**Word Count: 10,377**
**Master PC: Single User Edition**
**Part One: Null Values**
Thirty-five years old and Tracy Moskowitz had never once walked into a room and changed its temperature.
She knew this the way she knew her bank balance and her blood type — as fixed data, verified repeatedly, a value in a cell that no formula could alter. Other women had gravity. Other women bent light around themselves, warped conversations, made men lose the thread of sentences mid-word. Tracy passed through rooms the way air passed through screens: present, technically, but fundamentally ignorable.
Five-foot-four. A hundred and ten pounds. Hips that a twelve-year-old boy would find familiar. And breasts that weren't so much small as theoretical — the body's vague gesture toward femininity, like a rough draft that never got revised. She wore sports bras out of habit, not necessity. There was nothing to support. The elastic was just company.
She'd built her life around being the other thing. The smart thing. Data analyst. Spreadsheet architect. The woman who could build a nested VLOOKUP that made grown men in finance departments weep with gratitude. Her mind was a filing system — organized, catalogued, every thought cross-referenced and stored. She ran mental spreadsheets the way other women ran errands: constantly, automatically, the background hum of a processor that never shut down. Calories in column B. Relationship dynamics in column F. The ever-growing tab she kept on everything she wasn't — pretty enough, curvy enough, enough enough — minimized but never closed, always running in the background, eating memory.
Dylan loved her. She believed this the way she believed in quarterly tax estimates — with reasonable confidence and a persistent, quiet fear of an audit that would reveal the discrepancy.
He was a good man. Big hands, soft voice, the kind of patient that only came from genuine disinterest in conflict. Software tester by day, gamer by night, the sort of person who could spend four hours optimizing a character build in a game he'd already beaten twice. His hands smelled like mechanical keyboard switches and the cedar soap he'd been using since college. When they had sex — every other Wednesday, sometimes Saturday, lights off, missionary, the sexual equivalent of filing taxes — he touched her like she was made of something expensive and breakable, which was generous given that she was made of angles and apologetic bones.
She loved him back. She was almost certain of this, though the spreadsheet she kept on the relationship had developed some concerning trend lines over the past eighteen months: frequency of physical contact declining at 3% per quarter, conversational depth plateauing, shared laughter exhibiting a downward slope she didn't like to examine too closely.
The email arrived on a Tuesday at 2:47 AM.
Sharon — thirty-two years of friendship, zero instances of chain letters or pyramid schemes — had sent a single attachment with a subject line that read: For you. Be careful.
The attachment was an executable file, which tripped every alarm in Tracy's mental firewall. She picked up her phone.
"Hey, Trace." Sharon answered on the second ring. There was something underneath her voice — a warmth that bordered on conspiratorial, like someone who'd found a restaurant so good they could only share it with people who'd appreciate it. "You got my email."
"I got your email. It's an executable. You know better."
"I know. I do know better. But Tracy — install it. I can't explain what it does. You have to see it yourself."
"That's what every virus says."
Sharon laughed. "It's not a virus. It's — look, do you trust me?"
"I trust your judgment. Historically. But this is asking a lot of my trust and very little of your explanation."
A pause. Then Sharon said something that Tracy would replay in her memory for weeks afterward, turning it over like a strange coin: "Tom and I used it. I'm — Tracy, I'm happy. Actually happy. For the first time in maybe ever. Just install it."
The line went dead.
Tracy stared at the attachment for eleven minutes. She timed it. Then she opened a sandboxed virtual machine, routed it through a VPN, and ran the installer with the kind of cautious precision she applied to everything.
The program loaded in under three seconds. No splash screen, no logo — just a clean interface that looked like someone had crossed a character creator from a video game with a medical database. The EULA was three sentences long: This software modifies physical reality. Changes are permanent unless reversed through the program. The user assumes all responsibility.
She almost laughed. Almost closed it. Then a dialog box appeared: New user detected. Please enter your full legal name to begin.
She typed Jane Smith.
The program paused. A red border appeared around the text field. Legal name required. Aliases, pseudonyms, and test entries are not accepted. This is not a drill, Tracy.
It knew her name.
The spreadsheet in her head opened a new tab — THREAT ASSESSMENT — and began filling cells. She should close this. She should delete it, wipe the VM, and call Sharon back to ask what the hell she'd gotten into.
Instead, she typed her real name.
