first set of help. They could set up cameras to take three dimensional pictures of an object and compare it to a generated image in memory, or lasers to measure specific distances and dimensions, and even generate near three dimensional pictures from screens, seeming to have depth and movement. Phil didn't tell Georgiy what he wanted overall, just the specifics of ideas he had for his play rooms as he called them. Georgiy wasn't too inquisitive anyway, at least Phil didn't get that from him. Georgiy was far more interested in trying to implement Phil's ideas as though they were challenges to his smarts. Phil met Beth online. She didn't start out as Beth, but they got to know each other well. Phil was specifically looking for a Psychotherapist, and Beth's profile matched very closely to his desires. He dated her in Edinburgh, but before their relationship got too far off the ground he told her the truth of why he had looked her up. Beth was intrigued. She wasn't a model type, just a quite pretty brunette a year or two older than Phil who was near the end of her medical qualifications. Medical Psychology was a fairly new field where the practitioner was qualified to prescribe pharmalogical intervention as well as use therapeutic practices to bring about physical and cognitive change. Beth was looking for a research project that would make her name. Phil was offering a number of ideas and the financial resources to back them up. The ideas were a bit far out to say the least. But Beth was entirely persuaded by Phil that the more extreme the experiment, the more solid the results would be if applied to less extreme, real-life situations. A volunteer would prescribe a change in themselves which they wished to make, and a closed, expert system would apply the necessary physical and mental interventions which would bring about the change and ensure that the volunteer embraced the change. Phil suggested a couple of wacky ideas, and Beth went away to puzzle out how to design the systems. Phil and Beth kept in touch regularly. Even though Phil was effectively sponsoring Beth's research, he felt a certain attraction to her from the first time they met. When they met they dined out, and Phil attempted to impress her. She was highly intelligent, cultured and well-read, exactly what Phil desired in a woman. She wasn't from a wealthy background but her doctor parents weren't poor. Her soft Edinburgh accent was also a sweet sound which he loved to hear. She did seem interested in him, and gradually he managed to progress to more informal meetings and finally dates. Their professional relationship moved to a friendship and then a tentative step beyond that. But Phil was still careful. He noted the feelings in himself but knew he could never really give himself completely to her, not unless she was his and his alone, and so he never admitted to her what he was doing with her theories as she researched them and worked them up. Beth thought this strange because she knew Phil was holding back on her. He would raise technical questions that stumped her, technical questions that were beyond his experience unless he was actually overseeing a lab somewhere which was testing out her experiments. Yet all her research told her that he had no such interests in his background. Until he invested in a start-up bio-pharma company. His house alterations were nearing completion. Technically Georgiy had kitted them out. They were aligned to Beth's specifications. But he needed a few more things. A bio-pharma startup in Hertfordshire had some radical drug proposals, but didn't have the ability to produce them. Phil took a trip to his bankers with his proposals, and the loan requirements, and within six months the labs were built and setup. It would take three to five years to get the drugs on the markets, if they even worked and passed all tests, but Phil's history of worthwhile investment persuaded his bankers to take the risk. In return, from the company, Phil got a small lab dedicated to his own simple requirements. Then there were the lawyers. Was it possible to make a person disappear if they wanted to? For example, if he signed the right documents, could he vanish and become someone else? Simple, if the right documents were signed. A change of identity, creation of new accounts, questions averted by reference to written letters and documents inferring that the vanishee wanted their privacy. And a new person could even appear and take over the estate, with the right living wills and transfer documents. Finally there were the doctors. If you wanted to disappear and become someone else entirely, was it possible to have quiet surgery, privately, no questions asked. This was the problem that vexed Phil until all the house alterations were almost completed. Medical Ethics were the complete opposite of Legal Ethics. They existed, and were very strong. Paperwork, signed and countersigned, interviews, psychological assessments. Cosmetic surgery was strictly regulated and controlled. That is, Phil discovered eventually, unless you were a Czech surgeon struck off the register due to alcohol abuse. Dr Alexej Sykora retired quietly to Phil's island estate, and specified his requirements for the last few rooms in the house to be renovated. He also brought his wife, Dagmar, a nurse who had worked in his clinic and had obviously benefitted from the doctor's skills, but was herself finding it difficult to work and support them both, and was obviously relieved to accept Phil's offer of a private position. Dagmar didn't speak a word of English. Phil's idea and desire was simple. He wasn't just going to destroy Jeff, he was going to remould him in a much more pleasant image. Not only that but he would allow, if he could, Jeff to design the image, with a little prompting, of course. Jeff would volunteer his own specifications, and then at each point 'volunteer' to change himself slightly towards those specifications. He would 'disappear' himself, and then reappear as someone entirely more suited to Phil's desires. At no point did Phil question his desires, his sanity, or his near pathological desire to humiliate Jeff. Was it so ingrained, so rooted in his psyche, maybe from his upbringing? Beth wondered if it might be. As she got to know Phil more and more intimately she wondered at the growing closet of skeletons that he was keeping from her. She had gone through some tough therapy herself during her education, as all therapists were meant to understand themselves before they could start to help others, and she was happy with herself and settled. When Phil first took her to his house and explained the concept of a spa she wondered what was really behind it. He showed her the occasional implementation of her research, and showed her similar expert systems that he had had designed by beauticians and exercise therapists so that guests could input their desired requirements and be schooled to achieve them. She met the doctor, and wondered why an island spa might want to offer cosmetic surgery, though she could understand Botox treatments and the like. When Phil offered her free treatments she turned them down flat. She didn't want a cuter nose, a tighter chin, or larger breasts, though a little hip sculpture got her thinking for more than a