Beg Miss Velvet to make it stop

The words tear from your throat in a broken rasp, each syllable agony as the serum continues its work. "Please... make it stop... please..."... "Please!" The word tears from your throat, raw and desperate, but it comes out wrong—strangled, distorted by the fire consuming your larynx. "Make it stop! Please, I can't—"

You thrash against the restraints with everything you have. The leather straps creak but hold firm as you buck your hips, twist your shoulders, yank at your wrists until the metal table rattles beneath you. Pain radiates from every point where the restraints bite into your skin, but it's nothing compared to the molten agony spreading through your throat.

Miss Velvet watches your struggle with evident fascination, her pink eyes tracking every contortion of your body. She doesn't move to stop you. Instead, she circles the table slowly, her heels clicking with measured precision. She comes to rest beside your head, pulling up a chair, crossing her legs with deliberate slowness. looking down with an expression that mingles sympathy with satisfaction.

"The restraints are reinforced steel with medical-grade leather," she says conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "They're designed to hold patients through seizures. You're not getting out of them, no matter how hard you fight."

"And it wouldn't really be in your best interest either" she says softly, reaching down to brush damp hair from your forehead. "The serum is already restructuring your vocal cords. Stopping now would leave you with permanent damage—unable to speak at all. Is that what you want?"

You try to shake your head, but the restraints limit your movement. Another wave of burning pain radiates through your throat, and you make a sound that's neither masculine nor feminine—just raw suffering. You scream—or try to. What emerges is a broken, grinding sound that makes your entire throat spasm with fresh pain. Tears stream down your temples into your hair.

"The pain will fade in time," Miss Velvet continues, her gloved fingers trailing down the side of your face. "In six hours, maybe seven, it will be over. And then you'll have the most beautiful voice—soft, breathy, utterly feminine. Every word you speak will be a reminder of what you're becoming.". Miss Velvet continues, reaching out to place one gloved hand on your heaving chest, feeling your heartbeat racing beneath her palm, "Stopping is not an option. The serum is already working. Your vocal cords are dissolving and reforming as we speak. Interrupting the process now would leave you unable to speak at all."

She leans closer, her face hovering above yours. "So you have two choices, Candy. You can exhaust yourself fighting restraints that won't break and begging for mercy I won't give, or you can breathe through the pain and let your body complete what I've started.". She pauses for a bit, before she leans in again. "I'm going to stay right here with you through all of it. I want to witness every moment of your transformation."

The hours crawl by with excruciating slowness. The pain in your throat never quite peaks—it maintains a constant, searing intensity that makes thinking impossible. Miss Velvet watches you throughout, occasionally offering water through a straw, which you accept desperately despite how it burns going down.

She talks to you, her voice a steady stream of consciousness. "I've done this forty-seven times now," she says at one point. "Every transformation is different. Some subjects scream. Others go silent. You're somewhere in between—these little whimpers and gasps. It's quite endearing, actually."

Somewhere around hour five, you notice your voice changing when you cry out. The sounds coming from your throat are higher, softer. Miss Velvet notices too, and her smile widens.

"Almost there," she murmurs. "Just a bit longer.". Your back arches involuntarily as another wave of burning sensation cascades through your throat. The muscles in your neck cord with tension.

By the time the burning finally begins to subside, pale morning light is filtering through a small window near the ceiling. Your throat feels raw, tender, completely foreign. Miss Velvet leans forward, her pink eyes gleaming.

"Say something," she commands. "Say your name."

You open your mouth, and the voice that emerges is unmistakably feminine—breathier than your old voice, higher in pitch, with a soft quality that makes your chest tighten with loss.

"Candy," you whisper, and even that single word sounds like someone else entirely. Miss Velvet murmurs, stroking your sweat-dampened hair with unexpected gentleness. Her lips curve into a smile. "The next transformation will hurt even more."