On her face

The pleasure builds to its peak and you pull back, Morgan's expert technique having done its work. Your release splashes across that doll-perfect face—across those permanent makeup cheeks, those glossy lips, the bridge of her nose. She gasps at the contact, eyes fluttering closed, and even this triggers a visible reaction through her hyper-sensitive body. A shudder runs through her tiny frame.

"Don't move," you tell her, and she freezes obediently, kneeling there with your cum dripping down her face. "Look at yourself."

Morgan opens her eyes and turns her head toward the bathroom mirror. She stares at her reflection—that beautiful, artificial face marked and used. Her breathing is ragged, breasts heaving.

"This is what you are now," you say quietly.

"I know," she whispers. Then, after a moment: "Can I clean up?"

You nod and she rises carefully on those stiletto heels, moving to the sink. She runs water, washes her face with small, delicate hands. When she looks up again, the permanent makeup is still perfect—it's embedded in her skin, unaffected by water or friction.

"Tomorrow," Morgan says suddenly, her breathy voice taking on an edge of anxiety. "Tomorrow we have to leave this apartment. Go outside. Be seen."

You lean against the doorframe, watching her. "We do."

"Riley, I'm four foot nine. I have breasts that would make a pornstar jealous. I literally cannot walk without four-inch heels." She gestures at her reflection. "I look like a fuck doll. And you... you look like you could be on magazine covers. Powerful, dominant, perfect."

"That's what we designed," you point out.

"I know. But thinking about it in the abstract and actually facing the world in these bodies are very different things." Morgan wraps her arms around herself, those massive breasts pushing up even higher. "What do we even do? We spent everything on the procedure. We need food. We need... I need clothes that fit this body. Nothing I owned before will work."

She's right. The apartment is nearly empty—just the mattress, two chairs, and your old clothes that no longer fit either of you. The bank account is drained. You're both immortal now, but immortality doesn't pay rent.

"The modification district has resources," you say, thinking it through. "Support systems for people adjusting to new bodies. We can access those."

"Will they judge us?" Morgan asks quietly. "When they see what you made me? What I asked you to make me?"

"Probably," you admit. "Modified bodies create hierarchies. We're obviously modified now, which puts us above unmodified people. But within the modified community... extreme designs like yours send a message."

"That I'm property," Morgan finishes. "That I'm owned."

"Yes."

She's quiet for a long moment, still looking at herself in the mirror. "I need clothes. Real clothes, not just towels. Something that... that fits. And we need to figure out income. Jobs. Life."

She turns to face you, and the size difference is stark even in the small bathroom. "What's the plan, Riley? How do we actually live like this?"