Ask what she thinks of you

The question leaves your lips before you can second-guess it. "What do you think of me now?" Your voice comes out smaller than you intended, ****. "How do you view the new me? Are you... happy with me?"

Morgan turns from examining the closets, and the look she gives you makes your breath catch. Those enormous pale blue eyes sweep over your body with an intensity that's both clinical and hungry. She walks toward you slowly, her hips swaying with each step, and you're acutely aware of how she has to look down to meet your gaze.

"What do I think?" she repeats, reaching out to trace one finger along your jaw. "I think you made yourself perfect for me. Small enough that I tower over you. Masculine enough to be beautiful, but not threatening. Not dominant." Her finger trails down your neck, across your collarbone. "You designed yourself to need me, and I can see it working. You're practically vibrating with the need for my approval right now, aren't you?"

"Yes," you whisper, because lying to her is impossible now.

Her hand moves to your chest, palm flat against your sternum where your heart hammers. "I view you as mine," she says, and her voice drops into that husky register that makes your cock throb. "Not like you're mine. You are mine. The way this apartment is mine, the way those clothes are mine. Property. And the strange thing is..." She pauses, her expression becoming thoughtful. "It doesn't feel cruel to think that way. It feels natural. Right. Like looking at you and seeing 'my Jordan, my possession' is just... what you are."

Your knees feel weak. The words should terrify you, should make you want to rebel, but instead they send waves of pleasure through your rewired brain. This is what you wanted. What you made yourself into.

"And am I happy with you?" Morgan continues, her other hand sliding down to wrap around your hard cock again, stroking slowly. "Oh, Jordan. You're a fucking masterpiece. Look at this body you gave yourself. Compact, powerful, responsive. And this cock..." She squeezes, making you gasp. "Perfect size. Perfect shape. And it only gets hard for me, doesn't it? You've made yourself completely dependent on my touch."

"Only you," you manage, your hips pushing into her grip. "Always you."

She releases you suddenly and steps back, leaving you aching. "Yes, I'm happy with you," she says, and the approval in her voice hits your brain like a **** rush. "Very happy. You did exactly what I wanted, even though you didn't know what I wanted until I said yes to everything. You trusted me with total control, and I'm going to use it." Her smile is radiant and predatory. "Now, I want to see you in some of those clothes. I want to dress my property."

"Yes Mistress." The word leaves your mouth and hangs in the air between you.

Morgan freezes. Her entire body goes still, those pale blue eyes widening slightly. For a moment she just stares at you, and you can see something shift behind her gaze—a recognition, an acceptance, a claiming.

"Say it again," she breathes.

"Yes Mistress," you repeat, and this time the words feel even more natural. Right. Like they were always meant to be spoken to her.

Her wings flare out slightly, the white feathers catching the bedroom light. She takes three quick steps toward you and grabs your face with both hands, tilting your head back sharply to **** eye contact. Her grip is firm, possessive, and you can feel the strength in her new body.

"Mistress," she says, tasting the word. "Not Morgan. Not honey or sweetheart or any of that equal partnership bullshit we used to do. Mistress." Her thumbs press against your cheekbones. "Because that's what I am now, isn't it? Your Mistress. Your owner."

"Yes," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. "You own me, Mistress."

She releases your face and steps back, and you can see her chest rising and falling rapidly. The faint arousal glow under her skin intensifies, spreading across her breasts and down her stomach. "Fuck," she mutters, running one hand through her long blonde hair. "Hearing you say that... it's like lighting a fire in my brain. I want to dress you up like a doll. I want to fuck you until you break. I want to parade you around and show everyone that you belong to me."

Your cock throbs at her words, standing rigid between your legs. She notices immediately, her eyes dropping to your erection with a satisfied smile.

"Look at that," she purrs, moving toward the closet designated for your clothes. "Already hard just from calling me Mistress. Such a good boy." She starts rifling through the racks, pulling out various items and holding them up to examine. "The studio stocked this whole thing. Let's see what they think my property should wear."

She tosses several items onto the bed—tight athletic shorts, designer briefs, a leather harness, some kind of collar with metal rings. All sized for your smaller frame. All chosen to emphasize rather than conceal.

"Strip," she orders, then laughs. "Oh wait, you're already naked. Well then, just stand there while I decide what to put on you first." She holds up the collar, examining it with interest. "I think we should start with this. Come here."

