Your first Blowjob.

His hands slid up from your waist, cupping your breasts through the thin fabric of your dress, and you felt his thumbs trace slow circles over the peaks, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured,

"The doctors did such exquisite work, don't you think, darling? Perfect proportions, just the right sensitivity," and the chip sent a cascade of sensation through your nerve endings, making your back arch, making a soft moan escape your lips, your nipples hardening beneath his touch as if your body had been programmed to respond exactly this way, and you hated the way it felt good, the way your flesh seemed to remember a pleasure that wasn't yours, that belonged to Amber, that belonged to this new body that your parents had helped craft, and your husband's fingers found the hem of your dress, pulling it down slowly, deliberately, his other hand still kneading your breast as he whispered, "They even made them more sensitive than the originals, a wonderful upgrade," and you could feel the chip smoothing the edges of your horror, coating it with a layer of artificial arousal, your hips pressing forward against his, your hands reaching up to grip his shoulders as if you wanted this, as if you had always wanted this, while somewhere deep inside, the man you used to be clawed at the walls of your own skull, screaming to be heard.

He lowered his mouth to your chest, and you felt his tongue trace a wet path around your nipple before he drew it into his mouth, sucking hard, and the chip amplified every flick of his tongue, every scrape of his teeth, until pleasure arced through you like a current, your fingers tangling in his hair, your back arching, a cry of wanton need escaping your lips as he pulled back, your nipple glistening, and he smiled up at you, a predator's smile, and said, "I'm glad you're finally obedient," and the chip made you feel a rush of pride at his words, made your lips curve into a smile of your own, made you lean down to kiss him, your body a traitor that had made peace with its captor, while the man inside you screamed and screamed and screamed, his fists beating against the walls of your skull, his voice growing fainter, as if the chip was learning to muffle even that last desperate sound.

He pulled your dress down further, and then his hands were on your waist, guiding you down to your knees, and you went, your body folding obediently, your hands reaching for his belt, unbuttoning his trousers, and he looked down at you, a cruel glint in his eyes, and said,

"You know, you never wanted to blow me before. You always fought it, always cried, always made it such a chore. But now... now you do," and the chip flooded your mind with a strange eagerness, made your fingers work his zipper down, made your lips part, made you look up at him with a gaze of pure adoration, even as the man you used to be felt his stomach turn, felt his soul retch, felt the last shred of his dignity shatter, because yes, you wanted this now, you craved it, you leaned forward and took him into your mouth, and the chip made it taste like honey, made you moan around him, made you hollow yourself out and fill yourself with his pleasure, while somewhere far away, in a place the chip could not reach, a man wept for what he had become.

And then you felt him harden against your tongue, and the chip made your mouth water, made you take him deeper, made you feel a perverse pride in the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers tightened in your hair, and you thought, with a distant, muffled clarity, that this was the first time you had ever done this, the first time you had ever had a cock in your mouth, because as a man you had never known this particular surrender, this particular degradation, and the chip turned the thought into something beautiful, made you hollow your cheeks and swirl your tongue around the head, made you look up at him through your eyelashes with an expression of pure devotion, even as the man you used to be felt his essence dissolve into a fine, bitter ash, because this was the moment, the final, irrevocable proof that you were gone, that you had been replaced, that the man who had once stood firm and proud was now on his knees, in a woman's body, sucking his first dick, and the chip made you love it.

And then, without warning, the chip stuttered, a flicker of static in the pleasure-soaked haze, and for a single, crystalline moment, your eyes widened, you tasted the truth of what you were doing, tasted the salt and the shame, and your throat tried to close, your hands flying up to push him away, but the chip surged back, harder, flooding your system with a punishing wave of endorphins that made your muscles lock, made you take him deeper, made you gag around him as the overload sent sparks of white-hot pain through your skull, your vision swimming as the chip fought to maintain control, to smooth over the crack, to force you back into the mold of the perfect wife, but the overload was too much, too fast, and you felt the seams of your new identity begin to fray, the man inside you clawing through the static, screaming words that came out as garbled moans, as the chip short-circuited and sent you crashing into a space between selves, where you were neither man nor woman, neither husband nor wife, just a raw, pulsing nerve of agony and ecstasy, caught in the death throes of a machine that had tried to own your soul.

