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Veil of Protection 07
🕑 Added 2025-01-08 17:03:00 +0000 UTCChapter 7: Michael
Michael Tanaka greeted his new surroundings with the same enthusiasm one might experience after a hard slap in the face. One day, he was in his element - brokering million-dollar deals, commanding boardrooms, and barking orders at subordinates who dared to challenge him. The next, he was unceremoniously deposited from an unmarked van at an unknown location and locked in a small, dingy cell that was more of a storage closet than a safe house.
From the moment the heavy door clicked shut behind him, his blood boiled. His fury erupted in a stream of demands and curses. He shouted until his throat burned, pacing the room like a caged tiger. But the barren walls offered no reply, and his anger echoed back to him, hollow and mocking. When the unemotional robotic tone of NINA's voice greeted him through unseen speakers, Michael sat slumped on the floor with his head buried in his hands.
“Welcome, Melody,” the AI began, the name causing Michael’s head to shoot up in confusion. “I am here to guide and prepare you for your new life. For your safety, significant adjustments are needed. Your compliance isn't necessary but will ensure optimal results.”
The following days were filled with disapproving scowls and small acts of rebellion, but like the other men under NINA’s care, his resistance didn’t last long. A calculated mix of psychological tactics and carefully applied punishments wore him down. By the time the pale blue gas first filled his cell, rendering him unconscious, Michael had already begun begrudgingly participating in NINA’s daily therapy sessions. He ate every bite of the oversized, high-calorie meals provided to him, the rich portions working steadily to transform his once-fit, athletic physique into one noticeably softer and rounder.
When Michael woke to find his body hair and eyebrows missing, his first instinct was to unleash the fiery anger that had defined him his entire life - a short wick ready to ignite at the slightest provocation. This time, however, he surprised himself. Drawing on the breathing techniques NINA had drilled into him during their therapy sessions, he managed to suppress the urge to scream and shout. Instead, he sat in tense silence, his mind reeling as he ran his fingers up and down his unnervingly smooth thigh while muttering obscenities under his breath.
The next time the blue gas made an appearance, no coping techniques in the world could stop Michael from losing his cool when faced with the resulting changes made to his body. “Why are you doing this to me?” he screamed, his voice raw with panic as he stumbled toward the screen. “This isn’t legal!” he wailed, staring at his eyelids, now sporting a distinctive crease, usually associated with a Western ethnicity. “I didn’t agree to this!” he cried, his fingers shaking as they traced the new curve of his rounded jaw and his softened facial features.
It was too much to take in. Michael slumped to the ground, overwhelmed by the alternative version of himself staring back at him. His hair, having grown at a previously thought impossible rate, now reached the nape of his neck. His body, heavier and softer than it had ever been, jiggled in ways he couldn’t ignore. With his breathing ragged, he curled his pudgy body into the foetal position, rocking back and forth, his mind slowly breaking under NINA’s calculated efforts. Each change chipped away at his sense of self, leaving him adrift in a body that no longer felt his own.
The full extent of the surgeries became painfully clear in the weeks that followed. Introduced to the exercise room, Michael was presented with a tailored regimen of cardio and muscle-strengthening exercises, meticulously designed by NINA to shape his body to her specifications. With his fat cells surgically redistributed from his midsection to his chest, thighs, and backside, the results of his seemingly endless squats and hours on the treadmill were deeply unsettling.
Initially, Michael felt a spark of relief, grateful for the chance to get back into shape. But as days passed, his optimism quickly gave way to mounting frustration. While his waist slimmed visibly, his thighs thickened, his backside rounded, and his chest began to subtly fill out. His reflection revealed a silhouette growing shapelier and more feminine, leaving him baffled. No matter how hard he pushed himself, the changes continued, mocking his efforts as his body shifted in ways he couldn’t control.
When the day came to change rooms, Michael scoffed in disbelief at the outfit NINA presented him with through the wall hatch. For a man who once prided himself on his collection of the finest Italian leather shoes and thousand-dollar tailored suits, he felt repulsed by the cheap, gaudy ensemble before him. The tight white pants and low-cut orange top, clearly designed for a woman, were bad enough, but the push-up bra and two-inch wedge sandals that accompanied them made his stomach churn. He paced the small room in frustration, sighing heavily and shaking his head, but in the end, there was no other choice. Reluctantly, he squeezed himself into the embarrassing outfit and stumbled out of the room, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Entering the familiar room of four doors - where he usually passed through to enter the exercise room - Michael found a door previously locked tight now slightly ajar. With trepidation, he pushed it open and stepped through into the unknown. What greeted him made him feel sick to his core - a pink, overly feminine space that looked like it had been designed for a teenage girl with a princess fantasy. The walls glowed with a nauseating rosy hue, and the décor seemed to mock him with its exaggerated girlishness.