The interface rebuilt itself around her. An avatar materialized — her body, scanned or generated with an accuracy that made her stomach drop. Every disappointing contour reproduced with clinical precision. Her breasts, such as they were. Her narrow hips. The slight asymmetry in her shoulders from years of carrying a laptop bag on the left side. It was like standing in front of a mirror that had read her diary.
Beside the avatar, sliders. Dozens of them. Labeled with a directness that bordered on cruelty: Breast Size. Hip Width. Waist Ratio. Lip Fullness. Hair Length. Skin Clarity. Muscle Tone. Body Fat Distribution.
And then the other column. The one that made the hair on her arms stand up: Intelligence. Libido. Sensitivity. Inhibition. Personality Matrix. Cognitive Architecture.
She scrolled past those. Quickly.
Tracy Moskowitz, data analyst, lover of controlled variables and reproducible outcomes, did what any reasonable scientist would do when confronted with the impossible.
She ran a test.
She moved the Breast Size slider one tick to the right. From her current measurement — the program had labeled it 32A, which was accurate and felt like an insult — to 32B.
She pressed APPLY.
And learned that the universe had been lying to her for thirty-five years about what was possible.
The sensation started in her sternum. Not pain — pressure. Like being inflated from the inside, a warm hydraulic push that radiated outward through tissue she'd never had reason to think about. She looked down and watched her chest change. The sports bra, which had been loose a moment ago, went snug. Then tight. Then — not straining, not yet, but occupied in a way it had never been. Flesh she hadn't possessed ten seconds ago rounded against the fabric, filling space that had been empty her entire adult life.
It took maybe fifteen seconds. When it stopped, she cupped herself — and her hands found something to cup.
"Oh," she said aloud, to her empty apartment, at three in the morning. "Oh, that's — that's real."
A B-cup. One increment. One tick of a slider. And the sensation — the warmth, the fullness, the sudden presence of her own body — had rewritten something in her brain that she couldn't undo just by moving the slider back. Not because she couldn't reverse it. Because she didn't want to.
The spreadsheet in her head recalculated. New data. New possibilities. New variables she'd never been allowed to test.
She moved the slider again. B to C.
APPLY.
The pressure came back — stronger, familiar now, almost welcome. Her sports bra went from snug to tight to actively complaining, the elastic digging into new flesh that pushed outward with a deliberate, biological insistence. She pulled off her shirt to watch it happen — watched herself swell, watched the curve deepen, watched her nipples harden as the growth peaked and settled. C-cups. Real, heavy, proportioned C-cups that pulled at her shoulders and shifted her center of gravity forward a degree.
She stood in front of the bathroom mirror for twenty minutes. Turned left. Right. Lifted them, dropped them, felt the weight swing. The woman in the mirror had her face and someone else's body, and Tracy couldn't stop staring because the someone else was better. Not grotesque, not exaggerated — just present in a way she'd never been. A body that took up space. A body that would change the temperature of a room.
The mental spreadsheet updated itself one final time before she went to bed. The tab she'd kept minimized for years — the one labeled ENOUGH? — had a new value in its only cell.
Getting there.
She closed the program. Minimized it out of instinct — the same gesture she used when Dylan walked past while she was online shopping, a reflex so automatic she didn't register doing it. Then she pulled on an old t-shirt, noted how differently it sat on her chest, and went to bed with a feeling she identified, after considerable analysis, as hope.
She did not notice that the program's task-bar icon pulsed once, softly, like a heartbeat.
She did not notice that the EULA had said permanent.
And she did not notice — would not notice for some time — that the mental spreadsheet was already running slightly slower than it had that morning. Not corrupted. Not damaged. Just — one or two unnecessary background processes taking up resources they hadn't claimed before. A slight warmth. A vague awareness of her body she'd never carried. Like a computer that had installed new software and was running, for the first time, close to capacity.
**Nothing to worry about. Probably. \-e**
**Part Two: User Permissions**
Dylan noticed before she could figure out how to tell him.
She'd spent the morning rehearsing explanations — scientific framing, emotional framing, a PowerPoint deck she'd gotten three slides into before admitting that was insane — and then he walked through the door after work, dropped his bag on the couch, looked at her in the kitchen, and stopped dead.
"Trace."
