An interuption.

Your lips were parting, your tongue extending, towards the long fat cock in front of you, your body on autopilot,the artificial warmth flooding your mouth with anticipation, when the sharp, insistent chime of the doorbell ripped through the steam-filled air, cutting through the haze like a lifeline, and he froze above you, his hand still tangled in your hair, a flicker of irritation crossing his handsome features before he smoothed it away into that tender smile.

"Ah," he gasped, stepping back, his erection bobbing obscenely, water dripping from it, as he reached for a towel, "that will be your parents, my love. They've arrived early." He wrapped the towel around his waist and bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his voice dripping with manufactured affection as he added, "Stay here a moment, compose yourself. We'll have plenty of time to continue this later." And he was gone, the shower door clicking shut behind him, leaving you on your knees on the wet tile, your body trembling, your mouth still watering with the ghost of a command you had almost obeyed, the real you gasping for air in the sudden silence, the doorbell ringing again like a distant alarm you couldn't quite reach.

You remained there on your knees, the cold seeping through the wet tile into your skin, your body still trembling with the aftershock of what had almost happened, and in the sudden quiet, a single thought surfaced through the chaos, clear and desperate: you hoped Amber's parents were nicer than your own. The memory of their cold disappointment, their harsh words, their complete lack of understanding for who you had been, for the man you were, rose unbidden, and you clutched at the hope that these strangers might offer some kindness, some acknowledgment of the horror you were enduring, even as you knew they were coming to see their daughter, the woman whose body you now inhabited, and that any kindness they might show would be for her, not for you, the ghost inside her flesh, but still you clung to the thought, your fingers pressing against the wet tile as you heard the distant murmur of voices, the door opening, the sound of your partner's warm greeting, and you forced yourself to breathe, to stand, to wrap a towel around your trembling body, because whatever came next, you needed to see their faces, to search for any sign of humanity in this nightmare.

------

You pulled on the loose dress your partner had left out for you, the fabric sliding over your enhanced curves, but when you reached for the bra, your fingers fumbled with the unfamiliar clasps and straps, your mind too scattered to decipher the mechanism, and in a fit of frustrated desperation you simply left it on the bed, the thought of his controlling hands on your bare chest later making you shudder as you padded barefoot down the hallway, the voices growing louder, and when you stepped into the living room, your eyes met the faces of your own mother and father.

The same cold eyes, the same disappointed set of their mouths, the same posture of judgment you had known your entire life, and your knees went weak, your hand flying to your mouth, because there was no escape, no alternate universe where Amber's parents were kind, no comfort waiting in these familiar, hateful features, just your own parents staring at you with that same familiar disgust, your father's gaze dropping to your nipples visible through the thin fabric before he looked away with a sneer, your mother's lips pursing as she said,

"Amber, dear, could you not even manage a bra?"

And you stood there, trembling, your brakess breasts feeling like a betrayal you hadn't meant to commit, your own parents' disdain a mirror of the contempt you had always known, but now directed at this female shell you were trapped in, and you felt the chip pulse, trying to make you feel ashamed, trying to make you apologise, but you just stood there, silent, your eyes locked with your father's, finding only the cold judgment of a stranger.

Your husband doesn't seem to realise they're being rude, his hand finding the small of your back and pulling you into the room with a cheerful,

"We're so glad you could make it," as if the cold silence that had greeted you was perfectly normal, and your mother, without missing a beat, turned to your father and said,

"Did we tell you how wonderful your sister is doing? She just got promoted to head of her department at the university, and she's engaged to a lovely man who actually respects her," her eyes flicking over your chest again with pointed disapproval, and your father snorted, "At least one of our children turned out right," and you felt the chip try to make you feel small, try to make you agree, but instead you just stood there, your arms crossed over your chest in a futile attempt at modesty, your mind reeling at the casual cruelty, at the way they were praising a sister you never had before, a sister who had always been the golden child, the one who could do no wrong, while you, the son they had lost, the man who had died in a tractor accident and been reborn into this nightmare, stood before them as a failure in a woman's body, and your partner squeezed your shoulder, his voice bright as he said,

"Oh, that's wonderful news, isn't it, Amber?" and you felt the chip pulse, trying to force a smile onto your face, trying to make you nod, but you just stood there, frozen, your parents' eyes on you, waiting for you to perform your role as their disappointing daughter. And then, as if the silence were an invitation, your mother launched into a breathless account of your apparent nephew's latest triumphs, how he had won the county science fair, how he was already reading at a college level, how he had been accepted into a prestigious summer program for gifted youth, her voice rising with pride as she listed each achievement like a weapon, each word a barb aimed at your empty womb, your barren future, and your father nodded along, his eyes never quite meeting yours, until your mother paused, her gaze landing on your flat stomach with a pointed look, and said,