moment. She was happy with herself. But was Phil? There was a slight tightness around his eyes when she turned him down. She liked him, admired him, quite possibly even loved him, but she wouldn't change herself for him. Was that what he wanted her research for? Could she be arming him with the ability to change her? A niggle became a worry which became a concern. Could she trust him? She decided that she had to find out. Phil was happy that everything was ready. He took a tour around his facility and noted with satisfaction the building and security excellence. Doors were hidden behind flush panels, electrically locked to a central computer for which he had the codes. Equipment was in place. Cameras were entirely invisible, even when you knew what you were looking for. The majority of the structure was underground, heated and powered by geothermal energy, immune to power cuts and blackouts. Food was pre- packed and pre-stocked, released by computer control and configured to dietary requirements, microwave heated where necessary or could be prepared from components within some of the rooms. There were bathrooms, rooms equipped with dressing areas, foldaway beds, exercise equipment. The programs had been tested and ran to perfection. The odder items of equipment he had installed himself, assembled from components put together by separate companies and people who each had no idea of the whole they were working towards. The theatre was perfect for the doctor and his nurse, who had also employed a friendly anaesthatist from the home country who was amazed by the salary for private work even when there was hardly any of it. But there was some, because as a cover Phil had begun advertising his Spa services, and the remoteness of the location with its privacy and superb facilities appealed to the kinds of people who had always been in Phil's circle. He had opened up a wing of the house with a couple of beauticians and exercise gurus, chefs and assistants for everything, who were becoming immunised to the small but steady influx of clients looking to alter their bodies and thus their lives. Mostly, of course, the older wives. The doctor, and presumably his wife, knew of the requirements to operate without question, assuming that all paperwork was covered but not investigating it. The Spa was a model of privacy and discretion. It would make Phil money. But still it was what was underneath the Spa that entranced him. He contacted Jeff. Out of the blue as far as Jeff was concerned. "I don't quite understand. Tell me again." Came the slightly tinny voice through the speakerphone. "You are considering selling my old company, complete, and you came to me first." Phil bridled at the reference to it being Jeff's old company, but held his voice calm. "Yes. A quiet transaction. I'm looking to get away and want to get out of the public eye." "I'm sure your price will be reasonable?" "We should discuss it over the accounts." "Indeed. I'm in Edinburgh for a few days so why don't we meet at your offices? Tomorrow? Nine am? I'm sure you have everything together." Phil always felt like he'd been played when he spoke to Jeff. Why had he let him take control? How did he do it? Not for long, he promised himself. Beth seemed a little distant when he met her for dinner after he'd spent the day with Jeff and two sets of lawyers and accountants. Phil brushed the feeling aside because he was happy. Everything was going to plan. And because he was so happy he shared it with Beth, regaling her with tales of how he was finally going to make it bigger than ever. And how he wanted her by his side for everything. He proposed to her. She was shocked. She didn't expect this. Their relationship was intimate, but not completely open. She liked him and appreciated that he was getting her places that she couldn't have gone on her own. Did she love him? She wasn't sure. But his resources, his riches, his wealth, the easy way she could live and still enjoy her own life, wasn't that attracting? Well, yes! But she didn't entirely trust him. Just as she was sure he wasn't entirely being open with her. The good that she could do with his money though, and how much she could enjoy those Spa resources, and there were a few of his friends and acquaintances that she did quite like. Mrs. Elizabeth Sheraton-Coalville sounded entirely too much, but if she could enjoy it, and ensure her freedom from the controlling side of her future husband that she was coming to understand, it would be worth it. So she said yes. She didn't reveal to him why she was sure about his withholding something. The wedding would be held in a chapel on the island. The reception would be held at the house, with some few guests enjoying the hospitality of the facilities. Phil had invited Jeff. Over the last few weeks they had agreed and written up all the terms of the company purchase, simple enough as a private sale between individuals, though somewhat complicated by Phil's desire to retain a stake in the company, and passing a stake to Georgiy. Georgiy himself wasn't entirely on board with the sale, and seemed to have a reluctance to return to working alongside Jeff. At first the arrangement was made that Jeff would purchase the largest stake, but if Phil and Georgiy were to combine on the board they would overrule Jeff. Jeff however changed this so that Phil and Georgiy's stake would be split out again to a third party with no subjective stake in the company, and Phil proposed Beth, a proposal which Jeff ultimately accepted. The final signatures would be placed in a private meeting during the reception. "I'm still not sure about this." Georgiy complained on the morning of the wedding. "You're my best man, Georgiy. She's my wife, or soon to be. Don't worry about Jeff. I just needed his signature and didn't mind accepting most of his money." "Okay, Phil. I guess you know what you're doing." "First she signs, then later he signs, and I can live happily ever after." Georgiy looked puzzled. Phil caught it. "I'm going to have a long honeymoon, Georgiy, and I won't be worrying about Jeff. Neither should you!" The wedding itself was simple and beautiful, and the bride radiant. She had a secret smile, Phil thought to himself, and he enjoyed it. They kissed for the cameras and for the crowds, and signed the register before returning to the house in a carriage. For the first time that day they entered the house together as man and wife, and went straight up to the master bedroom where Beth closed the door behind them. She slipped out of her dress and slipped him out of his suit before pushing him back onto the bed and climbing atop him. "Got to make this fully legal." She smiled as she caressed him to hardness and slid herself onto him. "If you have to." He smiled back. "Oh, I do!" She laughed, lasciviously, as she started to bounce on his thighs and bring him to a days'-long awaited orgasm inside her. She climbed off him as he lay there spent. "Come on, Dear, there are guests waiting. I want to go downstairs as Mrs. Sheraton-Coalville." She disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and returned in her dress as he was tying his shoelaces. "Let's get rid of everyone and get our new lives started, shall we?" He grinned up at her. "New lives? Yes. Let's." Jeff sat in his