Wake up already strapped to the transformation table

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Consciousness returns in fragments—first the ache in your shoulders, then the cold metal pressing against your bare back, finally the realization that you cannot move.

Your eyes flutter open to harsh fluorescent lighting. The room swims into focus: white walls, medical equipment humming softly, cabinets lined with bottles and instruments that gleam with sterile menace. This isn't Miss Velvet's office anymore. This is something clinical, purposeful.

You try to sit up and discover the restraints. Thick leather straps bind your wrists above your head, secured to the metal table beneath you. More straps cross your chest, your waist, your thighs, your ankles. You're spread-eagle and completely immobilized, and the cool air against your skin confirms what you already suspected—you're naked.

"Good. You're awake."

Miss Velvet's voice draws your attention to the corner of the room. She's standing at a counter, her back to you, doing something you can't quite see. The black leather of her suit catches the light as she moves.

"The sedative usually lasts longer, but you have an admirably stubborn metabolism." She turns, holding a small vial filled with shimmering pink liquid. "We're in my private transformation chamber. You tried to leave me, John, so now we do this my way. No more illusions of choice."

She approaches the table, her heels clicking against the tile floor. Up close, you can see the flush in her cheeks, the way her pupils have dilated. She's aroused.

"First things first—you need a new name. Something feminine, something that will start dissolving that masculine identity you cling to." She sets the vial on a tray beside the table, then trails one gloved finger down your chest, between your ribs, stopping just above your navel. "I'm going to call you Candy. Different enough that it will feel like losing yourself every time I say it."

She picks up the vial again, holding it up to the light. The liquid inside seems to glow.