Jurojin's Transformation

The hands on his hair stroked his flocks, knotting them to braids. The spider's legs grazing his scalp left warm footprints in their wake. As velvety as the dress grazing his body, his smooth hair fell on his shoulders in perfect form. Two maids circled Jurojin sitting in his chair. His eyes were closed while the maid in front of him applied mascara on his lashes. The woman had just finished applying powder, rouge and lipstick. Jurojin's painted lips tasted of strawberry.

"Would you like to see how pretty are?" another maid asked.

The man turned woman didn't bother even shaking his head in response. He felt vomit coming up his throat, which he fought to keep down. The maid took a hand-mirror from the makeup bag on the table in Jurojin's left-hand side.

"Look. Your hair is so silky, like a fine black scarf," the servant said.

Jurojin stared at his reflection: The arc of his jawline and nose had never been very wide, but the hormone treatments had reduced their width even further. His eyes, due to the surgery he'd taken years ago, were saucer-shaped and wide open. The makeup made them seem huge. He still looked distinctly Asian, his face shockingly reminiscent of his two sisters back on Earth. His neck was slim, connecting to his naked shoulder line. Perversely, he felt his member harden as he gazed on his image. His round, baggy breasts and the hourglass shape of his body looked carved to the detail. He'd lost some kilos during his transition, but it was obvious that much of his body fat had simply switched neighborhoods. With the makeup smoothing his skin, he reminded of the models on fashion magazine covers. Only his stick and balls were left of his male self, and even those felt like they were shrinking: The soft fabric of his laced, white panties wrapped around him like a woman's fist.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Molly, a former maid servant of the house, now a human toilet. The boy's naked body laid limp against the cellar's brick wall. The bright color of his locks was fading into their original brown shade. His upper body was small and girly and the areolas of his nipples first-sized in diameter. On the other hand, his butt and hips had grown into the size of an average pillow. Markings of his abuse were throbbing on his young skin; redness on the face, faint scars around the belly. The stretch marks resulting from his sudden bodily changes were yet to receive plastic surgery. Had his penis been gone and his hairless chest been less flat, he would've passed for a woman.

A long plastic straw was stuck in Molly's urethra, and he was slowly sucking on it, like a zombie eating with fingers. The straw was transparent, and Jurojin could clearly see the thick, white cream pushing upwards. So stuffed was Molly that he couldn't even swallow anymore, and every drop that he sucked flowed out from his lips. Leftovers from his latest "polishing" were all over him: he was covered from head to toe by a translucent layer. A white puddle of vomit had gathered on his stomach and navel. A stiffly moving trail trickled out of his butt. The void in his eyes spoke not of acceptance, but utter surrender. A harrowing thought gnawed at Jurojin's heart: Molly's rank wasn't even the lowest, and his ordeals not even the most hellish available. Even a toilet was better off than the cattle of the Red Barn. A toilet at least was touched, albeit violently and never non-sexually, but it was still treated like a person. Cattle only sat in milking machines day and night, liters of their own ingested semen being cultivated in their bloated bellies, flowing back their dicks and back inside again. The purpose of the process was unknown to Jurojin, and neither did he ever want to learn it.

Jurojin's mascara was done, and the maid withdrew her brush. He opened his eyes again, glancing around in the dark training room. No trainers were around today. Everyone was upstairs, attending the latest monthly theme party. Jurojin had been informed of today's theme, which was some twisted variation of a fashion show. New servants would make their debut in luxurious dresses and lingerie. The night would conclude in an auction, where the rich guests would form groups, pool together their funds and bid on the servants. The night would pass servicing guests.

Jurojin's hands trembled, a side-effect of the drugs beginning to kick in. He felt his heart increase its beat and his breathing deepen. His energy levels were rising rapidly and would stay high until morning. The gloom dragging him down was vanishing, even if only momentarily. Had Jurojin revealed signs of depression, they would've pumped more drugs in him. To avoid anti-depressants, he had taught himself to smile regardless of the endless humiliations. He was not yet craving for death, but he felt his limit nearing. He was resolved to keep it in – the masters and servants saw suicidal people all the time, so they would certainly pick up on self-destructive behavior at the slightest sign of its emergence. Though it felt like an eternity, Jurojin knew his time in this mansion had been short, yet already he'd met with several psychologists tens of times. His brains were scanned every time, his emotional reactions checked. There was nothing he could hide from them. The control held over his body was absolute. His train of thought was interrupted by a pinch on his nipples.

"Did that hurt?" the female maid asked him, "would you like numbing cream for your erogenous zones?"

"No," Jurojin replied.

The maid suddenly twisted his nipple, gouging for his reaction with unblinking eyes. His expression was unflinched, but not because he tried to be stoic; the pain simply wasn't that bad. The fingers on Jurojin's breast only touched him through his bra, which were a cup size too small. The padded bra tucked his bags tight on each other, the padding making them look bigger. His lolling balls were only three times bigger than his swollen testicles - some trickery was required to satisfy size margins. The padding also prevented the maid's fingers from seizing a good grip. He nabbed a look of his reflection once more.

"Hm, good. I think you'll endure tonight just as you are," the maid said and freed the nipple.

The layers and layers of makeup concealed Jurojin's every scar, stretch mark and bruise. Signs from the weeks of daily violent orgies among other trainees were masked under synthetic cosmetics. He was certainly good-looking, his body made only more sexy by his wardrobe. His black dress was simple but fetching; it revealed his shoulders and the crack between his breasts. The skirt was long enough to reach his ankles, but the slice in the middle made it impossible to conceal his legs – and his white, shameless panties. Strategically placed holes all over the cloth revealed his belly button, hips and his lowest ribs. His black, high-heeled shoes were already mashing his toes into potato salad. Jurojin suddenly felt his meal pushing up his throat. A timid cough escaped his lips, sending a creamy trickle on his chin.

"Aaah, come on!! I just finished painting you, please don't mess it up already," the maid complained and wiped the cum off with a handkerchief from her chest pocket.

"I think she's ready," the other maid commented.

"She certainly is... Let's get her upstairs then."

The two servants talked of Jurojin, like he was some inanimate doll. The urge to correct them surfaced only briefly, but he swallowed the words. As the pair of women helped him stand up on his wobbling legs, he kept his gaze fixed forward, smiling brightly on every step.