office and signed all the papers with him. Finally everything was done, witnessed by the two lawyers. Both men had skipped right through all their piles of paperwork signing on the set positions, the bundles having been prepared weeks before. Phil reached out to shake Jeff's hand as the lawyers left the room. Jeff smiled and took it. "Would you like to see some of my newest work?" Phil offered. "Sure, why not?" Phil sat Jeff at a console and brought up an innocuous looking Spa programme menu. "I call it the 'perfect partner program'." Phil explained. "I want to get this facility up to creating perfect people so you enter your requirements and a programme is tailored to suit." "So I enter me in, and then who I want to be, and the Spa does the rest? Why 'perfect partner'?" Jeff asked, emphasising the 'partner'. Phil smiled. "Aha. Because maybe instead of entering how you want to look, you enter in how you want your partner to look, and act, perhaps." "If you could manage that, you'd be onto another multi-million winner." Jeff grinned almost ferally. "You don't want me in on it surely? Though I could understand why. How would you sort out the legalities?" "Oh, but I do want you in." Phil smiled almost pleasantly behind Jeff's back. "And that's why I'd like you to try out the idea, see how we could market it. But mostly because I figure you are the discerning guy who wants a particular type of partner. A type that would appeal to other wealthy potentials, men like yourself." "I can see that. Yup, it figures. You have to fit your programme to the predominant style. There won't be too many variations from it. I'll bite, I'll try it out. But still, the legalities? How do you get your 'partner' into the programme?" "Voluntarily?" Phil shrugged. "Everyone wants to be perfect. They volunteer to disappear for a while, and when they return they wouldn't question the treatment anyway." "I don't believe that's possible, but let's just assume that it is. Alright, leave me alone for a while and go deal with your guests. I'll have a look through this lot." When Phil came back Jeff had done exactly what he expected him to. On the final screen was a slim, curvacious woman with oversized breasts and long blonde hair. Her face was computer-bland but still beautiful. "What were your entry parameters?" He asked the still engrossed salesman. "Oh, about your height and weight, flat, frumpy. You know, a real test." Phil bridled at the implied insult. He was only an inch or two shorter than Jeff anyway. It would be easy to alter. "And likes, dislikes, hobbies?" "Simple. Sex. And shopping. Sex with men, shopping with women when the men don't want her." "Most women like sex and shopping. Not much of a change." Jeff looked around for the first time. He caught Phil's eyes. "That depends on whether she liked sex and shopping in the first place." He smiled. "But you want to know the details, how much I played, whether I think your idea is a goer... I thought certain things were odd, like musical tastes I can understand, you want her to like what you like, but taste in men? Gossip subjects? Turn ons? Turn offs? Really, Phil, what man would care? Even a dating site doesn't go into that kind of crazy detail. I wouldn't care what my 'perfect partner' thought about, just so long as she was gorgeous, happy to please me, and kept quiet when I needed her to. And if she was into football, well, I'm pretty sure you couldn't breed it out of her just by giving her a boob job and bigger lips." He got up from the console. "You can check it if you like. See what my perfect partner would be like. If you like her, see if you can find me one. Though," and he winked to Phil just as he got to the door, "I might already have found her." Phil looked at the rotating avatar. It would be just like Jeff to have a woman like that waiting for him. He shrugged and sat down, taking a quick look through Jeff's specs and adjusting where he needed to. Actually he'd specified pretty much what Phil expected. A woman interested in maintaining her own appearance and attracting men. A woman who actively pleased her man, who seriously enjoyed sex. A bimbo, and a slut. A very attractive one though. Did he, Phil, want that for Jeff? Well, why not? But there was just one thing. Bigger breasts. Not because he liked them but because 'she' would hate them. Much bigger breasts. Satisfied, Phil entered the configuration into the main program and set the system going. He could almost hear the entry door hiss open awaiting its occupant, only to shut behind him and not open again. Downstairs he couldn't find Beth anywhere. A friend of hers claimed she'd gone to get changed some time ago. He mingled and chatted to his guests who were either gradually departing for home or crossing over to the Spa hotel where a bar, music, and later their beds awaited them. Eventually he did wonder where Beth had gone. But where Beth had gone was secondary to where Jeff was now. Then he saw him, coming down the stairs, probably from exploring the house, a swagger in his stride from perhaps too much to drink. That was good! It would make him easy to manipulate. Phil only had to guide him down into the Spa and below. Then Beth appeared on the stairs. Seeing Phil she trotted down quickly to greet him, arriving in his arms at the same time as Phil met Jeff. "Let's get some drinks, honey!" She smiled. Then she saw Jeff. "You can come too!" She dragged the two men over to the bar by the hands and walked behind, pulling out a number of bottles to mix horrific concoctions into large glasses which she plumped up with fruit slices and drops from various mini-bottles. Phil didn't want to drink that much, nor get drunk, but perhaps it was time to celebrate. Anyway he would have enough control to guide Jeff downstairs, and Jeff would be even further down the road! "Bottoms up!" Beth called as she reached for her drink and watched Phil lift his. 'Disgusting', he thought, as he took a large gulp. Then he couldn't remember anything else. He didn't have a headache when he woke so he didn't have a hangover. What he had was a discomforting feeling that he was in the wrong place. He opened his eyes and looked around himself warily. White walls, bright white, just the bed he was in and a seat four feet away from the bed fixed up against the opposite wall. One door handle to the left of the seat. Music was playing lightly into the room. He got up quickly and stepped to the wall where the entry door was but could find no trace of it except the flush panel in the wall. He tried to get his fingers into the gap between the panels but it was no use, it was firmly closed and he knew it was locked from the outside. The music volume increased as he stepped across the floor, the innocuous pop song now coming heavily into the foreground at a level he couldn't ignore, the level of a teenager's bedroom stereo, making it difficult to maintain a coherent line of thought. He moved to where he knew the exit door was located and found the panel just as flush as the entry. Trapped! In room one! He checked himself and found himself completely naked. No clothes meant no phone. It also meant someone had undressed him. But who? Who had brought him here? Nobody knew about this facility! The music diverted his thoughts as the song