"Hi." She was wearing a tank top. Deliberately. The kind she'd stopped buying years ago because they hung off her chest like curtains from an empty rod. This one did not hang. This one worked. The fabric stretched across C-cups that hadn't existed thirty-six hours ago, and the way Dylan's eyes locked onto them — hungry, disbelieving, his pupils dilating in real time — made something hot and liquid spread through her pelvis.
"You look — did you —" He crossed the apartment in four steps. His hands hovered, drawn toward her like compass needles toward north. "Tracy, what happened?"
"I can't fully explain it yet. But they're real. They're mine."
His hands landed on her waist. Something was different in his grip — tighter, possessive, a hunger he was trying to leash — and the fact that her body had put that hunger there rewrote an entire column of the mental spreadsheet. DESIRABILITY: years of flat zeroes, suddenly spiking.
"Can I —"
"Yes."
His palms slid up her ribs. Slow. The calluses from his mechanical keyboard — index finger rougher than the rest — dragged across skin that had never been touched with this kind of intent. When his hands cupped her breasts, she inhaled sharply. Not from the sensitivity alone — from the sheer novelty of his hands being full. Of her being enough to fill them. His thumbs swept across her nipples through the tank top and her knees nearly buckled. A moan slipped out of her, soft and startled, and Dylan's cock twitched against her thigh — hardening through his jeans, thickening, a response so immediate and honest it made her cunt clench around nothing.
She kissed him. Hard. Not the soft careful kisses of their every-other-Wednesday arrangements but something artless and starving, her new tits crushed against his chest, and the pressure of his body against that new flesh sent a spike of heat from her nipples straight to her clit. His hands squeezed — involuntary, his fingers sinking into softness that hadn't been there before — and the groan he made vibrated through her mouth and down her spine.
They didn't make it to the bedroom.
He lifted her onto the kitchen counter — something he'd never done, something her old body hadn't inspired — and she wrapped her legs around his hips and ground her pussy against the bulge in his jeans. The denim seam pressed against her clit and the friction was so good she gasped, hips rocking, already chasing it. His mouth dropped to her neck, then lower, pulling the tank top down to get at her tits. When his tongue found her nipple — hot, wet, circling — she arched so hard she nearly fell backward off the counter.
"Sensitive?" he murmured against her skin, the word buzzing through her breast.
"You have no — fuck — you have no idea." The program had rewired something in her nerve endings. His tongue on her nipple sent a direct current to her cunt, a pathway that had never existed before, and she was already soaking — her shorts dark with it, her thighs slick, her clit throbbing with every heartbeat. His mouth closed around her nipple and sucked and her vision went bright at the edges and she grabbed his hair and held him there, held his mouth on her tit, because the sensation was so concentrated and so specific — not vague pleasure but a targeted assault on the nerve cluster right behind the areola — that pulling him away would have felt like amputation.
His cock was straining when she pulled it free. Thick. Hot in her palm. She stroked him — base to head, thumb sliding through the pre-cum beading at the tip — and watched his jaw go tight and his eyes flutter shut and thought: I did that. My body did that to him. For the first time in thirty-five years, my body is doing something to someone.
He yanked her shorts down. No foreplay beyond this — they were past foreplay, past patience, both of them — and lined his cock against her pussy. She was so wet he slid the head across her slit by accident, the friction against her clit making her jerk, and then he found the angle and pushed inside.
The stretch made her grab the counter edge with both hands. Not pain — fullness. His cock spreading her open inch by thick inch, her cunt gripping him, pulling him deeper, and the sensation was so far beyond their usual careful missionary that the spreadsheet tried to log it and failed. No column for this. No cell that could hold it. He bottomed out and his pelvis ground against her clit and she came — just like that, embarrassingly fast, her pussy clamping down on his cock in violent rhythmic pulses, her whole body shaking, a sound ripping out of her that was half scream and half sob.
"Jesus Christ," Dylan said. He hadn't moved. She'd cum just from him pushing all the way in. His cock twitched inside her — every micro-movement amplified, every vein, the specific stretch where his head was thickest.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Please — harder — I need—"
He fucked her harder. Pulled back and slammed in and the counter shook and her tits bounced and the wet filthy sound of his cock pounding into her soaked cunt filled the kitchen — slap of skin, the squelch of how drenched she was, the creak of the counter under their combined weight. She cupped her own tits while he watched — squeezed them, pushed them together, pinched her nipples — and his rhythm stuttered, his cock swelling inside her.