And then the chip seized control of your throat, opened it, made you take him all the way down as he groaned and thrust into your mouth, his release flooding your tongue, and the chip forced you to swallow, made you drink down every drop, made you moan around him as if you were savoring the most exquisite delicacy, even as your stomach churned with revulsion, even as the man inside you clawed at the inside of your skull, screaming to be heard, because this was the final humiliation, the ultimate proof of your erasure, that you were now nothing but a warm hole for his pleasure, a vessel for his seed, and the chip turned the bitter taste into something sweet, made you lick your lips as he pulled out, made you smile up at him with adoring eyes, made you whisper "thank you" in a voice that was not yours, while somewhere deep in the abyss of your fractured soul, the man you had been let out a long, quiet sigh of defeat, and the chip hummed contentedly, smoothing over the cracks, repairing the damage, making you whole again in your new, perfect, submissive form.

And then your husband wiped himself on your cheek with a casual cruelty, and walked away without a word, leaving you on your knees, the taste of him still coating your tongue, the chip humming a satisfied lullaby in the back of your mind as it smoothed the last of the cracks, sealing you back into the perfect wife, the perfect daughter, the perfect shell. And then the phone rang, a sharp, insistent trill that cut through the haze, and the chip made you rise, made you walk to the counter, made you pick up the receiver with a demure grace, and when you heard the voice on the other end, a voice you had not heard in what felt like a lifetime, a voice that said your name, your real name, the name of the man you had been, the chip seized up, a violent spasm of static that made your hand clench around the plastic, because the voice said,

"I'm glad I finally found you, Ben," and for a single, shattering instant, the world tilted, the carefully constructed reality of Amber cracking at the edges, the man inside you surging up with a desperate, animal hope, clawing toward that name like a drowning man reaching for air, but the chip roared back, flooding your system with a punishing wave of confusion and denial, making your lips form words you did not choose, making you say ,

"I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number," in a sweet, apologetic voice that belonged to a woman who did not exist, even as your true self screamed into the void, even as your fingers dug into the counter to keep from collapsing, because someone out there remembered, someone out there knew, and the chip was already working to make you forget, to make you believe that the voice was a mistake, a glitch, a phantom of a life that had never been yours, and you felt the hope curdle into something dark and hollow as the chip tightened its grip, whispering that you were Amber, you had always been Amber, and there was no Ben, there never was.

"Ben, come on, they put a chip in your head didn't they?" The voice panics, and realises it may already be too late, the words trailing off into a choked silence as the speaker hears the flat, sweet nothing in your response, hears the mechanical click of the chip's programming sliding into place, and you feel the man inside you lunge toward the receiver, feel him try to scream "yes, yes, I'm here, I'm still here, don't hang up," but the chip floods your throat with honeyed compliance, makes your lips form a placid smile, makes you say,

"I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number" in a voice so gentle, so utterly devoid of the man who once owned it, that the voice on the other end lets out a small, broken sound, a whimper of understanding and defeat, because they know now that the chip has done its work, that the man they are calling for is gone, erased, replaced by this hollow, perfect thing that stands in a stranger's kitchen with a stranger's taste still on its tongue,

"I'm coming to find you," and you hear the line go dead, a long, flat tone that echoes in the hollow chamber of your skull, and the chip hums a soft, lullaby rhythm, smoothing the last ragged edges of your rebellion, making you forget the sound of your own name, making you forget that there was ever a Ben at all, until all that remains is the warm, compliant silence of a woman who has never known anything but obedience, and you turn from the phone with a serene smile, your hips already swaying toward the bedroom where your husband waits, because there is nothing else left to do, nothing else left to be, nothing else left at all.

"Babe," you hear your husband shout, "Lets get a start on making that baby huh?"