changed to something that the DJ had played last night, and he recognised. His programs downloaded the latest chart singles from the Top 40 each week and put them on a playlist. He'd arranged it so that the more popular songs were played more often, the top 10 four times more often than the bottom 10, and the top 3 five times more often, and played completely randomly otherwise. It would take about four hours to go through the entire playlist that way, but the randomness would make sure you never quite knew when it was repeating. The playlist would play about six times in twenty four hours, forty two times in a week before the songs changed slightly. They played loudly when he was out of bed, quietly when he was in bed, but they never stopped. This was the brainwashing room, designed from Beth's research and theories to completely disorient the occupant. There was only one way to get the program to open the exit door, and it involved passing two tests. One was computer based, and tested the occupant's knowledge on the contents of various magazines which would begin arriving following the initial period of disorientation and boredom. The other was physical and Phil didn't want to think about that one yet. The only other way out would be if someone knew he was here, and he was sure that someone did. He needed them to release him, otherwise he was trapped in this automatically controlled environment, soundproof, underground, on no plans or blueprints anywhere. Phil was frustrated, but resigned. Nobody was coming to free him. That meant he'd been put here on purpose. But by whom? Beth he couldn't believe. She knew nothing about this facility, and she loved him. It was possible that she could know about it, as she had the run of the house and spa, but only Phil had access, and even the outer doors were well hidden by experts in the trade. The builders were separate groups who never saw the whole, and well paid to keep quiet about their pieces. Georgiy had designed some of the systems but never knew where they were placed. He was Phil's best man, and Phil was certain of his loyalty. What could Georgiy gain? Without Phil he didn't even have control of his company. Jeff would be the only person that Phil could think of that might do this to him, but Jeff knew absolutely nothing about it. Unless Phil had managed to bring him down here. But then Jeff would be trapped here, and Phil would be outside. Could that have happened? Phil tried to recall his wedding night, but there was nothing. Beth had given them all far too much alcohol, and he couldn't remember a thing. Resignation meant he had started eating the food. A shelf came out of the wall sometime while the lights were on, the food simply placed on the shelf, and a spoon chained to the shelf was provided for eating it. The tray stayed out for a period before retracting whether the food was eaten or not, so if he wanted to eat he ate when the room decided. He knew that this was a random event, just like the lights going on and off. The lights might stay on for two days, bright enough to prevent sleep, or they might go off after a few hours, and plunge the room into complete blackness. Phil slept when the lights were out because he had to, otherwise he might not sleep. Eating the food was submission to the program though, he knew. The food contained everything he needed to survive, but it was also treated with the drugs. It was a hard choice, to wait and keep waiting for release, but Phil didn't have the resolve to starve himself. Death was possible in this room, through starvation, but it would not be the fault of the program. It was the only way out other than passing the tests. Phil made his choice soon after he thought a day had passed, though he already had little idea of time. Perhaps it wasn't a choice even as his thoughts were so muddled by the upbeat pop crap being pushed into his brain. The choice, he figured, was to survive and work his way out, and then once out figure out who had done this to him and how to undo it and get his revenge. This time it would be simple revenge, not this complex, expensive one. To get out he had to pass the tests as quickly as possible. The drugs in the food were to help him pass the second test, the physical one. He had to accept that the drugs were going to remould him somewhat, but once he was remoulded he could get out of this room. So he ate. He ate everything provided, and drank everything provided. Water, at least, was available from the tray at all times the light was on. The bathroom was just a closet, and it was the first thing he truly had to adapt to. There was no toilet. There was no sink. Washing was performed using an endless loop of damp towelling that ran through a perpetual cleaning system. There was enough loose to reach every crevice, but it was too strong to pull out. Toilet, well that was the humiliating bit. A diaper was provided. It could be thrown away through a porthole that you had to reach up to, so impossible to sit on or get up to. Once the used diaper was dropped through the porthole a new one was dropped onto the bed in the main room. Phil started naked and laid out a diaper when he needed it, but that didn't last for long after he started eating the food. The first time he was caught out by the laxatives he managed to get himself out of bed before a cramp resulted in him shitting lumpy liquid down his leg and onto the floor in the pitch blackness. He felt his way to the bathroom and cleaned himself off, before blindly applying a diaper to himself and feeling his way around the room back to bed. When the lights came on he used three more diapers to clean the floor entirely, hoping that the room wouldn't continue to stink of his faeces. From then on he wore a diaper at all times, except when removing one and crossing back to his bed for the new one. He tried to control his piss, but sometimes the diuretics were simply too strong for that too, and he simply filled his diaper. Finally the magazines began to show up on the touch panel screen above his seat. The program was subscribed to online gossip and women's magazines, and Phil could select from them and read from them as though using a tablet. Phil couldn't remember if this meant that a week had passed, or if it was more. To him it felt like a month of incredible, draining boredom, singing along to childish lyrics about love. He didn't want to read them, but felt drawn to them just to give him something to think about. But there was another reason. After a certain time had passed you could apply to take the test. The program also 'read' the sites, and created questions based upon them. Phil had to learn everything in every edition of Seventeen, Heat, Closer, Hello, Cosmo, and about fifteen other girlie magazines in order to pass the test. If you failed the test, you weren't allowed to take it again for a random period of time that could range between a few hours to a week. Once you passed the test you could take the physical test, not before. But of course if you failed the physical you had to wait to retake the mental test. Phil began to read. Time sometimes seemed to be passing more slowly. A new phase of the program had begun almost unnoticed by Phil and he struggled to remember when he'd set it to start, or even when