It's going! It's really happening!

The sounds emerge from your throat without conscious direction—low, guttural moans that shift into higher keening whimpers as the pain reaches new depths. Your penis has dwindled to barely an inch now, a vestigial nub that bears almost no resemblance to what it was an hour ago.

"That's beautiful," Miss Velvet whispers, her pink eyes gleaming as she watches both your shrinking anatomy and the involuntary sounds spilling from your lips. "Don't suppress them. Let me hear every note of your transformation."

A fresh wave of agony tears through your pelvis as the vaginal canal burrows deeper, and you moan louder—a desperate, breathy sound that echoes off the soundproofed walls. The remnants of your scrotum have split completely now, the skin migrating and reshaping into distinct folds on either side of your disintegrating penis.

"Your labia are forming perfectly," Miss Velvet narrates, her gloved fingers tracing the air just above your transforming genitals without quite touching. "Outer lips first, fuller and more protective. Can you feel the tissue differentiating? The way it's becoming softer, more sensitive?"

You can only moan in response as another spike of pain radiates from deep within your pelvis. Something is moving in there—your testicles completing their ascent, repositioning themselves as ovaries in the space your body has carved for them.

"Ten minutes until clitoral formation begins," Miss Velvet announces, checking her watch. "That's when the real screaming starts, sweetness. When eight thousand nerve endings compress into a structure the size of a pea." She leans closer, her breath warm against your ear. "I've had subjects lose consciousness from that phase. But something tells me you'll stay aware through every exquisite second."

Your penis gives a final, obscene twitch before shrinking past the half-inch mark. The sensation is nauseating—watching your manhood literally cease to exist, feeling it dissolve from the inside out while your moans provide an involuntary soundtrack to its death.

"Almost gone," Miss Velvet breathes reverently. "In a few more minutes, that little nub will be all that's left. And then we'll compress it down into your clitoris. Your new center of pleasure. The most sensitive part of your female anatomy."

Another moan escapes you—this one edged with something that might be anticipation mixed with the persistent, grinding pain.