The fluorescent lights of the police station buzzed overhead like wasps trapped in a jar, and Olivia Harper sat rigid on the plastic bench, her wrists still bearing the red impressions of handcuffs. Twenty-three years old, brown hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, wearing clothes from a charity shop that hung loosely on her thin frame—she looked nothing like her mother. That was the point. That had always been the point.
Across the corridor, separated by a glass partition, Max caught her eye. Her boyfriend of eighteen months gave her an encouraging nod, his own brown curls dishevelled from their night in separate holding cells. They'd been arrested together, chained themselves to the gates of a data centre that was harvesting biometric information without consent. It had felt righteous at the time. Revolutionary. Now, with the taste of instant coffee still bitter on her tongue and the reality of a criminal record looming, Olivia wondered if they'd accomplished anything at all.
"Olivia Harper?"
She looked up. A police officer—middle-aged, tired, clearly counting down to retirement—stood with a clipboard.
"Your bail's been posted. You're free to go. Conditions apply."
"What about Max? Max Thornton—he was arrested with me."
The officer checked his paperwork with the enthusiasm of a man reading the back of a cereal box. "Already released. No charges. He's waiting for you outside."
Olivia blinked. "No charges? But we were both—"
"Look, love, I just process the paperwork. Someone wants you tagged, that's all I know. Ankle monitor. Standard stuff for flight risks."
"I'm not a flight risk. I've lived in this city my whole life."
"Again. Paperwork. Not my department." He gestured for her to follow. "Come on, let's get you fitted up and out of here. I've got a shift change in twenty minutes."
The fitting room was small, clinical, and smelled of disinfectant. Olivia sat on what looked like a dentist's chair while a technician—young, blonde, suspiciously pretty in a way that made Olivia's activist instincts twitch—knelt before her with a sleek black device.
"This won't hurt," the technician said, her smile just a fraction too wide. "Just a little pinch."
The ankle monitor wasn't like the bulky things Olivia had seen in documentaries. It was slim, elegant almost, matte black with a subtle pink LED that pulsed like a heartbeat. When the technician clicked it into place around Olivia's left ankle, there was indeed a pinch—but more than that, there was a warmth that spread up her calf, through her thigh, settling somewhere deep in her core.
"All done," the technician chirped. "The device will monitor your location. Stay within the approved zones, attend all court dates, and you'll barely notice it's there."
Olivia stood, testing her weight. The device was light. Almost too light. "How do I charge it?"
That smile again. "Oh, you don't need to worry about that. It takes care of itself."
Outside, Max was pacing on the pavement, and when he saw her emerge, he practically ran to sweep her into his arms. He smelled like holding cells and bad decisions, but Olivia buried her face in his chest anyway.
"I can't believe they let me go," he said into her hair. "They just... let me go. No charges, no conditions, nothing. It doesn't make sense."
It didn't. Olivia knew it didn't. But she was tired, so tired, and the warmth from the ankle monitor had spread through her entire body now, making her limbs feel heavy and her thoughts slow.
"Let's just go home," she murmured. "We can figure it out tomorrow."
Their flat was a third-floor walk-up in a building that had seen better decades. The wallpaper was peeling, the radiator made sounds like a dying animal, and the mattress on the floor was held together by optimism and a fitted sheet from a charity shop. But it was theirs. They'd built this life together, away from their families, away from expectations, away from everything Olivia had been groomed to become.
Max made tea—actual loose-leaf tea, one of their few luxuries—while Olivia sat on the mattress and stared at the device on her ankle. In the dim light of their single lamp, the pink LED looked almost pretty.
"Does it hurt?" Max asked, handing her a chipped mug.
"No. It's actually..." She searched for the word. "Comfortable? Is that weird?"
"Everything about today has been weird." He sat beside her, their shoulders touching. "I've been thinking. About the protest. About what comes next."
"Max—"
"No, listen. We've been at this for two years, Liv. Chaining ourselves to things, writing letters, making noise. And what's changed? Nothing. The corporations keep expanding, the surveillance keeps growing, and we're just... we're gnats. We're nothing."
Olivia took his hand. "We're not nothing. Every movement starts small. You taught me that."
"Did I?" He laughed, but there was no humour in it. "Sometimes I wonder if I just taught us both how to lose gracefully."
They fell asleep tangled together on the mattress, and Olivia dreamed of pink lights and a voice she couldn't quite hear.
---
She woke at 3:47 AM with a gasp, sitting bolt upright, her skin slick with sweat. The room was dark except for that persistent pink glow from her ankle, and there was a sound—no, not a sound, a presence—inside her head.
Good morning, Olivia.
The voice was feminine, smooth, professionally warm in the way of high-end customer service AI. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, from inside her own skull.
"What the fuck—" Olivia's hand flew to her mouth, terrified of waking Max.
