Regmore Rigmin
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Reprogrammed TG
🕑 Added 2025-07-25 10:00:02 +0000 UTCChris had always seen himself as the alpha. In every relationship, he led. He made the decisions. He set the tone. And up until a few months ago, he thought his girlfriend Leah was perfectly fine with that dynamic. Smart, sweet, but always a little too accommodating. The perfect follower.
But lately, things had shifted. Subtle at first. Leah became more confident, more assertive in ways that unnerved Chris. She started talking about equality, about balance, but always with this cold gleam in her eyes that he didn’t quite understand.
Then she showed him the AutoCloset.
“It’s a home automation prototype,” she had said, innocently enough. “It learns your style preferences, body metrics, everything. You just step in, and it dresses you.”
Chris had scoffed. “Why would I let some machine decide what I wear?”
She smiled. “Trust me. It’ll be... illuminating.”
The next morning, she led him to the AutoCloset, urging him to try it just once. “It’s part of my final demo for work,” she said sweetly. “Please, for me?”
Reluctantly, Chris stepped inside.
The door hissed shut behind him.
The interior was all smooth black panels, mirrors glowing with a faint, clinical blue. A robotic voice chimed: "Scanning subject. Metrics locked. Transformation sequence initiated."
His brow furrowed. “Transformation? What the hell—”
Cold mechanical arms shot out, grasping his wrists and ankles. Panic surged through him. “Leah! Leah, what is this?!”
From the outside, he heard her voice, muffled but calm. “Just relax, Chris. You like control so much—I thought you’d appreciate how thoroughly the AutoCloset can enforce it.”
He yanked against the restraints. “Let me out, now!”
But the machinery began its work.
Needles delivered sedatives and muscle relaxants. Not enough to knock him out, but just enough to leave him weak, dazed. His vision blurred. The first wave of automated arms descended—buzzing clippers shaving his body hair with precision. Then a strange warmth bloomed across his chest. He could feel tissue shifting, skin tightening.
“Hormonal override administered. Structural recontouring in progress.”
Pain bloomed through his torso as his chest swelled and reshaped. His limbs tingled. The bones in his pelvis popped, reforming. His center of gravity shifted nauseatingly.
“I don’t—what the fuck is happening?! Leah?!”
“Just a little software upgrade,” she replied coolly. “To match your new role.”
He couldn’t see clearly, but he felt the spray of synthetic hair being bonded to his scalp. It was heavy, long. His body felt wrong. His hands looked delicate, unfamiliar. The machine's voice droned on.
“Vocal cords modulated. Neural compliance subroutines installed. Garment protocol loading.”
He tried to scream, but what came out was a high, breathy yelp that didn't sound like him at all.
Then came the clothing.
It started with the undergarments: a snug pair of black panties, hugging his reshaped hips too tightly. A matching black bra, expertly filled by the new weight on his chest. Next came the leggings—skin-tight, compressing every inch of his lower half, emphasizing curves that made him sick to look at. His legs trembled, no longer built for masculine strides but dainty, uncertain steps.
Red lipstick was applied by a mechanical arm, slowly, deliberately. Then a thick, black choker wrapped itself around his neck, clicking shut.
A tone sounded.
“Command collar active. Awaiting owner input.”
The door finally hissed open.
Chris stumbled out, disoriented, shaking. He nearly fell, but Leah caught him.
“Oh, you look perfect,” she whispered, brushing the straight black hair from his face. “Exactly how I imagined.”
He tried to shove her away, but his arms didn’t obey. His knees buckled as if on cue.
“What did you do to me?” he rasped.
Leah reached out and tapped a small device—her phone, it looked like. The collar glowed.
“On your knees.”
Chris dropped instantly, hard onto the floor. Not by choice. His body obeyed the command without hesitation.
Humiliation burned hot in his cheeks.
“I didn’t want this,” he hissed.
“You wanted control,” she replied, crouching to look him in the eye. “You wanted to dominate. But domination isn’t earned by brute force or ego. It’s built through submission. Consider this... a realignment.”
He trembled, fists clenched, feeling the cold air on his exposed skin, the tightness of the bra, the strange weight of the lipstick and hair. He couldn’t stop touching the collar—thick, black, unremovable. It hummed with subtle electrical impulses every time he tried to resist her.
“Please. Change me back,” he muttered. “This isn’t me.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s better.”
She tapped her phone again.
“Speak only when spoken to.”
He opened his mouth to protest—but no sound came out. His voice had vanished into silence.
The horror of his own body being a prison hit him in full. This wasn’t just a costume. This wasn’t a game. He couldn’t undo it. The AutoCloset had rewritten him on a cellular level. There would be no walking out and laughing this off, no reclaiming masculinity with a few dumb jokes and bravado.
Leah walked circles around him, inspecting her work. “I’m going to take you out tomorrow,” she said. “Wig, makeup, the whole thing. A collar like that demands public obedience.”
Chris shook his head violently, trying to scream.
She only smiled.
“You’ll get used to it. Or you won’t. Either way, you’re mine now.”
He slumped forward, utterly helpless, humiliated beyond comprehension. His body no longer belonged to him. His voice was stolen. His will was no longer his own.
And worst of all, Leah had made it look easy.
