Dreams of

Isabelle had thought, when this whole thing began, that Riley's descent would be messier. A punishment, not a pleasure. He was supposed to writhe under the weight of it—resentful, confused, humiliated. That was the point, wasn't it? To bend him, to remind him who was really in control, to peel back his illusions of masculinity until he had nothing left but obedience.

Instead, she found herself watching him bloom.

Not that she hadn't been enjoying seeing Riley turn into this other thing, this sexual creature oozing femininity from every pore. The transformation was so dramatic that she shocked even herself. There could have been no way for Isabelle to anticipate how susceptible Riley was to subliminal manipulation. He was hands-down the most easily programmed person she'd ever heard of. She just wished she could do more, not to reward his transformation, but to find a way to **** him, while not losing her steady and profound income stream.

A few days had passed since the storage room incident, that reckless little tryst in the back of the gym. Isabelle had been there that afternoon, close enough to hear the giggles and moaning slipping through the door. She remembered the silence in the hallway when people realized what was happening, that half-incredulous hush as Riley's voice carried his cries of "Yes, Daddy!". Later that night, Riley had spoken to her over dinner, practically glowing, proud to tell her exactly what Chase had done to him. He had relived every detail, beaming like he had won some prize.

And now, days later, that glow still hadn't dimmed. Maybe that was what was rubbing Isabelle the wrong way, why she had suddenly been taking stock of her strategy.

The very next day it had been the bleachers. Riley had shown up in a cropped hoodie with glitter threaded through the drawstrings and a plaid micro-skirt that barely grazed his thighs. His hair, still damp from a shower, curled sweetly around his face as he perched himself right on Chase's lap in full view of the basketball team. Chase's hands were blatantly over Riley's hoodie, fingertips squeezing into Riley's full breasts. Isabelle had seen the stares from the players—some startled, some curious, a few openly jealous. Nobody stopped it. Nobody said a word. The subliminals Riley streamed with every video had seeped into the air like perfume, dulling outrage, twisting it into fascination.

Then came the café. Riley had dressed in a new level of slutty—a see-through top, making it obvious that he had foregone any bra that afternoon, and a microskirt so short that he had to tug at the hem every time he shifted. Isabelle had been scrolling through her feed when the stream lit up: shaky footage of Riley pulling Chase into the restroom, breathless laughter right before the door swung shut. When they emerged, Riley's lipstick was smeared across Chase's cheek, and the chat was in chaos. Riley told her later, delighted, that he had been the one to ask if they could stream it. And Chase—thanks to Isabelle's own subliminals—hadn't hesitated. He had been turned on by the idea of being watched, of showing Riley off.

From then on, they streamed every encounter.

And Riley? He wasn't squirming under the shame. He was thriving. Every day his confidence grew, his skirts got shorter, his makeup bolder. He had started wearing glossy lip stains that clung to Chase's mouth after their kisses, and delicate anklets that glittered when Chase pulled him onto his lap. He didn't look like someone being punished. He looked like someone in love.

It gnawed at Isabelle.

She told herself she didn't mind that Riley was happy. Happiness was useful, in doses—it softened resistance, made subjects easier to shape. But this wasn't softness. This was joy. Exuberance. He had lost himself so completely in the girl she had sculpted for him that there was no trace left of the boy he had been. He was, in fact, far happier as GirleyRiley than he ever was a plain old Riley.

And Isabelle realized, with a sharp pang of bitterness, that she had executed her plan too well. With all the work she'd done, with all the changes she'd made to her ex-boyfriend's life, she had left out the part where he would understand that it was punishment. Of course, there was no way she could have known how well he would have taken to the conditioning. She had always thought that he would eventually disappear into this feminine life, to be swallowed by it, to forget the smirking boy who used to mock her. But she had believed that the road to that life would be paved in at least some despair, not pure joy. But now… now that he paraded through hallways with his skirts swishing and his lips swollen from Chase's kisses, now that he giggled into cameras and basked in attention, she saw what was missing.

Punishment.

Yes, she had turned Riley into something astonishing—beautiful, notorious, profitable. Through her work, she had secured her own future, her comfort, her extravagance. But it wasn't enough. Not if he was happy. She wanted more. She wanted him to know. To remember. To feel the sting of what he had lost every time he looked in the mirror and saw the girl smiling back.

The idea began to take shape in her head late one night, long after she had unplugged from the world and should have been asleep. If she couldn't rouse the old Riley in waking life without unraveling everything, she could plant him in dreams. Dreams were porous, messy. They let contradictions coexist. She pictured Riley lying in Chase's arms in his little silk camisole, drifting into sleep, while somewhere behind his eyelids another version of him stirred—the Riley he had been, clumsy and defensive, aching to claw his way back.

Isabelle opened her laptop and began to type. The script came easily, her fingers finding the rhythm of suggestion:

When you dream, you will remember your old life. When you close your eyes, Riley the man will return. He will not take you over, but he will show you what you lost. He will whisper the things you forget about your old life. And you will carry his voice with you, soft and troubling, even as you wake.

She read it back twice, adjusted a few words, made sure the cadence was hypnotic. It wasn't meant to overwhelm him. Not yet. Just to open the door a crack, to let the old Riley peer through. The girl and the boy, sharing the same dream, jostling for space.

Isabelle leaned back in her chair, biting the inside of her cheek. Maybe this was cruel. Maybe this was brilliant. It didn't matter. Riley had been given too much joy, too much freedom. If he was going to strut through cafés in denim skirts and stream his lipstick-smeared kisses in public restrooms, then he would also learn what it felt like to be haunted.

Because this was never about giving him the life he wanted.

It was about control.

And Isabelle wasn't about to let go of hers.