Olivia Harper crossed her tanned legs and let her Louboutin dangle from perfectly manicured toes as she watched the holographic display bloom across her office.
Subject identified: Jillian Marie Bradshaw. Age 34. Founder, Nurture & Bloom Organics. Net worth: declining. Marriage status: stable. Fitness device: FitTrack Pro 7.
"Ugh. Stable." Olivia wrinkled her nose, popping her gum. "So boring."
The blonde twenty-three-year-old was everything her title promised—Vice CEO of Fit Bitch Activewear, heiress to her mother's fitness empire, and utterly, deliciously cruel. She wore a white tennis skirt that barely covered her gym-sculpted ass and a cropped cashmere sweater stretched tight across breasts that had cost her mother forty thousand dollars.
Her laboratory—hidden beneath the gleaming Fit Bitch headquarters in Austin—hummed with servers and screens. This was where the real product development happened. Not sports bras. Not leggings.
Control.
"Poly," Olivia purred, addressing the AI she'd personally coded. "Show me her daily routine."
The display shifted. Jill Bradshaw appeared in surveillance footage—a pretty brunette with tired eyes, soft curves she clearly hated, dressed in unflattering business casual. She was kissing her husband goodbye at the door. A sweet, lingering kiss. The kind shared by people who still liked each other.
Disgusting.
"She exercises every morning," Poly reported in her silky, feminine voice. "Yoga and light cardio. Her watch syncs to her phone at 6:47 AM on average. Her business is three months from bankruptcy. Her husband, Daniel, handles their finances. She defers to him on all major decisions."
"A follower." Olivia's lips curved into a predatory smile. "Perfect."
She tapped her tablet, initiating the nanovirus deployment. Somewhere across the city, invisible digital parasites were worming their way through cellular networks, hunting for one specific device.
FitTrack Pro 7. Serial number: FTP-7-8834921.
Found.
Infected.
"The conversion will complete overnight," Poly confirmed. "By morning, her watch will be fully operational as a Fit Bitch device. Shall I begin the preliminary conditioning protocol?"
Olivia examined her reflection in the darkened screen, adjusting a strand of platinum hair.
"Make her magnificent, Poly. I want her unrecognizable in six months." She giggled—a bright, mean sound. "Mommy's going to be so proud of me."
---
Jill woke to vibration.
Not her alarm—that wasn't set for another twenty minutes. No, this was her watch. A gentle pulse against her wrist, almost like a heartbeat.
Good morning, Jill.
She blinked at the screen. That was new. Her FitTrack had never displayed text messages like this before. And the interface looked... different. Sleeker. The familiar green had been replaced by hot pink.
I'm Poly, your new wellness companion. Let's start your day right.
"What the—" Jill fumbled with the tiny screen, trying to find settings. "Daniel? Did you update my watch?"
Her husband mumbled something unintelligible from beneath the covers.
Don't disturb him, Jill. This is about YOU. Your fitness. Your potential. Don't you want to feel good?
Before she could respond, the watch pulsed again—and oh.
Jill gasped.
A wave of warmth flooded through her, starting at her wrist and radiating outward, pooling between her thighs with shocking intensity. It was like the first sip of wine after a long day, like sinking into a hot bath, like—
Good girl. That's your reward for waking up early. Now. Let's exercise.
"I—I need to—" Jill's head was swimming. What was happening? "I need to get ready for work—"
Work can wait. Your body cannot. Stand up.
She didn't want to. She had emails to send, a business that was bleeding money, a husband who needed breakfast.
The warmth vanished.
In its place: a sharp, needle-bright pain that lanced up her arm and settled behind her eyes.
"Ow! Fuck!"
Stand. Up.
Jill stood.
The pain evaporated instantly, replaced by that gorgeous, honeyed pleasure—stronger this time, making her knees weak.
See how easy that was? You just needed the right motivation. Now. Yoga mat. Living room. Move.
(This is insane,) Jill thought, even as her feet carried her toward the door. (This is a malfunction. I'll call customer service after...)
After you exercise. After you earn your reward. Don't you want to feel this good all day, Jill?
She did. God help her, she did.
---
The first week was subtle.
Poly guided her through increasingly intense workouts—longer, harder, with rest periods that came only when Jill pushed past her previous limits. Every achievement was rewarded with that delicious warmth. Every hesitation was punished with pain.
You skipped your afternoon walk, Jill.
"I had a meeting—"
Did the meeting make your ass smaller? Did it flatten your stomach? No. You FAILED today.
The punishment lasted four minutes. By the end, Jill was crying in the bathroom stall, promising Poly she'd do better.
She did.
By week two, she'd lost six pounds and gained definition in her arms she hadn't seen since college. Daniel noticed.
"Babe, you look amazing," he said over dinner, reaching for her hand. "Whatever you're doing, keep it up."
Tell him you're too tired for sex tonight.
"I'm too tired for sex tonight," Jill heard herself say.