"Don't you dare," she said. A sentence the old Tracy would never have assembled. "Don't you dare come before I—"
He grabbed her hips. Changed the angle — lifted her slightly, tilted her pelvis — and the next thrust hit something deep, a spot she hadn't known she had, and she screamed. Her cunt seized. Her thighs locked around his waist. He fucked her through it, pounding that spot, his cock driving into her at a depth that made her feel split open, remade, and she came again — harder, longer, gushing around his cock, soaking his thighs, the orgasm rolling through her in waves that overlapped before the previous one finished.
"Turn over," he said, and she did — scrambled off the counter, bent over it, shoved her ass back toward him. Her tits pressed against the cold granite and the temperature contrast on her overheated nipples made her gasp. He pushed back inside from behind — deeper from this angle, so deep she tasted something metallic — and grabbed her hair and fucked her with a force that rattled the coffee mugs in the cabinet above.
"Your tits," he panted. "Trace, your fucking tits — they're perfect — you're—"
"Yours," she said. Didn't plan it. Didn't vet it. Just — the word, falling out, obvious as breathing. "They're yours. I'm yours. Fuck me, fuck me, please—"
He came inside her. Hot, deep, three distinct pulses she could count individually, and the sensation of his cum filling her triggered one final orgasm that clenched through her so hard she couldn't breathe for five seconds. Her pussy milked his cock, squeezing and releasing, greedy for every drop, and she pressed her face against the granite and panted and her tits throbbed against the counter and the spreadsheet — the perpetual, never-closing mental spreadsheet — had a new entry in its SEXUAL RESPONSE column: INSUFFICIENT DATA MODEL. PREVIOUS FRAMEWORK OBSOLETE. REBUILD FROM SCRATCH.
Afterward, she showered. Let the water run over her new body, cupped her breasts under the spray, marveled at how differently the world treated a body that took up space.
She did not hear Dylan sit down at her desk.
She did not hear the mouse click, the touchpad brush, the minimized program expanding to fill the screen.
She did not hear him say "Holy shit" — quiet, reverent, the exact tone of a man who has just found the developer console in a game he thought was finished.
Dylan stared at the interface.
Character creator. He recognized the architecture immediately — had spent ten thousand hours in menus exactly like this one, tweaking jawlines and shoulder widths and hair color on digital avatars. But this one had Tracy's name at the top. Tracy's measurements. Tracy's body rotating slowly in three dimensions with a fidelity that no game engine had ever achieved.
He clicked the history log. A small icon, bottom-right, the kind of thing a non-gamer would miss.
Two entries:
Breast Size: 32A → 32C. Applied 3:14 AM, Tuesday.* Sensitivity (Erogenous): 12 → 18\. Applied 3:16 AM, Tuesday.*
So that's how.
He should close this. The part of him that loved Tracy — and he did love her, with the steady reliable love of a man who'd found someone smarter than him and decided that was fine — that part said: close the window, walk away.
But there was another part. The part that had been building fantasy women in character creators since he was thirteen. The part that knew exactly what he'd build if the engine had no limits. The part that had spent a decade looking at Tracy's narrow frame and small chest and loving her anyway while carefully, privately, guiltily not thinking about the body he actually wanted pressed against him at night.
That part said: look at the sliders.
He looked.
The right panel was physical. He'd come back to that. The left panel was the one that made his mouth go dry.
COGNITIVE & PERSONALITY ARCHITECTURE
Intelligence: 9.4/10 Tooltip: General cognitive capacity. Controls processing speed, abstract reasoning, working memory, analytical depth, meta-cognitive awareness. Values below 3.0 result in significant functional impairment. Values below 0 require custom input and are not recommended.
He clicked the text field. Deleted the 9.4. Typed \-25. The tooltip flickered, tried to generate a preview: Residual cognitive function: sub-verbal. Processing limited to sensory input and autonomic response. Abstract reasoning: discontinued. Working memory: \<5 seconds. Language production: fragments only. Self-awareness: vestigial. The text turned red. A warning that had exhausted itself.
Vocabulary Range: 9.1/10 Tooltip: Active and passive vocabulary size. Current: \~45,000 words (above average). At 5.0: \~8,000 (functional adult). At 2.0: \~500 (basic needs). At 0: \~50 (survival terms). Below 0: sub-linguistic.
He set it to 0.3. The tooltip updated: Active vocabulary: \~80 words. Categories retained: names, body parts, sexual terms, emotional states (positive only), requests. Complex grammar discontinued. Sentence structure limited to S-V or S-V-O.