You move immediately to stand before her, your heart hammering.

You sink to your knees without hesitation, settling back on your heels with your hands resting on your thighs. The position feels instinctive, natural—your smaller frame folding into submission as easily as breathing. From this angle, Morgan towers over you even more dramatically, her wings spreading slightly as she looks down at you with those enormous pale blue eyes.

"Good boy," she murmurs, and the words send electricity racing through your nervous system. She steps closer, the collar dangling from her hand. It's black leather with three metal D-rings—one at the front, one on each side. The leather is soft but substantial, clearly expensive. "Tilt your head up."

You obey immediately, exposing your throat. She moves behind you, and you feel her hands brush your neck as she wraps the collar around it. The leather is cool against your skin at first, then warms quickly to your body temperature. She adjusts it carefully, making sure it's snug but not too tight, then you hear the soft click of a buckle being fastened.

"There," she says, moving back around to face you. Her fingers hook under the front D-ring and she tugs gently, testing the collar's hold. Your head follows the pull automatically. "Perfect. You look absolutely perfect like this, Jordan. On your knees, collared, looking up at me like I'm your entire world."

"You are, Mistress," you say, and it's the simple truth. The psychological modifications have made it impossible for you to want anything or anyone else.

She releases the collar and walks slowly around you, examining you from every angle. "The viewers are going to love this," she says, and you remember with a jolt that there are thousands of people watching this moment. "My collared property. My obedient little stud." She completes the circle and stands in front of you again. "Tell me what you are."

Your cock throbs at the command. "I'm yours, Mistress. Your property. Your possession."

"And what do you exist for?"

"To serve you, Mistress. To please you. To obey you."

Her smile is radiant, predatory, beautiful. The arousal glow intensifies across her skin, making her seem to shimmer in the bedroom light. "Such a good answer." She reaches down and strokes your hair almost affectionately, the way someone might pet a beloved dog. "I think I'm going to keep you naked for now. The collar is enough decoration. Besides..." Her other hand trails down your chest, your abdomen, stopping just short of your rigid cock. "I like seeing exactly how much you want me."

You remain perfectly still on your knees, hands resting on your thighs, eyes lowered in submission. The collar feels heavier than its actual weight—not physically, but symbolically. It's a constant presence around your throat, marking you as Morgan's property in a tangible way that makes your pulse quicken.

Morgan circles you slowly, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet. You can hear the soft rustle of her wings, the quiet rhythm of her breathing. She's studying you from every angle, taking her time, and you find yourself hyper-aware of how exposed you are—naked except for the collar, cock still hard, completely **** to her scrutiny.

"You know what's incredible?" she says after what feels like an eternity. Her voice comes from behind you now. "You're not fidgeting. Not shifting. Not getting impatient. You're just... waiting. Like you could kneel there forever if I wanted you to."

"I could, Mistress," you reply quietly.

"I believe you." She moves back into your field of vision, standing directly in front of you. Her long legs are at your eye level, tanned and perfectly toned. "The old Morgan—the one who woke up in that hospital bed seventy-three years old and scared—she would have felt guilty about this. About owning someone. But that's not who I am anymore, is it?"

You look up at her face. Those pale blue eyes are bright with something between wonder and hunger. "No, Mistress."

"No," she agrees. She reaches down and traces one finger along your jaw, then hooks it under the front D-ring of your collar again. "I'm something better now. Something that doesn't apologize for taking what it wants." She tugs the collar gently, making you rise up slightly on your knees. "And what I want right now is to test just how obedient you really are."

Your heart hammers against your ribs. The arousal glow across her skin intensifies, spreading down her thighs, making her seem almost luminous in the bedroom light.

"Stand up," she commands, releasing the collar.

You rise immediately to your feet, though you're acutely aware of how much shorter you are than her. She has to look down at you, and you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact.

"Turn around."

You obey without hesitation.

"Bend over and touch your toes."

Your enhanced flexibility makes the position easy, and you fold forward smoothly, pressing your palms flat against the floor. You feel completely exposed in this position, ass in the air, ****.

Morgan's hand comes to rest on your lower back, then slides down over your ass with deliberate slowness. "Such a perfect little body you gave yourself," she murmurs. "So responsive. So obedient." Her fingers dig in slightly, possessive. "I think I'm going to enjoy breaking you in."