Ask Marcus directly about what's going to happen to your original body, and what this initial assessment entails.

The words spill out of you, **** and breathy, mixing genuine terror with this body's perverse eagerness. "What's going to happen to my original body?" You look up at him, chest still thrust forward obscenely. "And what does this assessment involve? Will I... will I get to serve you?"

The last question makes you want to vomit even as your body floods with anticipation at the thought. Your thighs are slick with arousal, the thin shorts doing nothing to hide the wet patch forming.

Marcus's professional mask slips for just a moment, and you catch something that might be discomfort crossing his features. He adjusts his grip on the tablet. "Your original body is in recovery," he says carefully. "The consciousness currently inhabiting it is being kept sedated during the adjustment period. After that..." He pauses. "After that, both bodies will be delivered to the client who commissioned the transfers."

The words hit you like ice water, cutting through even the conditioning fog. "Delivered? Like property?"

"That's the business model," Marcus says flatly. "Modified bodies inhabited by educated minds. There's a premium market for it." He's watching your reaction now, clinical again. "The assessment involves cognitive tests, physical response measurements, and behavioral compliance checks. I need to verify that your higher reasoning functions are intact while the conditioning remains effective."

"And serving you?" The question comes out small, humiliating.

He shifts his weight, and you can see the bulge in his slacks. He's aroused - of course he is, with you kneeling there like a fantasy made flesh - but he's maintaining control. "That's not part of the initial assessment," he says. "Though Dr. Voss may require demonstrations of conditioned responses later." His eyes drift down to where your nipples strain against the fabric. "Stand up. I need you to perform some basic tasks."

But standing means moving away from this submissive position, means fighting against every screaming nerve ending that wants you to crawl closer, to reach for his belt, to beg. Your hands are shaking where they rest on your spread thighs.

"Seventy-two hours," Marcus adds, almost as an afterthought. "That's when the transfer becomes permanent at a neurological level. After that, reversal isn't possible. The neural pathways solidify." He checks something on his tablet. "You've been in that body for approximately thirteen hours now."

Seventy-two hours. Less than three days to find a way out of this nightmare before you're locked in this flesh prison forever, before your original body is shipped off to some wealthy psychopath who paid to wear your mind like a suit.

Marcus is waiting, tablet ready, expression neutral. The camera in the corner blinks red, recording everything.