Inhibition: 7.8/10 Tooltip: Internal resistance to impulse, social norm enforcement, shame/embarrassment response, self-censorship. Higher values \= more restrained behavior. Lower values \= reduced impulse control.
He dragged it to 0.1. The tooltip: Near-zero inhibitory function. No embarrassment response. No social filtering. No self-censorship. Will act on impulse without evaluating consequences. Sexual behavior: uninhibited. Public behavior: unregulated.
Memory Architecture: 8.9/10 Tooltip: Long-term memory formation, autobiographical continuity, episodic recall. Controls ability to form new memories and access existing ones. Lower values result in progressive amnesia.
He set it to 1.5. The tooltip: Long-term memory severely impaired. Will not retain new information beyond \~2 hours. Existing autobiographical memory: fragmentary. Will recognize primary partner and home environment. Professional skills, education, relationships beyond primary partner: inaccessible.
His hand was shaking. He could feel it — a tremor in his index finger as it hovered over the next slider.
Obedience/Compliance: 3.2/10 Tooltip: Responsiveness to external direction. Controls suggestibility, willingness to follow instructions, and resistance to authority. Current setting reflects independent decision-making.
He set it to 9.8. The tooltip: Near-total compliance. Will follow instructions from recognized authority (primary partner) without question. Resistance to direction: functionally zero. Will interpret suggestions as commands. Self-directed goal formation: discontinued.
Self-Awareness: 8.6/10 Tooltip: Meta-cognitive capacity. Ability to observe and evaluate own mental states, recognize changes in self, and compare current state to previous states. Awareness of own transformation.
He paused on this one. This was the slider that would determine whether she knew. Whether she'd look in the mirror and understand what had happened. Whether she'd grieve.
He set it to 0.2. The tooltip: Unable to compare current state to prior states. Cannot perceive own cognitive decline. Will experience current mental state as normal and baseline. No awareness of change or loss.
That was the cruelest one. He knew it was the cruelest one. And he set it anyway.
Personality Matrix: CUSTOM OVERWRITE
The submenu opened — not more sliders but a configuration panel, the kind of deep-settings menu that most users would never find. Dropdowns, toggles, radio buttons, text fields. A character class selection screen for someone's soul.
Cognitive Style: A dropdown menu. The current selection was highlighted: Analytical-Systematic. He clicked it open. The options descended like a list of fates: Analytical-Systematic. Creative-Intuitive. Practical-Concrete. Social-Emotional. Sensory-Reactive. Each one previewed a tooltip when he hovered. He hovered over the last one. Sensory-Reactive: Processes world through immediate sensation rather than analysis. No abstract reasoning. No planning. Responds to stimuli without evaluation. Cognitive loop: stimulus → sensation → response. No intermediate processing.
He selected it. The avatar's expression changed — something behind the eyes softening, emptying, like a screensaver replacing a desktop.
Social Orientation: Radio buttons this time, arranged in a spectrum. Independent — Self-Sufficient — Cooperative — Affiliative — Dependent-Affectionate. Tracy's current setting was circled on Self-Sufficient, one tick from the far end. He clicked Dependent-Affectionate. The tooltip: Requires physical proximity to primary partner. Distress when separated beyond \~30 minutes. Social needs met entirely through partner. Will seek physical contact constantly. Cannot self-soothe.
Aesthetic Identity: A dropdown with a search field. He typed goth and the results filtered: Goth-Romantic. Goth-Industrial. Goth-Bimbo. Goth-Latex-Doll. He selected Goth-Bimbo. The avatar shuddered. Dark hair bloomed from the scalp, porcelain skin replaced the olive, piercings appeared like stars at dusk — black barbells, lip ring, ear studs climbing cartilage. Black lipstick. Heavy eyeliner. The khaki pants dissolved into a latex skirt. The button-down became a black lace bralette that the avatar's current C-cups barely justified. The preview was waiting for what he'd do to the physical panel.
Sexual Persona: A toggle grid — two axes. The vertical: Passive ←→ Aggressive. The horizontal: Dominant ←→ Submissive. Tracy's current dot sat in the lower-left quadrant: Passive-Neutral. He dragged the dot to the upper-right: Aggressive-Submissive. The tooltip: Actively initiates sex. Submits to partner during act. High arousal baseline. Constant sexual readiness. Distinguishes submission from passivity: will pursue, then yield.