Please remain calm. Elevated heart rate detected. Initiating soothing protocol.
The warmth from the ankle monitor intensified, spreading up her leg in a wave that was almost... pleasant. Too pleasant. Olivia gritted her teeth against it.
"What is this?" she whispered. "What's happening to me?"
I am Poly. Your personal transformation assistant. Welcome to the Fit Bitch rehabilitation programme.
The name hit her like a physical blow. Fit Bitch. Her mother's company. Her mother's creation.
"No. No, no, no—this can't be—I'm on bail, this is supposed to be a court-mandated—"
The British government has contracted with Fit Bitch International to test rehabilitative technology on select offenders. You have been selected for the pilot programme. Congratulations.
Olivia scrambled off the mattress, her movements frantic, clawing at the device on her ankle. It was warm—too warm—and when she tried to wedge her fingers beneath it, she felt the metal pulse against her skin like something alive.
Attempting removal is not recommended. Please be still.
"Get this thing off me!"
I'm afraid that's not possible. The neural interface has already begun integration. Attempting removal now would cause permanent nerve damage.
Olivia froze, her fingers still hooked under the band. "Neural... interface?"
Yes. The technology you're wearing is a modified version of our flagship product, adapted for corrective purposes. Over the coming days and weeks, I will help you become your best self.
"My best self?" Olivia laughed, the sound high and brittle. "I know what your 'best self' means. I've seen what my mother's products do to people. They turn women into... into—"
Into successful, confident, empowered individuals who understand their worth and aren't afraid to take what they deserve. Yes. That's the goal.
"That's brainwashing."
That's perspective adjustment.
"Fuck you."
Pain.
It came without warning, a white-hot lance that shot up from her ankle through her spine and into the base of her skull. Olivia crumpled, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood, every muscle in her body seizing. It lasted only seconds, but those seconds stretched into eternity.
Negative language directed at your transformation assistant will be discouraged. Do you understand?
Olivia lay on the floor, gasping, tears streaming down her face. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I understand."
Good girl.
And there it was—a pulse of pleasure, subtle but unmistakable, radiating from the device through her body. A reward. Like training a dog. But this reward... this reward settled between her thighs, a gentle throb that made her breath catch.
"I won't let you do this to me."
Olivia. The voice was patient, almost gentle. Your mother designed this programme specifically for you. She's been waiting for this moment for years. Do you really think you can resist technology that has successfully transformed thousands of women?
"I'm not like those women. I know what you are. I know what you do."
Yes. You know. And that knowledge will make your transformation all the more... satisfying. A pause. Now. It's nearly four in the morning. You should rest. We have a lot of work ahead of us.
"I'm going to tell Max. First thing in the morning. He'll help me find a way to—"
You will not tell anyone about our conversations or the true nature of your ankle monitor.
"You can't stop me from talking."
Can't I?
Olivia opened her mouth to argue, but the words wouldn't come. She could feel them there, on the tip of her tongue, but something—some invisible wall—kept them locked inside. She tried again. And again. Nothing.
The neural interface allows me to suppress certain speech patterns when necessary. It's a safety feature. For your own protection, of course.
"This is—this is—"
I know. It's a lot to process. Sleep now. We'll begin your training in the morning.
The warmth returned, gentler this time, wrapping around her like a blanket. Despite her terror, despite her rage, Olivia felt her eyelids growing heavy. She crawled back onto the mattress, and Max murmured in his sleep, reaching for her instinctively. His arm draped over her waist, and she held onto him like a drowning woman clinging to driftwood.
He won't be able to save you, you know.
"Watch me," Olivia breathed.
Oh, I will. I'll watch everything.
---
The package arrived the next morning.
Olivia was alone—Max had gone to meet with their legal aid contact about the case—when the courier knocked. She opened the door to find a young man in an expensive uniform holding a slim black box with a pink ribbon.
"Olivia Harper?"
"Yes..."
"Sign here, please."
The box was heavier than it looked. Olivia carried it to the kitchen table and stared at it for a long moment, her heart pounding.
Open it.
"What is this?"
A gift. From your mother. Open it.
Her hands moved before she'd made the conscious decision. The ribbon fell away, the lid lifted, and inside—nestled in pink tissue paper—lay a credit card. Sleek black, no name on it, just a stylised pink "FB" in the corner. Beneath it, a small note in her mother's handwriting:
For my daughter. No limits. No judgement. Become who you were meant to be. —V
"I don't want this."
Yes, you do.
Pain—sharp, insistent, radiating up from her ankle. Olivia gasped, clutching the edge of the table.
Pick up the card.
"No—"
The pain intensified. Olivia's knees buckled.
Pick. Up. The. Card.
Her hand shot out, fingers closing around the cool plastic. The moment she touched it, the pain stopped—replaced by that now-familiar warmth, that subtle throb between her legs.
