Rocko (Mafia Thug)

Rocko was a small time hood and muscle for the mafia. A made man that was involved in extortion and racketeering. But then he got caught by the cops and instead of doing the time he decided to cut a deal to rat out his boss and other members of the mafia. That’s how he ended up in witsex.

He had always felt like he was the smart one in the crew, the one who could navigate the treacherous waters of organized crime without ever getting his hands dirty. But now, as he sat in the bland, sterile waiting room, he realized he might have overestimated his cleverness. The walls were a depressing shade of grey that matched the overcast sky outside. The room was eerily quiet except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights.

DeMastro’s assistant came out to bring him into the consulting room.

"Mr. Rocko, if you'll follow me," she said with a smile that was too bright to be real.

Rocko nodded and followed her through a series of hallways that smelled faintly of antiseptic. The walls were painted a calming blue, but it didn't do much to ease his nerves. The agent had said the procedures were safe, but the thought of having his very identity altered was unsettling. They arrived at a set of steel doors with a red biohazard symbol. "Here we are," she chirped, swiping a card and punching in a code. The doors slid open to reveal a set of stairs leading down.

As they descended, the air grew cooler and more sterile. The walls were lined with thick glass, behind which scientists in lab coats worked furiously at computer stations. They looked up briefly as Rocko and the assistant passed by, curiosity flickering in their eyes before returning to their screens. At the bottom of the stairs was a single door, marked "Intake." The assistant knocked and opened it, revealing a doctor with a clipboard.

"Ah, Mr. Rocko," the doctor said, not looking up. "Please, take a seat. We're just finalizing your paperwork."

Rocko felt his heart racing as he sat down on the cold, hard chair. The room was smaller than he had expected, with only a desk, two chairs, and a wall of screens displaying various statistics and images. The doctor was an older man, probably in his sixties, with a neatly trimmed beard and a pair of spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He had the air of someone who had seen it all, and Rocko couldn't help but wonder what kind of man signed up for a job like this.

"Now, Mr. Rocko, I know this can all seem a bit overwhelming, but I assure you it's all for your own good. We're going to give you a fresh start, a chance to leave all this behind." The doctor tapped the clipboard with a pen.

"Now, let's talk about your new look," the doctor said, turning to face him with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We've got a few options for you. We can alter your bone structure, change your skin tone, eye color, hair—everything. What do you think?"

Rocko swallowed hard, trying to process what was happening. "I... I don't know. Can I think about it?"

“We are on a tight schedule. I can make the selections if you like?” The doctor offered.

Rocko nodded, feeling a cold sweat break out on his forehead. He had never been one to make decisions under pressure.

“Good…” He explains that Rocko will undergo the physical adjustments first, followed shortly by the conditioning. He then asks if Rocko had any questions, and seeing that Rocko is stressed, he calms the thug. “Remember, this can be a shock. Take some deep breaths,” he says, like he’s done this a hundred times before. He probably has.

The anaesthesia kicks in without issue, and Rocko drifts away.

YOUR NAME IS HONEY SHAGGER.

“My name is Honey Shagger...” odd, that wasn’t his name… it was Honey. No Honey Shagger! What the hell?!

YOU ARE SEXUALLY UNINHIBITED AND LOVE SEX

“I’m sexually uninhibited and love sex...” Honey repeats, mildly concerned by the **** sexual desire that crowds his mind.

YOU ARE A STRIPPER AND A WHORE FOR THE MAFIA.

Honey blinked. “I’m a stripper and a whore for the mafia?” She didn’t remember signing up for that, but something about the way the doctor had talked made him feel like she had agreed to it. She looked down at her body, now slender and toned, with piercings in places she didn’t remember having before.

The doctor nodded. “Yes, it’s all part of your new identity. You’re a high-class escort with connections to the underworld. It’s a perfect cover for someone with your...expertise.”

Honey felt her body react to the words, her mind filling with scenarios of her new life.

"Now, let's get you dressed," the doctor said, gesturing to a rack of clothes in the corner of the room.

Rocko, now Honey Shagger, slowly stood up from the chair, her legs feeling wobbly from the anesthesia. She looked down at her new body, her hands tracing the unfamiliar curves and piercings. The doctor handed her a set of lingerie and high heels. "You'll need these for your new line of work," he said with a wink.