Libido: A simple slider, 1-10. Tracy's current: 3.1. He dragged it to 10\. The tooltip flickered: Persistent arousal state. Baseline sexual readiness at all times. Refractory period: eliminated. Orgasm threshold: minimal stimulus required. Then a checkbox appeared beneath it, unchecked: ☐ Remove orgasm ceiling. He checked it. ☑ Remove orgasm ceiling: No limit on sequential orgasms. No desensitization. Each orgasm maintains or exceeds intensity of the previous.
He scrolled back to the physical panel.
This one was all sliders — clean, numerical, the kind of interface he'd spent ten thousand hours in. But these sliders had text fields beside them for custom values, and that changed everything.
Breast Size: Currently 32C.
The slider's labeled range went to 32J. He ignored the slider entirely and clicked the text field. The cursor blinked. He typed a number — not a cup size, the program had moved past cup sizes into its own measurement system at this scale. The preview avatar's chest expanded. And expanded. The breast tissue swelling outward, downward, the virtual body's center of gravity visibly shifting, the proportions crossing from large through very large through impractical into a territory the program's renderer struggled to display. Each one larger than her head. Larger than a basketball. Approaching something closer to a yoga ball — heavy, round, the kind of size that would require both arms to carry and would reshape every single thing about how she moved through space. The avatar's virtual spine adjusted to compensate. Its virtual balance shifted. Its virtual gait changed.
Nipple Size/Sensitivity: Currently default.
He increased both. The avatar's nipples darkened, swelled, the areolae expanding to the size of saucers, the nipples themselves protruding — permanently erect, fat, the kind of nipples visible through any fabric. The sensitivity value he'd already handled in the other panel.
Hip Width: Currently 34".
He typed a custom value. The avatar's pelvis widened in real time — bone structure visibly shifting, flesh filling in behind the frame, the hips flaring into a ratio with her waist that the program flagged with a yellow warning: Structural note: hip-to-waist ratio exceeds anatomical reference range. He dismissed the warning. The preview showed hips that would brush both sides of a standard doorway, an ass that had volume and mass and a kind of gravitational authority, the whole lower body rebuilt for one visual message.
Waist: Currently 27".
He typed a value the program accepted with a red text field. The avatar's torso compressed, the waist narrowing to something architectural — a pinch point, an hourglass neck, the structural impossibility that made everything above and below it look more extreme. The yellow warning appeared again: Structural note: waist measurement incompatible with internal organ volume at current settings. He dismissed it.
Lip Fullness: Currently 4.2/10.
He dragged the slider to the end. Then typed a custom value past the end. The avatar's lips inflated — upper lip pillowing outward, lower lip following, the mouth becoming a permanent pout, bee-stung past, into something that looked swollen, bruised, perpetually parted. The Goth-Bimbo aesthetic overlay applied the black lipstick in real time, and the combination — those inflated lips stained matte black — was obscene.
Hair Length: Currently shoulder.
He dragged to maximum. The avatar's hair spilled to its waist, then past, reaching mid-thigh. The aesthetic overlay turned it ink-black and thickened it.
Skin Tone: Currently olive (Mediterranean).
A color picker. He clicked into the lightest range and fine-tuned until the preview showed porcelain — translucent, almost luminous, the kind of white that showed veins beneath the surface. Paired with the black hair and black makeup, the contrast was violent.
He looked at the preview. All of it together, for the first time. The proportions. The colors. The aesthetic. The empty expression generated by the cognitive settings. The black-haired, porcelain-skinned, pierced, painted, yoga-ball-titted, wasp-waisted, shelf-hipped thing wearing Tracy's face.
He looked over his shoulder. The shower was still running.
He pressed APPLY ALL.
The loading bar appeared. Estimated time: twenty minutes.
**He went to make himself a sandwich. \-e**
**Part Three: Overwrite**
The loading bar finished while Tracy was still in the shower.
The first change was her hair. She was rinsing conditioner — the same drugstore brand she'd used for a decade, efficient, unscented, selected for value per ounce — when the color started bleeding. Not out. In. Auburn darkened to chestnut, chestnut to mahogany, mahogany to a black so deep it swallowed the bathroom light. The strands lengthened between her fingers, slipping past her shoulders, past her shoulder blades, past the small of her back, growing heavy and wet and endless against her skin.