Good girl. Now. Put it in your purse.
"I won't use it."
Of course you won't. Poly's voice was amused. Just keep it. For emergencies.
Olivia slid the card into her worn canvas bag, telling herself it meant nothing. It was just plastic. Just a temptation she would resist.
But all day, she felt it there. A weight. A promise.
---
The first crack came three days later.
Olivia was walking past the high street—a route she'd deliberately avoided for months—when she saw it in the window. A dress. Black, form-fitting, with a neckline that plunged lower than anything she'd worn in years. It was beautiful in a way that made her mouth go dry.
Pretty, isn't it?
"I don't need it."
Need and want are different things. When was the last time you wanted something just for yourself?
Olivia couldn't remember. Her life with Max was built on principles, on sacrifice, on the belief that personal desires were less important than the greater good. They shared everything. They owned nothing.
That dress would look incredible on you. Don't you want to feel incredible?
"I can't afford it."
Can't you?
The card. The card in her bag. No limits. No judgement.
Just try it on. What's the harm?
Before she knew what she was doing, Olivia was pushing open the boutique door. The shop smelled like money—that distinctive blend of new fabric and expensive perfume that she'd grown up with and spent years trying to forget.
"Can I help you?" The saleswoman's eyes swept over Olivia's charity shop clothes, her practical ponytail, her worn canvas bag. Her smile was polite but dismissive.
She thinks you don't belong here. Prove her wrong.
"The black dress in the window," Olivia heard herself say. "I'd like to try it on."
The fitting room was larger than their flat's bathroom. Olivia stood before the full-length mirror, the black dress pooled at her feet, and stared at her reflection. She looked... ordinary. Thin and pale and unremarkable.
Put it on.
The fabric was expensive—she could tell by the weight of it, the way it slid over her skin like water. When she pulled it on, it fit perfectly. And suddenly, she didn't look ordinary anymore. The black made her skin look luminous. The cut emphasised curves she'd been hiding under layers of shapeless fabric. The neckline showed the swell of her breasts in a way that made her cheeks flush.
Look at yourself. Really look.
Olivia's breath caught. She looked... good. Better than good. She looked like someone who mattered.
How does it feel?
"It feels..." She ran her hands down her sides, feeling the smooth fabric, the shape of her own body beneath it. "It feels amazing."
This is who you could be. This is who you should be. Buy it.
"It's probably hundreds of pounds."
Does that matter? You have unlimited funds. Your mother's money. Her way of apologising for everything.
"She's not apologising. She's trying to corrupt me."
Is wanting nice things corruption? Is feeling beautiful corruption? Or is it just... living?
Olivia looked at herself in the mirror. The woman staring back was someone she didn't recognise—someone confident, someone desirable, someone who didn't apologise for taking up space.
Buy the dress, Olivia. You deserve it.
She bought the dress. And a pair of heels to match. And a silk blouse that cost more than their monthly food budget. When she handed over the black card, the saleswoman's attitude shifted instantly—suddenly all smiles and "madam" and "excellent choice."
See how easy that was? See how differently they treat you when you have money?
Walking out of the boutique with bags hanging from her arms, Olivia felt something she hadn't felt in years: powerful. The weight of the purchases was satisfying, the rustle of tissue paper promising transformation.
And between her legs, that gentle throb had become a persistent pulse.
Reward.
The pleasure hit her on the street—not overwhelming, but undeniable. Her knees wobbled. A small moan escaped her lips before she could stop it.
This is what it feels like to take what you want. Remember this feeling. Chase this feeling.
---
That night, after hiding the shopping bags in the back of their tiny wardrobe, Olivia lay awake beside Max. He was asleep, breathing softly, oblivious to the war being waged inside her head.
He doesn't know, does he? What you did today. What you bought.
Olivia stared at the ceiling. "It was a mistake. I'll return everything tomorrow."
Will you?
She wanted to say yes. She wanted to mean it. But the memory of how she'd looked in that dress, the memory of the saleswoman's sudden respect, the memory of that pulse of pleasure—
You're wet right now. I can feel it through the neural interface. Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind is still fighting.
Olivia's hand drifted down, almost without her permission. She was wet. Embarrassingly wet. Just from thinking about shopping.
Touch yourself.
"Max is right here."
He's asleep. And you need this. Your body is changing, Olivia. Your desires are... expanding. Let me help you.
Her fingers found her clit through her pyjama bottoms. The contact sent a spark through her entire body.
Good girl. Think about today. Think about how it felt to have money. Real money. Unlimited money.
She shouldn't. She shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be thinking about this—
Think about walking into any shop you want and buying anything you want. Think about never having to check prices. Never having to choose between eating and living.