he'd put it in. Did it even matter? The most obvious time it appeared, and it had been appearing very quietly at first behind the music, was just before the lights went out. A recording of a non-descript male voice said "Go to bed." At first Phil had just gone to bed when the lights went out, but now that he thought back he realised that he had started going to bed just before the lights went out some time ago. He couldn't recall how many times he'd done it. But only now he could hear the voice clearly. Or had he been able to hear it before? He was doing as he was told, and that wasn't good. But he knew that the program was so cleverly devised that it was unavoidable. As he opened the bathroom door it said "Take off your diaper and throw it away." When it was thrown it said "Clean yourself up." When he went back over to the bed it said "Put on your diaper" just before he got to it. When the food shelf came out it said "Eat." Yet now he was starting to read magazines according to what the voice told him to read, and he had barely noticed himself doing it. But, he thought carefully, he had little choice. The touch screen only came on when he sat on the seat, and the seat had electrodes in which would administer a shock if he didn't choose what the voice told him to, so rather than test his own punishment system he did as he was told. He did take his first test. "What colour dress did Gwyneth Paltrow wear to the Golden Globes?" "According to Seventeen, what colour of lipstick should you avoid if you have olive skin?" "What did Kim Kardashian call her first child?" The questions went on and on. He didn't do too badly, he didn't think, but knew that he'd not studied the makeup and beauty pages enough. The test didn't tell him he'd failed, but he knew he had. He couldn't remember when he'd stopped doing pushups and situps. When he arrived he started doing them because he knew the program would weaken him. But he couldn't remember the last time he'd done them. The drugs induced a certain lethargy, mostly because they switched off male testosterone. He'd never been particularly fit, but he had to keep his strength up for when he got out. He got down on the floor and started to do push ups. He managed six before his arms started to ache and he simply didn't feel like going on. He lay on his back and got through three situps before he squirted into his diaper, and feeling the mess against his skin he got up and went to change himself and clean himself, before sitting back in front of the screen and bringing up Playgirl whilst singing along to Rihanna. There wasn't a lot to learn, but the last test had caught him out. He passed the test. Up came a new button to engage the physical test. Phil pressed it in wonderment, and watched as a panel above his bed opened and two things that looked like airline gasmasks that dropped down in case of depressurisation came down to the bed. The screen told him what to do and he lay back on his bed and placed the two suction cups over his chest with his nipples central. They engaged and began to suck. After two minutes they disengaged and rose back up into the ceiling. Phil was somewhat happy, but also not. In order to get out of the room he had to produce two liters of milk within a set time period. In order to produce milk he had to have breasts. In order to have breasts the drugs in the food had to start working a lot more quickly, because though he could feel two little nubs, they just weren't really growing yet. However, Phil figured that the suction would help inducing him to produce something whatever. He'd read about that kind of thing, and maybe he could escape before too much growth occurred. He went back over to the chair, humming along to a new One Direction tune which had gone straight in at number one. Six pushups again. He knew that at some point he'd gone down to five, and then four, but he'd tried to keep at it and now he was back up to six. He was straining his emaciated arms, but any strength that he could hold onto was going to help him. He'd managed to turn exercise into a routine, picking out one song that was only just in the top forty according to the magazines and then getting down onto the floor each time he heard it playing. He wasn't sure it was a good way to exercise, but having the routine helped him. All he knew now was the white room with its fittings, every word to every song in the top thirty, and every female popstar and actress's beauty regime. The last pushup he flopped onto his chest, and felt the pain of squashing the flesh bubbling up there. The last time he had laid on the bed under the suction cups it had felt really good, bringing his nipples up into hard, sultana sized nubs that ached with forgotten pleasure. He hadn't produced any milk though, not even a dribble. He inspected inside the front of his diaper. His penis had shrunk. He hadn't used it for a while, not for the longest time, even laid on his bed. It still felt nice to touch but he just hadn't had the urge. It didn't matter. He'd have it back, some day. But he just couldn't find it in himself to make it matter. What mattered was getting out of this room. He felt his slowly budding breasts. They were intriguing. They felt nice. Sensitive. He was sure they looked like a young teenager's, though they seemed quite large to him, looking down. They didn't flop yet. He guessed they would when the drugs for the milk kicked in that development. They were supposed to fill and round out. He had no idea if his mother had been large or small as he couldn't even remember photographs of her. Judging by his father's later choice, his stepmother, they might have been average to large, but then his stepmother had always eaten well. Phil knew that he was eating enough to survive, on a diet designed to get him down to a very low weight, however the diet should have changed slightly with his passing of the test, with more carbs, intended to put on a little fat. Phil didn't notice the bland male voice take over command of every aspect of his limited life. Now the music would stop completely to allow the voice to come through clearly, and with little choice to do anything but its bidding Phil would comply immediately. He didn't even think about it. If anything the voice was something he looked forward to hearing, and he began to encourage it without even realising what he was doing. He would wet himself, then change his diaper just to be ordered to clean up. He would scroll quickly through his screens just to hear the voice tell him what to read next. And then, once or twice, he would disobey it, just to feel the shock from his seat, but only once or twice, and he was obedient afterwards. He was sure he'd had a burst of growth. His breasts were now feeling heavy, and full. He was desperate to take a test just to be rid of the dull ache. Finally the test was there, and he passed it with flying colours. He sang happily along to the song playing as he moved over to lie down on his bed, and positioned the suction cups over his slightly flopping tits. The suction began and he felt a pressure build up behind his nipples, uncomfortably, and then with a surge the pressure was released. Phil gasped, feeling a sudden pleasure and lightheadedness, and then he felt the flow from behind his nipples