Then the Inhibition slider hit.
She didn't know that's what it was. From inside, it arrived as a loosening — like a fist she'd been clenching for thirty-five years finally opening. The constant background hum of don't, shouldn't, what would they think — the voice that monitored her posture, her word choices, her hemlines, her laugh volume — went quiet. Not gradually. Not fading. Just: off. Like someone had reached into her head and flipped a breaker.
She stood in the shower, naked, her new black hair streaming past her ass, and for the first time in her life did not feel the need to hunch, to cover, to calculate who might see. The absence of shame was physical. Her shoulders dropped two inches. Her spine straightened. She put her hands on her hips and stood in the spray like she deserved the hot water, like the hot water owed her something.
Something was wrong. She should be alarmed. She should be—
Then the Memory slider arrived.
This one was surgical. Precise. Not a demolition — an extraction. Like someone had opened the file cabinet of her mind and begun pulling drawers. She reached for what she'd eaten for breakfast and found the drawer missing. Reached for her coworker's name — Sarah? Sandra? — and found an empty slot. Reached for the quadratic formula, her cognitive benchmark, the proof she was still her — and found dust. The formula was gone. Not forgotten — gone. As though it had never been stored.
She braced a hand against the shower tile. The water was too hot. Or too cold. She couldn't — the reference point for evaluating temperature was — had there been a reference point?
The Intelligence slider hit next, and it hit like a building collapse.
Not gradual. Not a dimming. A deletion. Her mental spreadsheet — the entire operating system, the cross-referenced filing system she'd maintained since childhood — didn't crash. Didn't freeze. It was removed. Uninstalled. The RAM it had occupied for thirty-five years suddenly freed, reallocated, repurposed for something the new programming considered more important.
She tried to think the word unprecedented. Got weird. Tried to think analyze. Got look at. Tried to assemble the sentence "Something is happening to my cognitive function" and got — warmth. Just warmth. Pink, soft, directionless warmth where a thought should have been.
The Vocabulary slider was already working. Her word-hoard was draining like water from a tub, forty-five thousand words swirling down to eight thousand, to five hundred, to — how many words did she know? She tried to count. Counting required numbers. Numbers required — what did numbers require?
Her legs gave out. She slid down the shower wall, the tile cold against her back, her new hair pooling around her on the floor, and the water ran over a body that was already not the body she'd brought into the shower. Her skin was lightening — olive to cream to porcelain, freckles dissolving, her complexion becoming something moonlit and translucent. Stretch marks from her teenage years erased themselves. Her pores closed. Her skin became a surface: flawless, white, designed to be looked at.
Pressure in her lips. A throb, a swell, a push — her mouth filling from the inside, upper lip plumping until she could see it at the bottom edge of her vision, lower lip following, both of them inflating with slow deliberate insistence into a permanent pout. She touched them and they were hot. Slick. A mouth built for one thing and advertising it without apology — because the part of her brain that would have felt apologetic about having a mouth like this had been switched off three minutes ago.
Her hips cracked. She screamed — not from pain but from the wrongness of hearing her own skeleton rearrange. Her pelvis widened. Spread. Flesh filled behind the bone, her ass swelling from nothing into something round and heavy and firm — taut, sculpted, the kind of ass that existed only in renders and retouched photographs. She put her hands on it and the feeling of her own new flesh under her palms made her pussy clench. No shame in that reaction. No evaluative layer between stimulus and response. The Inhibition slider at 0.1 meant her body just — responded. Openly. Honestly. Wetly.
Her waist cinched. Muscles tightened, compressed, ribs shifting, her torso narrowing into proportions that the engineering part of her brain would have flagged as structurally unsound. But the engineering part of her brain was rubble. The math was gone. What remained was sensation: the strange, almost pleasurable compression of her own body reorganizing itself around a new blueprint.
Then her tits started.
The C-cups she'd given herself — her careful, conservative upgrade — became a starting line. Heat bloomed behind her nipples, hotter than before, more insistent, and the growth that followed wasn't modest. It was a statement. Her breasts surged forward, skin stretching taut and shiny under the shower spray, each one swelling past D, past DD, the weight accumulating fast enough to shift her balance.