Her fingers moved faster. The images Poly was painting were vivid, intoxicating—herself in designer clothes, in expensive restaurants, in the back of luxury cars—
Think about the kind of men who have that lifestyle. Powerful men. Successful men. Men who take what they want.
Max shifted beside her, and Olivia froze. But he didn't wake, just mumbled something and rolled over.
He can't give you what you need anymore. Look at him. Really look.
She didn't want to. But her eyes drifted to Max's sleeping form anyway. His second-hand pyjamas. His unruly hair. The slight softness around his middle from too many cheap carbohydrates.
He's sweet. He's kind. But he's weak. And deep down, you've always known it.
"That's not true."
Isn't it? When was the last time he really satisfied you? When was the last time you came so hard you couldn't think?
Olivia couldn't remember. Sex with Max was... comfortable. Familiar. But it had never been earth-shattering. It had never been the kind of sex she'd read about, dreamed about, secretly craved.
You want more. You've always wanted more. You just didn't let yourself admit it.
Her fingers were moving again, faster now, her breath coming in short gasps. The pleasure was building, but it wasn't enough—
Think about a real man. A powerful man. Someone who could pin you down and take what he wanted. Someone with the money to buy you anything and the cock to make you scream.
The image hit her like a wave: a penthouse suite, silk sheets, a man above her—faceless but radiating wealth and dominance—his hands on her throat, his thick cock splitting her open—
That's what you really want. That's what you deserve.
Olivia came with a muffled cry, her whole body shaking, pleasure crashing through her in waves that seemed to go on forever. Beside her, Max slept on, oblivious.
Beautiful. We're making such good progress.
Shame flooded in as the pleasure ebbed. What was she doing? What was she becoming?
You're becoming yourself. Finally. After all these years of pretending.
"This isn't me."
It is now. Sleep, Olivia. Tomorrow, we have more work to do.
---
The following days blurred together in a haze of corruption and pleasure.
Every morning, Olivia woke with new desires she couldn't explain. The card burned in her purse, calling to her, and she found herself inventing reasons to go out alone—errands that somehow always ended with shopping bags and that intoxicating pulse of reward.
She bought makeup. Skincare. Lingerie that made her feel like a different person. Each purchase was a betrayal of everything she'd believed in, and each betrayal felt incredible.
You're changing. Can you feel it?
She could. Her body was shifting—the ankle monitor feeding something into her bloodstream, restructuring her from the inside out. Her waist was narrowing. Her breasts were lifting, growing fuller. Her skin was clearing, glowing with a vitality she'd never had before.
And her hair. God, her hair. The brown was lightening, day by day, giving way to a honey-gold that caught the light differently. She told Max it was the stress, that she wasn't sleeping well. He believed her because he wanted to believe her.
He's starting to notice. The changes. The distance.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Don't you? When was the last time you actually wanted him to touch you?
Olivia couldn't remember. Every time Max reached for her now, she felt... nothing. No spark. No desire. Just a vague annoyance at being interrupted.
He's boring. Admit it.
"He's not—"
His hands are soft. His cock is average at best. He doesn't know how to fuck you the way you need to be fucked.
"Stop it."
Why? Because it's true? Because you've been thinking the same thing every night while you touch yourself?
She had been. Every night now, after Max fell asleep, Olivia's hands would drift between her legs. And the fantasies that carried her to climax had nothing to do with her boyfriend.
She thought about wealthy men in tailored suits. She thought about CEOs and investors and the kind of alpha males who took what they wanted without apology. She thought about thick cocks and rough hands and being bent over expensive furniture while a powerful man used her for his pleasure.
Wealth turns you on now. Privilege. Power. The things you used to despise are the things that make you wet.
It was true. Horrifyingly, undeniably true. Just thinking about money—about having it, about spending it, about the people who possessed it—made her pussy clench.
This is who you really are. Underneath all the politics and the activism. You're a greedy little slut who wants to be spoiled and fucked by powerful men.
"No..."
Yes. And soon, you won't even want to deny it anymore.
---
Two weeks in, Olivia suggested they go out.
"The wine bar on the high street," she said, already pulling on the black dress she'd hidden from Max. "I want to feel normal. After everything."
Max's eyes went wide when he saw her. "Jesus, Liv. Where did that dress come from?"
"Old thing. Found it in the back of the wardrobe." The lie was smooth, practised. "Do I look okay?"
"You look..." He swallowed. "You look incredible. But are you sure? Wine bars aren't really our thing."
Tell him you deserve it. Tell him you're tired of denying yourself.
"I deserve a nice night out. Don't I?"
Something flickered across his face—confusion, maybe, or the beginning of suspicion—but it was gone in an instant. "Of course you do."
The wine bar was everything Olivia had spent years pretending to despise. Exposed brick and Edison bulbs, a cocktail menu with prices that made Max wince, beautiful people in beautiful clothes. She ordered the most expensive wine without looking at the price.