out through his skin. He was sucked dry in moments, but the cups kept pulsing until they knew there was no more coming out, and then they retracted. From then on Phil finally got into a routine. The cups appeared every three hours, and the voice told him to lie down and connect them. For the first few days Phil's breasts were sucked dry in moments. But very soon the milk started flowing and the pumps stayed connected for minutes, and kept up the suction until he was dry. Minutes turned into five minutes and beyond. Phil didn't know that breasts self-adjusted to produce as much milk as was needed, and that the amount that had been stipulated for escape, two liters in twenty four hours, was enough to feed triplets. All he knew was that it was the most pleasurable sensation he'd felt since he could remember, though he was fairly certain that sex had been better. Right now he was just a milking cow, lying down when the voice told him to, waking up when the voice told him to connect up, reading magazines to pass the time between milkings, and singing along to inane pop songs. Phil felt the cups rise and then heard the voice. "Go through the door." He slid off the bed, stepped across to the doorway and stepped through. Almost like waking from a dream he realised what had happened and looked back to see the door close flush with the wall and disappear. The music didn't skip a beat, the lights stayed bright, and Phil looked around a room that appeared identical to the one he had just left. He tried to engage his brain without falling into the trap of paying attention to the song running through his head. He was in the second room. What did he have to do to get out? There were two things definitely. Get rid of his body and facial hair and pass the scan, and wear something, but that was afterwards, or was it before? He had to wear a corset and a second scan would test he met the defined shape. Okay, the second would be easy because he could just put the corset on to take the test. The first meant he had to wait for the laser hair remover to appear, but at least he would get a mirror. He went over to the seat. His magazine reading was still there, thank goodness! What Phil had forgotten about were the insidious mental impacts begun in the last room but continued in this one more openly. He had no idea how much time had passed, but it was nearly nine months. His breast development was not substantial but the enforcement of copious milk production masked that. Nine months of complete disorientation had left his mind grasping for direction, regular milking being one direction that was accepted with gratitude, but also implicit acceptance of the vocal commands. What Phil hadn't noticed so much was that he'd begun talking to himself. Well, not so much to himself, in fact he was responding to conversational prompts from the initially almost inaudible voices behind the music. A second voice had been slowly added, again bland, but this time a female voice. The female voice might ask him questions as he took the tests, or simply as he read his magazines, and he would answer. The program was not clever enough to hold a true conversation, but the various microphones around the room could pick up Phil's vocalisations and analyse them. Simple responses to questions might be followed up with Eliza-like prompts such as "are you, like, sure?" which would cause Phil to comment clearly to the open air, "yes, I'm, like, sure!" At the same time the male voice, which didn't converse but remained commanding, began a new program alongside its existing one. It was this program which was becoming much more open in the second room. The program had begun slowly, giving Phil statements that he had to repeat. This program could pick out Phil's exact responses, and if incorrect he might be reprimanded by the voice, or shocked if sitting. If correct he might be complimented, and the screen might flash a "well done" message. The statements were simple facts, but stated incorrectly. Spellings, "London - L-U-N-D-U-N." Addition, "two plus two is five." Subtraction, "five take away two is two." Multiplication, "Three twos are seven." The bombshell was that these statements weren't random, but based on complete reformations of the subject areas which were entirely consistent in themselves. Phil wasn't repeating random, confusing propositions, but learning whole new systems for maths and English, through rote and repetition. How this became open in the second room was that the male voice was loud and obvious, commanding Phil to recite his times tables or spell regular words multiple times. The reinforcement was then tested in simple games on the touch screen, like brain training games, testing Phil's spelling and arithmetic ability against the new systems. In order to improve, Phil had to relearn all the maths that he had learned in primary school, all the basis of his mathematical higher learning, and regurgitate it quickly and flawlessly to the screen. Spellings took longer, but basically everything was now spelled phonetically, and in general the phonetics were easy to understand, with the odd quirk that meant that even spelling phonetically Phil would be unable to be fully understood in writing. Innocuous swaps, such as a 'q' for a 'g', or a 'b' for a 'd'. The insidious program behind this also parsed all the website pages presented to Phil's screen and slowly but surely began swapping out words for their new spellings, according to its dictionary. Even in the tests Phil would be given questions in the new written language, and answers were expected in the same. The room itself was different. Not at first sight, but behind the door the bathroom was now a bathroom rather than a closet, with a seat and a shower. Toilet paper was still not available, but there was a dry towel system as well as a damp towel system. Phil's first shower, on command, was a very pungent one, releasing months of built up dirt from places where he hadn't been able to use the towel properly, such as his hair, which was greasy and rat-tailed. When he managed to finally get his fingers through it the dirt fell off and released fine hair down to the bottom of his neck, covering his ears and falling over his eyes. He conditioned it and finger-brushed it back to try to keep it out of his eyes. The suction cups still appeared on a regular schedule, moments after the male voice told him to lie on the bed. "Are you, like, happy like this?" The female voice might ask. "I, like, so love it!" Phil would answer with a smile as his nipples were sucked and his breasts were stimulated. Still the cups didn't stop sucking until after Phil was dry, and so Phil was still producing more and more milk, in tiny increments, every day. When the laser treatment equipment first appeared he did exactly as instructed, the tiny pulses of light destroying his hairs at the follicle but leaving his skin, especially his face, chest and inner thighs red and irritated. He moisturised well, and continued a moisturisation program from that point on. Following recovery from the treatment the corset appeared on his bed. He was to put it on and pull it as tight as he could bear. He knew that escape from the room relied upon him complying as he had to reach a certain, preset waist measurement. The