As the door clicked shut, Michael froze, the reality of his situation sinking in. He wobbled unsteadily, struggling to adapt to the unfamiliar angle his feet were forced to adopt inside the wedge sandals strapped tightly around them.
(See image 19)
Realising he was still trapped, he shook his head, unable to ignore the truth any longer. He was being feminized, piece by piece, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The crushing sense of powerlessness gnawed at him, leaving him paralyzed in the sickly pink glow of his new cell - a space that felt like a mockery of everything he once was.
After a restless night, the changes continued - much to Michael’s dismay - as he was introduced to yet another room: the practice room. At the far end of the small rectangular space stood a chair bolted firmly to the floor, positioned directly in front of a set of screens. This would become the focal point of his new routine, the place where he would now spend most of his time. Guided by tutorial videos displayed on the screens, Michael would be tasked with learning skills deemed crucial for his new life as Melody: hairdressing and piercing.
For a man of Michael’s former stature, the tasks he was expected to master felt utterly degrading. He muttered constant complaints under his breath, glaring at the disturbingly lifelike mannequin heads as they emerged from the drawers beside his chair. Learning to section, cut, and style hair felt like a cruel mockery of his previous life, each snip of the scissors slicing away at both the synthetic strands and his pride.
The lessons over time became more intricate. Soon Michael was being taught how to sew in hair extensions with flawless precision and braiding techniques that required a steady hand he could barely manage. Then came the piercing - marking, sterilizing, and carefully inserting jewellery. His hands trembled at first, each mistake met with NINA’s cold corrections. However, the relentless practice eventually turned his fumbling attempts into second nature.
The humiliation deepened when NINA demanded he practice on himself. With no escape, Michael pierced a neat line of earrings along each ear and styled his longer hair, applying every skill he had reluctantly perfected.
Through it all, his frustration simmered quietly, but resistance seemed increasingly pointless. The tasks merged into a monotonous cycle, his hands working automatically while his mind retreated, detached from the inescapable reality around him. Braiding, styling, piercing - each motion felt like another step further from the important man he once was. He wasn’t just acquiring new skills; he was being reshaped. With every task completed, another piece of his former self seemed to slip away, swallowed by the identity NINA was meticulously crafting for him.
One morning, after styling his hair into a long ponytail of braids cascading over his right shoulder, Michael's head shot up at the familiar hiss of gas. He barely had time to react before the world blurred, and when he awoke, disoriented and sprawled on the floor. Nothing at first seemed amiss. Until he planted a hand on the ground to push himself up and a sharp pain shot through his fingertips. “Son of a…” he growled, struggling to his feet. His legs wobbled, unsteady atop his orange wedge sandals as he regained his balance - the height having gradually increased day by day without him noticing.
His eyes travelled downward, past the undeniable swell of his breasts pressing against a low-cut top, to his hands. He stared in horror at his fingers, each one now adorned with impossibly long, orange nail extensions that gleamed under the overhead lights.
(See image 20)
“What the hell is this?” he yelled out, his voice laced with disbelief, knowing NINA was always listening.
“A necessary change,” came the AI’s cold, clinical reply.
Michael’s head shook instinctively as his gaze roamed over his transformed womanly figure. Every curve, every detail of his reshaped body felt like a cruel joke. His matching orange pedicure caught his eye, and a bitter laugh escaped his lips. “Necessary for what?” he asked, his voice hollow, posing a question he didn’t expect to receive a straight answer to.
“For your survival,” NINA answered bluntly, cutting through his despair with her insensitive tone. “Now, please return to your workstation, Melody, and prepare for your next lesson. Those beautiful new nails are going to take some getting used to.”
Michael closed his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath as the name - his new name - cut through him like a knife. For a brief moment, anger flared within him, but it quickly gave way to a crushing sense of futility. He had long since lost track of how much time had passed since his imprisonment, and the life he once knew felt like a distant memory, belonging to someone else.
When he opened his eyes again, the fire that had once burned within him was gone, replaced by a hollow emptiness. Trapped in this never-ending cycle, all he could do was cling to the faint hope that, somehow, someday, this torturous ordeal would finally come to an end.