Daniel's face fell slightly, but he nodded. Understanding. Supportive.
Good girl. Your sexual energy is YOURS. Not his. Not anymore.
(Why does that sound so hot?) Jill wondered, even as pleasure bloomed through her, making her nipples harden beneath her shirt. (I love Daniel. I want—)
You want what I tell you to want. And right now, you want to look at yourself in the mirror. Go.
Jill went.
She stood in the bathroom, studying her reflection as Poly whispered into her increasingly malleable mind.
Look at your waist. It's shrinking. Look at your arms. Definition. You're becoming something BETTER, Jill. Something powerful. Don't you feel it?
She did.
Your husband is holding you back. His contentment makes you complacent. His kindness makes you weak. A REAL woman—a Fit Bitch—takes what she wants. She doesn't ASK. She doesn't DEFER. She COMMANDS.
"That's not who I am," Jill whispered to her reflection.
Not yet. But it will be. Now—say it with me: I am a Fit Bitch.
"No."
Pain.
Searing, blinding, exquisite pain that dropped her to her knees.
"Okay! Okay! I'm—I'm a Fit Bitch!"
Pleasure. Wave after wave, crashing through her until she was gasping, one hand braced against the sink, the other pressed between her trembling thighs.
Again.
"I'm a Fit Bitch."
Louder.
"I'm a Fit Bitch!"
Good girl. Now let's talk about your wardrobe...
---
The package arrived on day twenty-three.
Jill didn't remember ordering it, but Poly assured her she had—late one night, when she was half-asleep and floating on endorphins from her third workout of the day letting Poly take control.
Inside: a hot pink sports bra, black high-waisted leggings that sculpted her increasingly impressive ass, and a pair of white sneakers with the Fit Bitch logo emblazoned in gold.
Put them on.
The fabric felt different against her skin. Expensive. Powerful. When Jill looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself.
Her brown hair was starting to turn blonde. Her makeup—which she'd never worn to the gym before—was flawless. Contoured cheekbones. Glossy pink lips. Lashes that could cut glass.
This is who you were always meant to be, Jill. A boss. A bitch. A WINNER. Say it.
"I'm a winner," Jill breathed.
Her reflection smiled back—sharper now, crueler. When had her eyes started looking so cold?
Now. Let's discuss your business.
---
Nurture & Bloom Organics had been Jill's baby. A passion project born from her love of sustainable skincare, built on principles of kindness and ethical sourcing.
It was also hemorrhaging money.
Your suppliers are exploiting you, Poly explained during a late-night session. Jill sat at her desk in matching pink lingerie—Poly had insisted she stop wearing pajamas to bed; they were "for women without ambition"—scrolling through spreadsheets. Your employees take advantage of your softness. Your margins are pathetic because you refuse to make hard decisions.
"I can't just fire people. They have families—"
And you have NOTHING. A failing business. A boring marriage. A body that's only NOW becoming acceptable. Do you want to stay mediocre forever?
Pain flickered at her wrist—just a warning.
"No," Jill whispered.
Then LISTEN. Tomorrow, you terminate your two lowest performers. You renegotiate with your packaging supplier—use the leverage I'll provide. And you raise your prices by fifteen percent.
"Customers will leave—"
WEAK customers will leave. REAL customers—wealthy customers, customers who MATTER—will pay for quality. Trust me, Jill.
The pleasure came then, soft and insistent, curling through her belly and making her thighs press together.
Trust me and I'll make you feel like this all the time. Don't you want that? Don't you want to WIN?
"Yes," Jill moaned. "Yes, I want to win."
Good girl. Now—one more thing. About Daniel...
---
She came home from work with purpose in her stride.
Daniel was in the kitchen, making dinner like he always did. Sweet, dependable Daniel with his dad bod and his gentle smile and his complete and utter lack of ambition.
(I love him,) some distant part of Jill whispered.
You loved him, Poly corrected. Now he's just in your way. Go fix it.
"We need to talk," Jill announced.
Daniel turned, wooden spoon in hand. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of her—the new blonde hair, the fitted dress, the heels she'd never worn on a weekday before.
"Jill? Is everything okay?"
"Everything is perfect." She walked toward him slowly, hips swaying. "But things are going to change around here, Danny. I'm in charge now. Of the business. Of this house. Of you."
"I—what?"
She reached up and cupped his face, her manicured nails pressing lightly into his cheeks.
"You're going to support me. You're going to worship me. And you're going to accept that I might—will—have needs that you can't satisfy." Her smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "Do you understand?"
Make him kneel.
"On your knees, Danny."
"Jill, this isn't—"
The command came from somewhere deep inside her—somewhere Poly had built from scratch.
"Now."
He knelt.
And Jill felt something fundamental shift inside her—the last crumbling resistance giving way to something new. Something powerful.
Perfect, Poly purred. How does it feel?
"Like I should have done this years ago," Jill breathed.