Honey slipped into the outfit, the fabric clinging to her new form in ways that were both thrilling and disconcerting. The heels were surprisingly comfortable, and she found herself walking with a newfound confidence. The reflection in the mirror was of a person she didn't recognize, yet she couldn't deny the allure of the seductive figure staring back at her.

“You’ll need to go to work at the Kitty Kat Club for your new pimp, Johnny Craser,” the doctor said, handing her a card with an address scribbled on it. “Your first assignment is tonight. You’ll fit right in. Trust me, you’re going to love it.”

Honey took the card, feeling a mix of excitement and dread. She had never been a stripper before, but the thought of being in control of her sexuality and using it to her advantage was intoxicating. She had always been a pawn in the mafia's games, but now she could be the queen.

The doctor handed her a bag with her new ID and some cash. "You'll need this to get there and get settled," he said. "Remember, you're Honey Shagger now. Your old life is over."

Honey nodded, the reality of her situation setting in. She was no longer Rocko, the feared enforcer, but a high-class escort with a new identity and a new set of rules to follow. She felt a strange thrill at the thought of the power she could wield in her new role. But… she was a man! “Wait. Doctor, this isn’t right. I’m a guy!” she protested.

The doctor’s smile grew wider, his eyes gleaming. “Ah, I see the confusion. That’s the beauty of the Witness Security Exchange Program. We don’t just change your identity; we give you a whole new life. And as a woman, you’ll be much more valuable to the mafia in your new line of work. Trust me, Mr. Rocko, this is for the best.”

The realization hit Honey like a sledgehammer. They had turned him into a her. Panic began to set in, but the doctor’s soothing voice cut through the fog. “Now, now, no need to worry. You’ll find that your new body is quite... adaptable. You’ll learn to enjoy it, I promise. And Johnny Craser, he’ll take good care of you. Just do as he says, and you’ll be fine.”

The doctor led Honey out of the room and into a bustling corridor. She walked awkwardly in the heels, her mind racing with questions and fears. She climbed into a taxi and drove off.

The Kitty Kat Club was a neon oasis in the dingy part of town. Its pink and blue lights pulsed in time with the thumping bass of music that spilled onto the sidewalk. Honey stepped out of the taxi, feeling exposed in the tight dress and heels. She took a deep breath and strutted inside, the cool air hitting her face like a slap.

Inside, the club was packed with leather-clad bikers, suited businessmen, and a few cops trying to look inconspicuous. The smell of **** and sweat mixed with the sickly sweet scent of cheap perfume. Honey felt the weight of the room's gaze as she walked through the crowd, her four-foot-ten frame seemingly towering thanks to the six-inch stilettos. Her new, ample chest bounced with each step, drawing the eyes of every man in the room.

The bouncer at the door took one look at her and winked, letting her pass without a word. The other dancers, tall and lithe, gave her the once-over, their expressions a mix of curiosity and jealousy. Honey knew she was different, but she also knew she had something they didn’t—a fresh start, a chance to play a new game with the same old rules. Why was she thinking like this? They’d turned her into a dumb bimbo!

As she made her way to the back, the stage lights reflected off the chrome poles, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across her new, ample chest. She felt the weight of her breasts differently than before, a new sensation that was both uncomfortable and oddly arousing. She had always liked women, but now she was one, and she was surrounded by them in various states of undress. The dressing room was a cacophony of laughter, makeup, and music. The other girls were all tall and leggy, their figures sculpted to perfection. Honey felt like a miniature doll in comparison, but she knew that her curves and her newfound sexuality would be her assets in this world. Oddly she wasn’t attracted to the women in the least. That was worrying. Was she attracted to men now?

Johnny Craser, a burly man with a silver tooth and a slicked-back mop of hair, greeted her with a leer. "Welcome to the Kitty Kat Club, sweetheart," he said, his voice like gravel. "You're going to make me a fortune."

Honey felt his eyes roam over her, appraising her like a piece of meat. She was unused to being objectified, but something about this felt different. It was as if she had become the very thing she had always used to manipulate others. She was now the prize, the commodity. She had to fight the urge to slug him, but she knew that would blow her cover. Instead, she gave him a coy smile, flipping her newly-long hair over her shoulder. "Thanks, Johnny," she purred, trying to ignore the way her voice had changed—higher, more feminine.

