Her buyer has a thing for cheerleaders

Enraged and ****, I looked towards the nurse with a fire raging in my eyes, my fists clenched in futile defiance. I tried to lunge at her again, but the nanites reproducing inside me kept me pliant and obedient. Tears of frustration mingled with bitter sobs as I remained on my knees, the weight of my captivity bearing down upon me like a suffocating blanket. "Why me?" I choked out between ragged breaths, the question a **** plea for answers in a world devoid of mercy.

The nurse's response cut through the silence like a knife, her words dripping with callous indifference. "Because your buyer wanted an Asian," she declared, the revelation a cruel reminder of the arbitrary whims that governed my fate.

With a cold detachment that chilled me to the core, she issued her next command, the final nail in the coffin of my shattered autonomy. "Stand. Dance, like a slut. Show off your tattoo." she commanded, her voice a sinister melody.

Only at her command was I allowed to stand, my body no longer my own, a sense of profound resignation settled over me. Each movement was a testament to the loss of agency, my hips swaying smoothly, lewdly. My hands roamed my body, playing with my tits, making me wince with sensation. I couldn't stop myself. And so, I danced to the tune of my captors' twisted desires, my movements a macabre display of the soul-crushing reality that had become my existence. My movements were smooth, fluid, pure sex.

When the nurse returned, she had packed her nose with toilet paper to stop the bleeding. I smiled at that, even now. She brought with her two rubbery garments, a sleeveless top, and a skirt, both a dull, neutral grey. With a chilling calmness, she offered the skirt to me, commanding me to put it on. My body stopped swaying, and obeyed without hesitation. The skirt was a dull grey, much too large, and covered in a clear gel that squelched against my skin. Next came the top, offered with the same detached indifference. My limbs moved of their own accord, dressing me efficiently in the same oversized, slippery grey rubber.

"What is this?" I asked, resigned.

"Not fashion forward enough for you? Don't worry, your buyer has a thing for cheerleaders."

With practiced precision, she pressed a series of buttons on the device, and the latex fabric began to shift and contort, molding itself to my body with an eerie efficiency. The featureless skirt shortened, revealing inch after inch of my trembling thighs. Before my eyes, the neutral grey turned into a bright scarlet red. Pleats formed along its hem, giving it the unmistakable appearance of a cheerleader's skirt.

The top, too, underwent a grotesque metamorphosis, clinging to my sickeningly engorged breasts with a delicious, relentless embrace. Its color shifted to match the skirt, adorned with black trim that accentuated its lewd contours. I recoiled at the sight, a sense of revulsion mingling with the uncomfortably pleasurable sensation of the slippery latex against my skin.

The nurse offered me white socks and sneakers, normal ones, as the final touches to complete my look. With trembling hands, I accepted the garments, preferring to put them on myself over being **** to.

As I stood there, clad in the Crestwood Cardinals uniform that marked me as a plaything for the whims of a depraved buyer, a sense of profound despair settled over me. Trapped within the confines of my own body, I could only watch in silent horror as the nurse finalized my transformation, a grotesque parody of the person I once was, forever condemned to dance to the tune of my captors' twisted desires.