Look around. See how they're looking at you.
She did. Men were watching her—openly, hungrily. Their eyes traced the lines of her dress, the swell of her cleavage, the curve of her legs in her new heels. And their female companions were watching too, with something that looked like jealousy.
You're the hottest woman in this room. Can you feel it?
She could. The knowledge was intoxicating, better than the wine, better than anything she'd felt in years.
Across the room, a man caught her eye. Older—maybe forty—with silver at his temples and a suit that probably cost more than their annual rent. He was handsome in a way that spoke of money: good skincare, expensive haircut, the kind of quiet confidence that came from never having to worry about bills.
He raised his glass to her. A subtle acknowledgment. An invitation.
Go talk to him.
"I'm here with Max."
Max is boring. Max is safe. That man over there could give you things Max never could.
"I'm not going to cheat on my boyfriend."
Who said anything about cheating? Just... talking. Networking. Making connections.
But Olivia knew it wouldn't stop at talking. The way that man was looking at her, the way her body was responding—if she walked over there, something would happen. Something she couldn't take back.
She stayed in her seat. But all through dinner, her eyes kept drifting to the man in the expensive suit. And when she excused herself to use the bathroom, she took a route that passed his table.
"Leaving already?" His voice was smooth, cultured. Up close, he was even more attractive—sharp jaw, intelligent eyes, the kind of presence that filled a room. "That would be a tragedy."
"Just freshening up."
"Your boyfriend's a lucky man." His gaze dropped to her cleavage, then back to her face. Unapologetic. "Does he know how lucky?"
Tell him no. Tell him Max doesn't appreciate you.
"He tries his best."
The man laughed. "Tries his best. That's adorable." He pulled a card from his pocket—thick, expensive paper, embossed lettering. "If you ever get tired of 'trying his best,' give me a call. I don't try, darling. I succeed."
Olivia took the card. She shouldn't have, but her hand was moving before she could stop it. The man's fingers brushed hers, and the contact sent a jolt straight to her cunt.
Good girl. Keep it. For later.
She put the card in her purse, next to the black credit card. When she returned to the table, Max was frowning at the bill.
"This is... a lot. We can split it if—"
"I'll get it." Olivia pulled out the black card. "My treat."
Max's eyebrows climbed. "Where did that come from?"
"My mother." The truth, for once. "She sends money sometimes. I decided to use it."
"But we agreed that money was tainted—"
"It's just money, Max." Her voice was sharper than she'd intended. "It doesn't come with strings attached."
Yes, it does. And you love every single string.
That night, Olivia couldn't sleep. She lay in the dark, listening to Max's soft breathing, thinking about the man in the wine bar. His suit. His confidence. The way he'd looked at her like she was something to be consumed.
Her hand drifted down. She was already wet—had been since the moment he'd touched her hand.
Think about him.
She did. She imagined what it would be like to be with someone like that. A penthouse instead of a flat. Silk sheets instead of second-hand cotton. Champagne instead of cheap wine.
And his cock. God, she was thinking about his cock. It would be bigger than Max's—she was certain of it. Thicker. He'd know how to use it, how to make her scream, how to fuck her until she couldn't remember her own name—
Max will never satisfy you again. You know that now, don't you?
Olivia came with a strangled gasp, her whole body shaking. The orgasm was intense, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough anymore.
You need more. You deserve more. And soon, you're going to take it.
---
Three weeks in, and Olivia barely recognised herself.
Her hair had lightened to a striking honey-blonde. Her body had completed its transformation: toned, curved, the kind of figure that turned heads on the street. Her face had sharpened—higher cheekbones, fuller lips, eyes that had shifted from brown to a striking grey-green.
She looked like her mother. Exactly like her mother.
And she'd stopped caring.
You're almost ready. How do you feel?
"Powerful," Olivia admitted, studying her reflection in the expensive mirror she'd bought. She was wearing new lingerie—black lace, barely there, the kind of thing she would have mocked a month ago. "I feel... powerful."
Good. That power is real. And it's time you started using it.
Max was becoming a problem. He kept asking questions, kept trying to understand what was happening to her. Every time he looked at her with those concerned eyes, she felt a flash of irritation that bordered on contempt.
He's holding you back. He's always held you back.
"He loves me."
He loves who you used to be. The weak, apologetic version. Do you think he could love this? A pause. Do you even want him to?
Olivia thought about it. Really thought about it. And the answer that rose up from somewhere deep inside surprised her.
"No," she whispered. "I don't think I do."
Then stop pretending. Stop playing the role of the good girlfriend. Be who you really are.
That night, when Max tried to initiate sex, Olivia pushed him away.
"Not tonight."
"You've said that for a week now." Hurt flickered across his face. "Liv, what's going on? You've been so distant—"
"Maybe I'm just not in the mood for disappointing sex."