The other dancers whispered among themselves as Honey made her way to the stage for her first performance. The music was loud, the lights hot, and the floor sticky with spilled drinks. She had never felt more out of place in her life. But as she began to dance, something strange happened. Her body moved in ways that seemed natural, despite the unfamiliarity. The rhythm of the music pulsed through her, and she felt the power of the room shift towards her. The men's eyes were glued to her, and she could see the dollar bills starting to rain down on the stage.

Her four-foot-ten frame, now adorned with voluptuous curves, drew gasps and whistles from the crowd. The big boobs she had been given bounced and swayed with each gyration, and she had to admit, they felt surprisingly good. The weight of them, the way they moved with her, was a new sensation that she found herself enjoying more than she should. The lights played across her skin, turning her into a living doll, a sexual plaything for the men and women watching her.

The music grew louder, the bass thumping in her chest, and she closed her eyes, letting the rhythm take over. Her hips rolled in a way that made the men in the audience lean forward, hungry for more. The dancers around her, tall and graceful, seemed to shrink in comparison. Honey had always been muscular, but now she had a new kind of power—the power of sex appeal. She felt it surging through her, a heady rush that was both terrifying and exhilarating. She started to strip and grew aroused as she did so.

As the final piece of clothing fell away, she was bathed in the spotlight, her new body on full display. The crowd roared with appreciation, and she couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of pride. Her breasts, so large and round, jiggled with each movement, and she watched as the men's eyes grew wide with lust. The women, too, couldn't tear their gazes away, a mix of envy and intrigue playing across their faces.

Her movements grew more deliberate, more seductive, as she danced to the beat of the music. Her tiny frame, now adorned with such voluptuousness, was a stark contrast to the dancers she had once seen as competition. The way her hips swiveled and her new breasts bounced was mesmerizing, even to her. The power she wielded over these strangers was intoxicating, a high she had never experienced before.

The spotlight danced across her skin, and she felt it caress every inch of her body. Her four-foot-ten stature meant that her large breasts were the center of attention, a fact that she used to her advantage. The men in the audience couldn't help but stare, their jaws dropping as she spun around the pole with surprising grace. It was as if her body had been made for this, despite her past life of muscles and ****.

Honey's heart raced as the music grew more intense, her new, plump breasts bouncing with each twirl and shimmy. The friction of the dancing pole against her bare nipples sent bolts of pleasure shooting through her, and she couldn't help but let out a soft moan. The crowd loved it, their cries of excitement feeding her newfound ego.

Her feet, now adorned with sparkling stilettos, moved with surprising grace across the stage, the four-inch heels making her seem both delicate and powerful. Her short stature made her the star of the show, the pint-sized sex goddess that no one could ignore.

She finished, panting to a round of rapturous applause. She gathered her clothes and stepped off the stage to go back to the changing room.

Her tiny frame, now enhanced with such voluptuousness, drew stares from everyone in the club. Even the other dancers couldn’t help but cast envious glances at her. The weight of her new breasts felt strange and exhilarating as she moved through the throng of people. She felt like a celebrity, and the power was addictive.

“A thousand for a fuck,” a man offered.

Honey’s head snapped up, her heart racing. She looked at him, a blend of shock and anger in her eyes. “I’m not for sale, buddy,” she spat, her voice a sultry mix of confidence and defiance. Although… she was a whore. “At least not for that little.” She amended.

Johnny Craser stepped in, his face reddening. “You watch your mouth, girl. You do what you’re told, or you won’t be dancing anywhere, got it?” He grabbed her arm and pulled her aside. His grip was firm, a not-so-gentle reminder of her new place in the world.

Honey nodded, her new, smaller body feeling **** under his grasp. She had always been the strong one, the one who didn’t take crap from anyone. But now, with her new curves and her new role, she had to play the part. She had to be the seductress, the tease. It was all a game, and she had to play it well.

In the dressing room, she took a moment to collect herself. The mirror reflected a woman she barely recognized. Her muscular arms had been replaced with soft, feminine curves, and her once-flat chest was now a bountiful display of flesh that she couldn’t ignore. She cupped her breasts, feeling the weight of them in her hands. They were firm, yet yielding to her touch, and she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of arousal. It was as if her body had been rewired to crave the attention she was now receiving.