"So, Amber, when are you and your wonderful husband going to give us grandchildren? We're not getting any younger, you know," and your partner's hand tightened on your shoulder, his voice warm and eager as he replied,

"We're working on it, aren't we, darling?" and you felt the chip pulse, trying to make you nod, trying to make you smile, trying to make you say yes, we're trying, we're so close, but instead you just stood there, your arms still crossed over your chest, your bare breasts feeling like a target, your mind screaming that you were a man, that you had never wanted children, that the very idea of carrying a life inside this alien body was a horror beyond words, but your parents were looking at you with that familiar expectation, that demand for you to be the daughter they had always wanted, and your partner was beaming beside you, his hand a brand on your shoulder, and you felt the words rising in your throat, pushed by the chip, your lips parting to say something, anything, to satisfy them, when you clamped your mouth shut, your jaw aching with the effort, and simply nodded once, a tiny, jerky motion that seemed to satisfy them, your mother's smile sharpening as she turned back to your father and said,

"See? I told you she'd come around eventually," and you stood there, hollow, the taste of defeat bitter on your tongue, knowing that the nightmare was only beginning. And then your mother, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial warmth, turned to your husband and said, "You know, this chip was a good idea; she was always so unruly, so difficult, we never knew what to do with her," and your father nodded, his eyes finally meeting yours, but only to confirm the betrayal, and you felt the world tilt, the words echoing in your skull, a confession of complicity that made your blood run cold, while your husband beamed, his hand sliding from your shoulder to the back of your neck, fingers pressing against the spot where the implant lay beneath your skin, and he said,

"It's been a blessing, honestly, she's so much more agreeable now," and your mother smiled that sharp, satisfied smile, the one that had always meant trouble for you, and said

, "We knew you'd make something of him eventually," as if you were a project, a problem to be solved, and you stood there, your body trembling, the chip pulsing with a sickly warmth, trying to force you to smile, to nod, to agree, but you just stared at your parents, at the strangers who had birthed you, and felt the last shred of hope crumble into dust, realizing that they had known, that they had been part of this from the beginning, that the man you had been was not just dead but erased, replaced by this compliant, fertile vessel, and your husband's fingers traced the edge of the implant with a lover's tenderness as he leaned in to whisper,

"See? Everyone agrees, this is for the best," and you felt the chip surge, flooding your system with a warmth that felt almost like love, almost like acceptance, and you hated yourself for the way your lips began to curve into a smile, the way your eyes began to soften, the way your body began to lean into his touch, as if it belonged to someone else entirely.

Your mother's voice cuts through the oppressive silence, a sudden shift in tone as she asks, "So, how is the hovercar doing after that nasty accident? I heard the repairs were extensive," and you feel the words land like a slap, the casual reference to the crash that you hadn't even experienced, that Amber experienced, and that somehow, shoved you into this alien shell, and the chip pulses, trying to make you answer, trying to make you say something polite, something grateful, but all you can think of is the metal taste of blood, the screaming of the tractor's engine, the last thing you saw as a man, and your husband's hand tightens on your neck, his voice smooth as he answers for you,

"It's been fully repaired, a real testament to modern engineering, isn't it, darling?" and you feel the chip push a smile onto your face, a nod from your neck, and your mother's eyes gleam with satisfaction as she says,

"Wonderful, wonderful, I always said she was too reckless, but you've tamed her nicely," and you stand there, a puppet on strings, the hovercar's accident a convenient lie to cover the truth of your death, your parents' complicity a knife twisting in your gut, and all you can do is let the chip guide your body through the motions, your mind screaming in the dark.

And then, as if sensing the crack in your composure, your mother rose, smoothing her skirt with a satisfied smile, and announced, "Well, we really should be going, we have a dinner reservation," and your father stood, not sparing you a glance, his eyes fixed on some distant point, and your husband walked them to the door, his hand still warm on the back of your neck, guiding you to stand, to wave, to smile, and as the door closed behind them.

And then, as if sensing the crack in your composure, your mother rose, smoothing her skirt with a satisfied smile, and announced, "Well, we really should be going, we have a dinner reservation," and your father stood, not sparing you a glance, his eyes fixed on some distant point, and your husband walked them to the door, his hand still warm on the back of your neck, guiding you to stand, to wave, to smile, and as the door closed behind them. The man who was now your husband, led you in, as the silence of the apartment rushed in, and your husband turned to you, his eyes dark with promise, and said,

"Now, where were we?" and the chip sent a wave of heat through your body, making your knees weak, making your lips part, making your hands reach for him even as your mind screamed, as he kissed you.