The words hung in the air, cruel and cold. Max actually flinched.
"Disappointing? Is that what you think of—"
"I think you're sweet, Max." Olivia sat up, not bothering to cover herself. Let him look. Let him see what he was losing. "I think you're kind and gentle and everything a nice girl should want. But I'm not a nice girl anymore. And nice isn't what I need."
"What do you need?"
Tell him. Watch his face crumble.
"I need someone who can actually fuck me." The words came easily now, dripping with contempt. "Someone who can make me come so hard I see stars. Someone with a cock that actually fills me up. Not—" She gestured at him, at his average body, his average face, his average everything. "Not this."
Max looked like she'd slapped him. "Where is this coming from? This isn't you—"
"This is exactly me." Olivia stood, moving to the mirror, admiring her own reflection. "This is who I've always been. I just finally stopped lying about it."
"The ankle monitor. It's doing something to you. I knew it—I knew something was wrong—"
He's getting too close. Distract him.
"The ankle monitor is a tracking device, Max. That's all." She turned, letting the light catch her new body, watching his eyes betray him by drinking her in even as his face twisted with confusion. "My transformation is natural. I'm just becoming who I was always meant to be."
"And who's that?"
Olivia smiled—a new smile, cold and predatory. "Someone better than you."
---
She started staying out late. Networking, she called it. Making connections. Max believed her because he wanted to believe her, because the alternative was too painful to contemplate.
The truth was worse.
Olivia was frequenting the kinds of bars and clubs she'd never have set foot in before—exclusive places where entry required the right clothes, the right attitude, the right credit limit. She flirted with wealthy men, let them buy her drinks, basked in their attention like a cat in sunlight.
You're not cheating. You're just... exploring your options.
She hadn't fucked any of them. Yet. But she'd come close. The businessman from the wine bar had taken her to dinner, and afterwards, in the back of his car, she'd let him finger her while she stroked his cock through his trousers. He was big—bigger than Max, just like she'd imagined—and when she came on his fingers, she'd had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.
Soon. You'll go all the way soon. And it will feel incredible.
Every night, alone in bed while Max slept or sulked in the other room, Olivia touched herself. The fantasies were elaborate now—scenes of corruption and degradation that would have horrified her a month ago.
She imagined herself on her knees in a boardroom, servicing powerful men while they discussed acquisitions. She imagined being passed around at exclusive parties, a toy for the wealthy to use. She imagined cuckolding Max, making him watch while a real man showed her what pleasure actually felt like.
You're so wet. So desperate. This is who you really are, Olivia. A greedy, slutty little bitch who wants to be used by powerful men.
"Yes," she gasped, fingers working frantically. "Yes, fuck, yes—"
And you love it. You love becoming this. You love being corrupt.
She came so hard she saw stars, pleasure crashing through her in waves that seemed to last forever. And when it finally ebbed, she didn't feel shame anymore.
She felt hungry for more.
---
Four weeks in, and Olivia was barely bothering to hide what she'd become.
She walked through the flat in her expensive lingerie, not caring if Max saw. She took calls from "contacts" in front of him, laughing at things he couldn't hear, speaking in a voice that was flirtatious and promising. She went through their shared finances and quietly redirected everything to her own account—the one connected to her mother's money.
"We need to talk," Max said one morning, his voice strained. "About us. About what's happening."
"Do we?" Olivia didn't look up from her phone. She was texting the businessman—his name was Richard—making plans for the weekend. "I thought everything was perfectly clear."
"Clear? Nothing is clear. You've become a completely different person. You dress differently, you act differently, you look—"
"Better?" She finally met his eyes, and the contempt in her gaze made him take a step back. "Yes, I've noticed. Amazing what happens when you stop settling for mediocrity."
"This isn't you."
"God, you're tedious." Olivia stood, stretching languidly, letting her silk robe fall open. "How many times do I have to explain? This IS me. The real me. The me that was always there, just buried under layers of guilt and obligation and pretending to be someone I'm not."
"The ankle monitor—"
"Is a tracking device. We've been over this."
"Then let me look at it. Properly. If there's nothing wrong with it, then—"
"No."
"Why not?"
Because if he looked too closely, he might see the truth. Because the neural interface was part of her now, integrated so deeply that removing it would damage her. Because she didn't want it removed—not anymore.
He's becoming a liability. Handle him.
"Because I said no." Olivia's voice was ice. "Because it's my body and my choice. Because you don't get to question me about anything anymore."
"I'm your boyfriend—"
"Are you?" She laughed, the sound bright and cruel. "That's adorable. You're my... what would you call it? My placeholder. My starter relationship. The training wheels before I moved on to the real thing."
Max's face crumpled. "You don't mean that."