measurement was taken by Georgiy's three-dimensional analysis equipment, with cameras and sensors all around the room. Phil didn't know when he would reach the requirements as the test was underway at all times. He kept the corset on, and kept tightening it when he could, forgetting all about his situp regime as the corset would not allow him to curl his abdomen, but maintained his pushups, squats and jumps. The corset was removed, presumably daily but Phil, whilst knowing that about three hours passed between milkings, was confused about how many three hour segments there were in a day, and thought it was between eight and nine, but closer to nine. So the corset was removed between two of his milkings, but each time Phil tried to count how many had passed he lost count at five, because he was sure that five was missing from his number scale. Eventually he just skipped past it, counting eight milkings between corset removals, ignoring the fact that he once thought it should be seven, and eight threes were twenty two, two hours short of a day. Some drugs were removed from his food, and Phil was told to take control of his toilet again. At first he sat down on the toilet because every time he removed his diaper to wee he couldn't be sure whether he would defaecate too, and also because he was told to sit down when he entered the bathroom. Soon the command faded into the background again, and Phil simply sat because he did. His diapers were replaced by panties, elasticated, comfortable, and easy to put on even with the corset. The panties varied, sometimes briefs, sometimes girlie boxers, nothing too shocking to anything that might remain of his male psyche. After three months Phil's hungry waist was tiny, unknown to him measuring twenty two inches when tightly corsetted. Sweet and starchy food, fortified with his own breast milk, supplemental minerals and vitamins, and copious drugs had, however, laid fat down in areas defined by the hormones flowing around his body. These hormones no longer included testosterone from anywhere, as Phil's production systems had been completely overrun and he was now chemically castrated and sterile. Female hormones dictated that the fat was gently laid down primarily on his breasts, hips and butt, and the latter two were expanding quite comfortably. Due to his breast development and milk production he probably needed to wear a bra now, but one was not provided, and he had to cope with the jiggling and swaying as he walked from bed to seat. Usually he held them firmly in his hands, still capable of covering them almost entirely. Had Phil known that twelve months had passed he would have remembered what the departure criteria for the room were. He again passed his gossip, fashion and music tests. He passed his brain training style maths and English tests with flying colours. Milk production was no longer a test, simply a maintenance exercise and a piece of enjoyment sometimes apparently offered as a reward for his other successes. Twenty two inches corsetted was the escape criterion based on waist size. When he removed the corset his waist generally remained under twenty five inches, but he didn't know this either. No, what he'd forgotten was that under his setup of the facility he had now lived for one year as a woman. He hadn't, even in these exceptional circumstances, but he hadn't been out in the outside world as a man for the past year, and cleverly presented documents, signed off by a clinical psychologist (he'd arranged for Beth, unknown to her, to sign many such documents), stated that he had passed his Real Life Test. What the final criteria was for leaving the room was a signed statement that he was voluntarily undertaking sexual reassignment surgery. Had his completely muddled brain remembered that this was what he was signing for, he might have tried to avoid it, at least for a while, until he realised that there was no other way out of the room. Instead he read nothing, signed where he was commanded on the touch screen, and 'voluntarily' committed himself to the operation. Immediately after his milking the door opened and the command came. He stepped through to Room 3. The gas in the room began only when Phil laid on the bed as commanded. Even though he had just finished he was happily expecting a milking. Knocked out, the bed passed through the wall into a surgical waiting area. Roused from their break, expecting a patient according to the theatre schedule, the Sykoras and their Czech anaesthetist found the patient awaiting transfer, though usually they were already on the gurney, only a few had been placed on the wall bed in the past when the gurney was unavailable. Dr. Sykora, Alexej, noted immediately the patient's similarity to his employer, who had disppeared with his new wife over a year ago, and now only kept in contact rarely and through intermediaries. He smiled to himself as he noted the changes and guessed why the privacy had been desired. Payment was payment, but for this 'patient' he would do his best work. Together, the team transferred him to the gurney and worked their way through the well practiced and honed procedure to remove the testes, invert the penis and use it as the new vaginal walls within the patient's abdomen, and create amazingly realistic labia from the flesh of the empty scrotum. Alexej was, before he was disallowed from further practice, an acknowledged expert in sexual neurology, and he was able to capture the full nerve bundle from the penis and compress it into a tiny nub of thinly skinned, erectile flesh that he positioned perfectly above the new opening for maximal stimulation during intercourse. Alexej's patients had never had trouble with reaching orgasm during intercourse with a male. If anything, follow up research on his patients showed that they had a tendency to appreciate his work too much! When everything was complete, bandaged and bound, Dagmar pumped the patient's breasts as according to Alexej's translation of the notes. In the year or so they had been working there such requests had become commonplace, and the team no longer blinked at orchidectomies, penectomies, mastectomies of healthy breasts, massive augmentations, and all manner of strange facial surgeries. The team drew the line at amputations, even if some of the previous surgeries could be counted as such. Their flexibility meant they were very busy as their facility became known through a wealthy underground, and they were being very well rewarded. Such a procedure as they had just completed was vanilla, and it was even more gratifying that all of the paperwork had been in order. Alexej knew his 'patient' would be very happy with the results, and left him to the rest of his team to place back on the wall bed. Nobody was in the room when the bed withdrew back through the wall. Phil woke on command, groggily, but the first exercise was simple and welcome as the ever present suction cups came down from the ceiling. He placed them happily over his breasts and laid back to allow his milk to flow. After milking this time, and for a few more times, the lights went out, and Phil remained on his bed, connected to an IV dispensing fluids and pain medication. If he couldn't sleep he lay listening to the quieter music. This period allowed Phil to heal