The man who had offered her the money entered. “So fifteen hundred then?”

Honey felt a shiver run down her spine. Her body was responding to the lewdness of the situation, and she hated it. She had always been the one in control, the one calling the shots. But now, she was at the mercy of men like this, who saw her as nothing more than a sexual object to be bought and sold. "I don't do that kind of thing," she said firmly, trying to sound more convincing than she felt.

“Two grand days you do.”

Honey’s eyes narrowed, and she spun around, her new, long hair whipping around her. The man didn’t flinch, just smirked, his eyes glued to her chest. She knew she had to play the part, but she wasn’t going to let anyone disrespect her like that. “You’ve got the wrong idea, buddy. I’m here to dance, not to...” she trailed off, not quite knowing what to say.

“You want the money. And you want to fuck. Don’t you Honey?” He said.

Honey felt a wave of anger and disgust. She had always been tough, a fighter, but now she was being reduced to this. A four-foot-ten sex object with oversized breasts that seemed to dominate every interaction. She took a deep breath and composed herself. "Johnny said I'm not for sale," she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

The man's smirk grew. "Johnny doesn't own you, sweetheart. You're a commodity, and I'm willing to pay top dollar for a taste of what you're serving up on that stage."

Honey's cheeks flushed with rage, but something within her was tempted. The thought of using her new body to her advantage was tantalizing. She could feel the power of her sexuality, the way it made people want her, need her. The money was good, and she had bills to pay—or so she thought.

She leaned in close to the man, her breasts brushing against his chest. "Two-fifty," she whispered, her voice low and seductive. "But only if you promise to make it worth my while."

The man's eyes gleamed with excitement as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He counted out the bills, laying them on the dressing table with a smack. Honey couldn't help but feel a thrill of anticipation. This was what she was now—a whore for the mafia, using her body to survive. But there was something more to it, something that made her blood race and her core throb. She wanted this, craved the feeling of being desired, of not being in control.

Once the deal was made, she led him to a private booth in the back of the club. The room was dimly lit, with a large, plush bed in the center. He followed her eagerly, licking his lips as he stared at her ass swaying in the tight dress. When they were inside, she closed the door and turned to face him, her hands going to the zipper of her dress.

"Take it off," he said gruffly, his voice thick with lust.

Honey complied, her hands shaking as she unzipped her dress. It fell to the floor, revealing the lingerie she had been given—a thong and a bra that barely contained her new, massive breasts. The man's eyes grew wide as he took in the sight of her. She felt a strange mix of fear and excitement, her heart racing in her chest.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to cup one of her breasts. She gasped as he squeezed it roughly, his thumb brushing over her erect nipple. He pushed her towards the bed, and she stumbled backward, her legs giving way slightly. He followed her, his body pressing against hers, his breath hot and heavy.

"You're going to be a good little whore, aren't you?" he growled, his hand sliding down to her ass. He squeezed hard, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. The sting of his grip sent a jolt of pleasure through her, and she felt her pussy grow wetter. This was what she wanted, what she had been craving since the moment she had been transformed. To be used, to be desired, to be nothing more than a toy for a man's pleasure.

Without a word, she turned around and bent over the bed, her new, large breasts swaying with the movement. The thong she wore did nothing to hide her arousal, the fabric soaked with her excitement. She heard him unbuckle his belt, the sound like thunder in the quiet room. He stepped behind her, and she felt his erection press against her.

His hands grabbed her hips, pulling her closer. She gripped the bedspread, bracing herself for what was to come. The anticipation was almost too much to bear, her body trembling with need. He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging against her wet pussy. She took a deep breath, her heart racing. This was it—the moment she had both feared and craved.

With a swift, powerful thrust, he entered her. Honey gasped, her eyes squeezing shut as she felt herself being filled completely. It was a sensation she had never experienced before, one that was both painful and exhilarating. She felt his hands on her hips, guiding her, controlling her movements as he began to fuck her hard and fast. Her breasts swung with every thrust, the friction against the bed sending waves of pleasure through her body.

He was rough, just as she had wanted, his grip on her hips tight and demanding. She could feel his urgency, his need to claim her, to make her his. And as much as she hated to admit it, she liked it. She liked the feeling of being used, of being nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure. It was as if all her fears and insecurities melted away with each stroke, leaving only the raw, primal need to be taken.