...professionalism. If only I'd known what was truly behind those immaculate walls.

There I was, lying on the surgical bed, the bright overhead light above me. I took one last deep breath through my damaged nose, silently counting backwards as the anesthetic began to take effect. The world faded to black, an anesthetically induced slumber enveloping me in its grasp. Little did I know, in those unconscious hours, my life as I knew it would be irrevocably altered.

I awoke slowly, my senses returning in fragments. First, the sound—muffled and distant music, a melody too soothing, almost sinister in its constant presence. Then, the feel of the clinical sheet against my now unrecognizable body. A strange realization washed over me; I was restrained, unable to move. Panic rose quickly, my heart pounding against the unfamiliar curves of my new chest, each beat resonating through the weight of unfamiliar softness—breasts.

I tried to speak, to call out, but the voice that emerged was foreign, high-pitched and melodic. It was feminine, undeniably so, and the shock of hearing it sent a shiver through my now smaller, more delicate frame. I strained against my restraints—white hospital straps that held my neck, waist, forearms, wrists, thighs, knees, and ankles fast to the bed. My head could barely turn, a strap ensuring I faced the ceiling.

The touch of long hair brushed against my shoulders and neck, its weight and texture alien yet somehow natural. Where was the short ginger hair I’d known all my life? Slowly, other sensations crept in—the absence where the familiar parts of me used to be, replaced by an emptiness that was terrifying in its unfamiliarity.

I tried to focus, to piece together what had happened. The clinic, their reassurances. But this? This transformation—a complete rewriting of my physical being—was beyond comprehension. My skin felt different, softer and more sensitive, each brush of air sending tingling signals across my new dimensions. The curves, the contours—it was all wrong, yet there was an unsettling allure in the way my body responded to even the subtlest of movements.

Bound as I was, my world was reduced to these sensations, combined with the eerie music playing somewhere beyond my immediate awareness. It wrapped around my mind like a gentle fog, coaxing something deep within to surface, a whispering promise of acceptance and ease.

Fear and confusion battled with a strange, insidious calm. Was this the result of my transformation, or was the music influencing me from the shadows? The changes in my body were thorough, down to green eyes that now saw nothing behind the mask partially veiling my face. My entire being—my DNA, my very essence—had been altered, and I was powerless within these straps, unable to do anything but feel and come to terms with this new reality.

Understanding trickled in slowly, that my former appearance was gone, my existence as a male erased without a trace left to follow. Panic faded to a simmering background noise, overridden by an inexplicable curiosity, an unsettling acceptance of the difference in my new skin. Feminine, submissive—everything I wasn’t, the very definition of me redefined.

I was trapped, yes, but at the same time, irrevocably transformed. And now, beneath the soothing sinister hum of the music, I knew nothing would ever be simple again.

Kinks: Stockholm Syndrome, gaslighting, manipulation, positive and negative reinforcement, unaware, training, submissive, bondage, slavery, dubcon, tricked. More kinks and my limits on my page