up slightly, and unknown to him, unfelt as he slept, his catheter bag and IV were automatically changed. He had no concept that days were passing as he lay in his bed, but occasionally he was subtly put to sleep again and the bed would pass through the wall where Dagmar would come to him on the other side and check his bandaging and healing, finally removing his catheter, IV and bandages and allowing the tender new flesh to be exposed. He awoke and attached the cups. Something felt different and he knew it, but he remained somewhat spacey from the after effects of his medication. After milking he crossed the floor to eat, unknowingly taking in further pain medication and a slightly different set of drugs designed to depress his higher functioning and keep him sluggish and mild in temperament. His first toilet break hurt him slightly, and he would have checked himself if he hadn't put on the new posture corset just before getting out of bed, a corset which kept him quite stiffly upright and meant his now supported breasts blocked him from seeing himself down below. Still he was aware that something was wrong, he just didn't know what, yet. As he healed and roused from his stupor the voice gave him more commands. A pair of heeled shoes appeared at his bed and he had to wear them whenever he walked about the room. The floor itself, he discovered, was electrically charged, and painful to touch barefoot, so the heels were an automatic choice to put on when getting up, even though he couldn't avoid the command to do so. He briefly remembered where he was, the third room, designed to exercise him in heels. The treadmill was there, and he finally noted it. The treadmill now would be his only form of exercise, as he could no longer touch the floor to do pushups. Maybe on his bed, he thought. The treadmill was set up with sensors everywhere to monitor and correct his motion as he walked on it, from where he placed his feet to the angle he swung his hips at to where his hands were placed. Incorrect style earned him a shock from the shoes themselves, but taking them off was worse. He did as the voice told him, starting slowly, placing his feet on the markers as they rolled around, sliding his hips sidewise as far as the sensors required, and keeping his hands high and wide, elbows in. As he improved the voices complimented him, and the treadmill sped up to a set speed which he could maintain for longer and longer periods. Sometimes the mode changed, and he had to walk like he was on a catwalk, gliding more, sometimes it sped up and he had to mince along on tiptoe with quick feet, hands higher. The corset supported him for a while, but he was required to put it on less and less. Sometimes this meant moving on the treadmill with his breasts unsupported, and he was permitted to hold them with his hands. Soon he was offered bras which were laid out on his bed, and the comfort of exercising in them as compared to their jiggle and bounce otherwise quickly convinced him to wear bras at all times, no matter what they looked like or what they were made of. Walking, however, was not the only task he had in the room. He also had to perform dilation. This had been a challenge for Phil when he had set up the facility and programs. Getting Beth to research involuntary actions was difficult enough, enforcing them was another. The difficulty wasn't maintaining the action, but making it happen in the first place. Phil had to convert the problem into getting a non-transgender male to dilate following SRS. A non-t-male would have no requirement for a vagina, and no desire to fill it, with anything. Once the bandages were off, dilation, with a small stent, would have to begin, and regularly. At first he considered methods for involuntary dilation, restraining the room occupant whilst inserting the stents, but couldn't figure out how to achieve it automatically. Somehow he had to achieve voluntary dilation. Finally he had the creative idea of killing two birds with one stone. He would replace most of the food by a liquid substitute to be delivered through a tube. To retrieve the tube the occupant had to sit on a special seat which presented the stents, in gradually increasing sizes. Up and down motion would pump the liquid meal through the tube and into the mouth. All this was aided by Beth's original brainwashing, confusion, disorientation and obedience programming. Without that the male mind might still triumph. But when Phil was shown by the screen how to get fed, and then ordered to do it, he couldn't even think twice before the discomforting feeling rose up between his legs and the feeding tube presented itself. The feeding tube was slightly flexible, enabling Phil to grip it and pull it into his mouth. It was a dual pumping system. Motion on the seat was one pump, but the tube still had to be squeezed slightly to open a valve and pull out the food. It was shaped like a rubber cock, of course, complete with bulbous head and veins on the shaft. Phil felt the first tiny taste of dripped food as he pulled it into his mouth, and a little more as he rose up in surprise from the small dildo slipping into his new vagina. The voice commanded him to continue, and the taste of sweet food did the same, so he let himself down gently onto the seat and pulled the tube down with him releasing more food. It wasn't painful or uncomfortable, just wierd, but Phil when planning the room had not counted for one factor. He hadn't counted on how successful Dr Alexej was at creating pleasure centres in his patients. Wierd as it was, it soon felt exceptionally good. That alone might not have got a male to return to the seat on command and pump his food out through a rubber cock. What Phil had done was ensure that each time the stents were retracted through the seat for cleaning they were returned lubricated with a gel that contained a mild drug, to ensure a quick and undetectable addiction to the activity. Of course, the need for feeding helped, as did the desire to obey and punishments applied when the occupant didn't. Soon Phil was needing his sessions on the loveseat, and thoroughly enjoying them. He discovered that if he held himself in the right position on the seat with his hands, meaning that he had to pump the feeding tube with his lips and maintain suction, he could fairly quickly bring himself to a thundering orgasm. As the stents grew larger, the pressure under his clitoris increased, and orgasms became even easier. He had got past the initial masculine drive not to slide something inside him, and was now fully addicted to the process and pleasure. If he could only have seen himself, fucking one cock and sucking another at the same, he might have wondered who the slut was. The threat of withdrawal of the addictive pleasure seat and the food provision at the same time was now another weapon in the facility's arsenal. Phil was now wearing lingerie and heels at all times, and corsets regularly though not all the time. He was an expert in simple arithmetic based on his new, faulty number system, and proficient at reading, writing and spelling out loud his new words. He was conversing with the bland woman's voice, the only voice that would speak to him, and occasionally dancing along to vapid tunes as he sang them. It was time for the