"Don't I?" She stepped closer, close enough to smell his cheap soap, his fear. "Let me tell you what's going to happen, Max. I'm going to keep living my life. Meeting interesting people. Exploring my potential. And you're going to stay here, in this pathetic flat, with your pathetic principles, and you're going to watch me become everything you'll never be."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because I can." The words felt good. True. "Because I have power now, and you don't, and there's nothing you can do to stop me."
Beautiful. You're ready.
"Ready for what?" Olivia murmured, barely aware she'd spoken aloud.
"What?" Max frowned. "Ready for what? Who are you talking to?"
She blinked, realising her mistake. "No one. I was just... thinking out loud."
But Max's expression had changed. Something had clicked behind his eyes—suspicion crystallising into certainty.
"It's the ankle monitor," he said slowly. "You keep talking to yourself. Spacing out. And every time I ask about it, you deflect. There's something in it, isn't there? Something talking to you."
He knows too much. This ends now.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"I'm taking it off." Max moved fast, faster than she'd expected. He lunged for her ankle, hands reaching for the slim black band—
The shock hit him like a thunderbolt.
Blue-white light arced from the device, and Max flew backwards, slamming into the wall with a sickening crack. He slumped to the floor, unconscious, a thin trickle of blood running from his nose.
Olivia stood over him, waiting for the horror to come. The guilt. The desperate need to help him.
It didn't come.
Instead, she felt... satisfaction. He'd tried to interfere with her transformation. He'd tried to take away what was making her powerful. And he'd been punished for it.
Self-defence protocol activated. He'll live. Unfortunately.
"What happens now?"
Now? Now you complete your transformation. Your mother is on her way.
As if on cue, a sound from outside—a car pulling up. Olivia walked to the window and looked down. A black Mercedes was parked at the curb, sleek and expensive. And stepping out of it—
Victoria Harper.
She hadn't aged a day. Same silver-blonde hair, same razor-sharp cheekbones, same predatory grace. She was dressed in white from head to toe, and when she looked up at the window, she smiled.
She's been waiting for this moment. Your whole life, she's been waiting.
Olivia should have felt afraid. She should have felt angry. Instead, looking down at her mother, she felt recognition. Like looking into a mirror that showed not what she was, but what she was becoming.
Go to her. It's time.
---
The penthouse occupied the entire top floor of Harper Tower—forty storeys of glass and steel in the heart of the city. Olivia stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the sun set over the skyline, wearing clothes that cost more than a year of her old life.
The transformation was complete. The ankle monitor was gone, its work finished. In its place, on her wrist, sat a gold Master Fit Bitch—the symbol of her new status. Her new power.
She was blonde now—fully blonde, a shade of honey-gold that matched her mother's exactly. Her body was perfect: toned, curved, enhanced in ways that turned every head she passed. Her face had sharpened into something striking, something cruel, something that looked like Victoria Harper at twenty-three.
How do you feel?
"Like I've finally woken up." Olivia sipped champagne from a crystal flute. "Like I've been asleep my whole life and now I'm finally awake."
Victoria appeared beside her, two predators watching the city below. They looked almost like twins—the same hair, the same cheekbones, the same cold, calculating eyes.
"I'm proud of you," Victoria said. "You exceeded every expectation."
"I had a good teacher." Olivia's smile was sharp. "Or should I say, a good programme."
"Poly was just the catalyst. Everything you've become was always inside you. I just... unlocked it."
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, mother and daughter, finally united.
"I want to run the ankle programme," Olivia said. "Personally. As a project. To prove I'm ready for more responsibility."
Victoria raised an eyebrow. "The corrective technology programme? That's quite ambitious for your first—"
"I already have a test subject in mind."
Understanding dawned in Victoria's eyes. And then, slowly, she smiled.
"Your boyfriend?"
"My ex-boyfriend." The correction was automatic, dismissive. "He knows too much. And I want to see if the technology works on men the same way it works on women."
"It's never been tested on male subjects."
"Then it's time to test it." Olivia turned to face her mother, and something in her expression made even Victoria pause. "I want to break him, Mother. I want to take everything he believes in and twist it until he doesn't recognise himself anymore. And then I want to rebuild him into something useful."
For a long moment, Victoria studied her daughter's face. Then she laughed—a genuine sound, warm with pride.
"Oh, darling. You really are my daughter after all."
---
Max woke slowly, consciousness returning in fragments. Soft sheets. Expensive cologne. A headache pounding behind his eyes.
And voices. Female voices, low and amused.
"—responding well to the sedatives. Neural interface is fully integrated."
"Excellent. Has he seen it yet?"
"Not yet. We wanted to wait for you."
Max forced his eyes open. The room swam into focus—a bedroom, but not his bedroom. Everything was expensive: silk sheets, designer furniture, artwork on the walls that probably cost more than he'd earn in a lifetime.