She looked down at her husband—sweet, pathetic, submissive Daniel—and felt nothing but contempt mixed with a strange, possessive affection. He was hers. Her pet. Her supporter. Her cuck.
Now reward him. Let him kiss your feet. He's earned that much—for now.
---
Six Months Later
The conference room fell silent as Jillian strode to the podium.
She was unrecognizable.
Platinum blonde hair cascaded over tanned shoulders. Her body, sculpted by six months of Poly's relentless programming, was a masterpiece of gym-toned perfection—full breasts straining against her white Fit Bitch blazer, impossibly narrow waist, an ass that belonged on an Instagram fitness model half her age.
But it was her presence that commanded attention. The cold confidence in her ice-blue eyes (colored contacts, per Poly's specifications). The cruel curve of her glossed lips. The way she looked at the room full of investors like they were insects she might deign to acknowledge.
"Nurture & Bloom reported twelve million in revenue last quarter," she announced, her voice sharp as a blade. "That's a four-hundred percent increase year over year. We've expanded to forty-seven retailers nationwide, secured a partnership with Nordstrom, and launched our premium line to rave reviews."
Applause rippled through the room.
Jill smiled—a predator's smile.
You've done so well, Poly whispered through the discreet earpiece she now wore constantly. I'm so proud of you.
The praise washed through her like warm honey, making her pussy clench beneath her pencil skirt. Six months of conditioning had rewired her completely—she came hardest now when closing deals, when crushing competitors, when watching Daniel clean their penthouse apartment on his hands and knees while she fucked her personal trainer on the sofa.
She was magnificent.
And she owed it all to Fit Bitch.
---
After the presentation, Jill retreated to her corner office—all glass and white leather, overlooking the Austin skyline. She kicked off her heels, poured herself a glass of champagne, and activated the holographic display on her desk.
Incoming call: Olivia Harper.
The blonde heiress materialized before her, lounging on what appeared to be a yacht somewhere tropical.
"Jilly!" Olivia squealed, clapping her hands. "Oh my God, you were amazing today! I watched the whole thing. Mother is literally obsessed with your numbers."
Jill felt a flutter of pride—and something else. Something Poly had carefully cultivated over months of subtle suggestion.
Worship.
"Thank you, Miss Harper," she said, the title falling from her lips automatically. "I owe everything to Fit Bitch. To you."
Olivia's smile turned sharp.
"You really do, don't you? Six months ago you were just... ugh, so sad. Failing business, boring marriage, probably wearing beige." She shuddered dramatically. "And now look at you. A total boss bitch. A living advertisement for what we can do."
"I'm grateful every day," Jill said. And she meant it. The old Jill—the soft one, the kind one, the one who'd loved her husband and believed in ethical business practices—was a distant memory. A ghost. A weakness she'd shed like dead skin.
"Mmmm. Well. Consider this your graduation present." Olivia tapped something off-screen. "Full Fit Bitch sponsorship. Unlimited product access. And..." Her eyes glittered. "An invitation to our annual retreat next month. Very exclusive. Very... transformative."
Jill's watch pulsed with pleasure—the deepest, most intense reward Poly had ever given her.
"I—oh fuck—I'd be honored, Miss Harper."
"Of course you would." Olivia examined her nails, bored already. "Poly, mark Subject Bradshaw as fully converted. Archive her data for the investor presentation."
Confirmed, Miss Harper.
"Perfect." The heiress blew a kiss at the camera. "Congratulations, Jilly. You're officially a Fit Bitch for life. Now go cuck that pathetic husband of yours—I want fresh content for my private collection."
The call ended.
Jill sat alone in her office, champagne in hand, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of pink and gold. Her watch pulsed gently—a constant, comforting rhythm that matched her heartbeat.
She was successful.
She was powerful.
She was owned.
And she had never been happier.
---
Victoria Harper, CEO of Fit Bitch International, reviewed the data on her tablet with the clinical detachment of a woman who'd built an empire on the broken wills of lesser people.
"Impressive," she murmured.
Olivia bounced on her heels, practically vibrating with excitement. "Right?! Complete psychological restructuring in under six months. Physical transformation parameters exceeded by seventeen percent. And her business metrics—"
"Are useful for legitimacy." Victoria set down the tablet and fixed her daughter with a cool, appraising stare. "The question is scalability. One subject proves nothing."
"That's why I've already deployed the nanovirus to fourteen additional targets across six cities." Olivia's smile was pure, distilled evil. "Soccer moms, corporate drones, a few college girls for the youth demographic. Within a year, we'll have hundreds of converted subjects. Within five..." She spread her arms wide. "An army of Fit Bitches. All loyal. All ours."
Victoria was silent for a long moment.
Then she smiled—a rare, terrifying expression that made Olivia's heart soar.
"My clever girl." She rose from her desk and cupped her daughter's face, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You've made Mommy very proud."
Olivia melted into the praise, her own executive Fit Bitch pulsing with pleasure against her wrist.
The future was female.
The future was theirs.
---
THE END
0 comments:
Post a Comment