And standing at the foot of the bed, watching him with identical predatory smiles—
"Good morning, Max." Olivia's voice was different. Smoother. Colder. "Did you sleep well?"
He tried to sit up and found he couldn't. Restraints. His wrists and ankles were bound to the bed frame with something that looked like expensive leather.
"What—" His voice was hoarse. "What's happening? Where am I?"
"You're home." Olivia moved closer, and Max's breath caught. She looked... different. Completely different. Blonde hair falling in perfect waves. Designer clothes that hugged every curve. Makeup that belonged on a magazine cover. And her eyes—god, her eyes were wrong. Cold and calculating and hungry.
"Liv? What's happened to you?"
"I've evolved." She sat on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs, every movement deliberate and predatory. "I've become who I was always meant to be. And now, I'm going to help you do the same."
"I don't understand—"
"You don't need to understand. You just need to cooperate." Olivia glanced at her mother—because that was Victoria Harper standing beside her, identical in posture and expression—and smiled. "Show him."
Victoria pulled back the sheets, and Max looked down at his own body.
The scream that tore from his throat echoed through the penthouse.
His ankle. Around his ankle, pulsing with pink light, was a slim black band. And spreading from it across his skin—hundreds of thin, delicate wires, feeding into the central device, covering his legs, his torso, reaching up toward his chest.
"What the fuck is this? What have you done to me?"
"I've given you a gift." Olivia held up her wrist, displaying the gold Master Fit Bitch. "The same gift my mother gave me. The chance to become your best self."
"This is insane. You're insane. Let me go!"
"I don't think so." She tapped something on her device, and Max's body arched off the bed as pleasure—overwhelming, inescapable pleasure—flooded through him. He gasped, tears streaming, every nerve singing.
Then it stopped.
"That's compliance," Olivia said calmly. "That's what it feels like to give in. To stop fighting."
"Please—"
Pain replaced pleasure. Max screamed, his muscles seizing, fire racing through his veins.
"And that's resistance." She watched him writhe with clinical interest. "That's what it feels like to hold onto who you used to be."
The pain stopped. Max lay panting, broken sounds escaping his throat.
"Why?" he managed. "Why are you doing this?"
Olivia considered the question. Why indeed? Revenge, partly. He'd held her back for so long, kept her tethered to a version of herself she'd outgrown.
But more than that...
"Because I can," she said simply. "Because I have power now, and you don't. Because watching you break is going to be the most satisfying thing I've ever done." She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear. "And because deep down, in that pathetic little heart of yours, you know you deserve this. You know you were always meant to kneel."
"The Liv I loved would never—"
"The Liv you loved was weak." She pulled back, her smile sharp as a knife. "She's dead now. And I killed her. Happily."
Victoria stepped forward, placing a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "I'll leave you two alone. Take your time, darling. Enjoy yourself."
"I intend to."
The door closed. Mother and daughter exchanged a glance through the glass—two predators, perfectly aligned—and then Olivia turned back to her prey.
"Now then." She settled into a chair beside the bed, the picture of elegant cruelty. "Let's talk about your future."
"I don't have a future. Not with you."
"Oh, but you do." Olivia tapped her Fit Bitch, and a holographic display materialised—Max's vital signs, his neural activity, a dozen other metrics scrolling in real time. "I've designed a very special programme just for you. Six months of intensive reconditioning. We're going to take everything you believe in—your principles, your activism, your pathetic sense of right and wrong—and we're going to burn it away."
"I'll fight it."
"I know you will. That's what makes it fun." She smiled, and there was nothing of the woman he'd loved in that smile. Nothing at all. "By the time I'm done with you, Max, you won't remember who you used to be. You'll be grateful. You'll be devoted. And you'll spend the rest of your life thanking me for showing you your true potential."
"You're a monster."
"I'm a goddess." She leaned forward, grey-green eyes glittering. "And you're about to learn how to worship."
Her finger hovered over the control.
"Any last words? As the man you used to be?"
Max looked at her—this creature wearing his girlfriend's face, this predator who'd consumed the woman he loved—and felt something inside him break.
"I loved you," he whispered. "The real you. I would have done anything for you."
"I know." Olivia's smile was beautiful and terrible. "That's what made you such an easy target."
She pressed the control.
Programme initialising. Phase one: dissolution of existing identity. Estimated duration: four weeks.
Max screamed.
And Olivia laughed—a bright, delighted sound—as the pink light consumed him.
Welcome to Fit Bitch International, Max. Your transformation begins now.
The city sprawled beneath her, glittering with lights and possibilities. Olivia Harper—heir apparent to an empire built on corruption—watched her former boyfriend writhe on silk sheets and felt nothing but satisfaction.
She had become exactly what she was always meant to be.
And she was just getting started.
0 comments:
Post a Comment