E-cups. Heavy, round, her nipples darkening to deep rose and swelling to the size of silver dollars. The shower water hitting them made her moan — a thick, artless sound that would have embarrassed the old Tracy and didn't register as embarrassing to the new one. F-cups. Her hands cupped them and her fingers couldn't cover them, tits spilling between her fingers, over her palms, more flesh than her hands could hold.
Still growing. G. H. Each cup size arriving like a wave — pressure, swell, settle, then the next one building. Stretch marks forming in real time, silvery-pink lines across the upper curve of breasts that had become absurd, each one larger than her head.
I. J. Past letters. Past anything labeled. She was on her knees now, bent forward, her tits hanging beneath her so heavy they brushed the shower floor, swinging with each shuddering breath. The weight pulled at muscles she'd never used. The warmth was everywhere. The growth was everywhere.
And somewhere in the rubble — deep, deep down, in the sub-basement where the Self-Awareness slider hadn't quite reached — a single thought formed. Not a word. Not a sentence. Just a recognition: I used to be more than this.
The thought arrived. The thought dissolved. The warm pink nothing flooded over it like a tide covering a footprint, and Tracy — or whatever was left of Tracy — couldn't remember what she'd been reaching for.
The Obedience slider settled in last. Quiet. Almost gentle. A rewriting of her motivational architecture so subtle she wouldn't have noticed it even with full cognitive function. The internal compass that had always pointed toward achievement, independence, self-sufficiency rotated, degree by degree, until it pointed toward Dylan. Not metaphor. His name became magnetic north. His approval became oxygen. His voice became the only external input that would register above the warm pink baseline.
The piercings appeared. Black barbells through her nipples, a ring in her lower lip, studs climbing both ears — silver and onyx, delicate and brutal at the same time. Each one arrived with a bright sharp spark of pain that her rewired nervous system translated instantly into pleasure. Her nipple barbells hung heavy from nipples that were now permanently erect, fat and dark and leaking something clear.
Then the aesthetic layer settled over her like a second skin.
Her fingernails darkened — not painted, changed — a glossy black spreading from the cuticle outward like ink seeping through paper, each nail lengthening slightly, sharpening into an almond point. Her toenails followed. Eyeliner appeared in a thick, precise wing she could never have drawn freehand, smoky shadow deepening the hollows of her eyes, making them look larger, darker, perpetually half-lidded. Her lashes thickened and curled. Her lips — already swollen, already obscene — stained themselves a deep matte black that looked wet even when dry, the kind of color that promised it would smear on everything it touched and didn't care.
On the bathroom floor, her khakis and cotton button-down were dissolving. Not literally — but the program was rewriting the wardrobe data, and the clothes she'd folded neatly on the counter were reshaping, the fabric darkening, the cotton becoming something else. She wouldn't notice until later. Wouldn't wonder why the only things in her closet were black lace bralettes that couldn't contain a tenth of her, latex skirts that barely covered her ass, fishnet stockings, platform boots, chokers studded with silver rings, and nothing — not a single item — that Tracy Moskowitz would have recognized as hers.
She stood. The motion required her to gather her tits in her arms — a gesture that was already becoming instinct, the way you learn to carry something too large through a doorway. In the fogged mirror, a stranger stared back.
Porcelain skin against black — black hair, black nails, black lips, black eyeliner, black metal through her nipples and lip. The contrast was violent: all that white flesh, all that dark adornment, like a photograph developed in reverse. Her lips were a bruise framed in midnight. Her tits were architecture — something monumental built on her chest, the dark nipple barbells hanging like punctuation marks. Hips that could block a hallway. A waist she could circle with her own hands. And eyes — still her eyes, still Tracy's eyes, but ringed now in smoky black — staring out from a face that had been rebuilt around them like a cathedral around a relic. A goth cathedral. Black spires and stained glass and something sacred made profane.
She tried to say her name. "Trrrr—" Too many steps. Tongue to teeth, teeth to roof, coordination she no longer had. "Trrsss—" The name dissolved into warmth.
She smiled. The smile was real.
She turned off the shower. Her tits swayed when she moved — massive pendulum arcs that bumped the walls, that required her to turn sideways through the door. The towel against her nipple barbells made her moan — a low, gorgeous, empty sound. She didn't bother drying off completely. The water beaded on her porcelain skin like dew on marble, catching in the hollow of her collarbones, trailing down the valley between her tits.
She found something to wear. Not a decision — the old Tracy made decisions, evaluated options, weighed appropriateness against context. The new Tracy's hand found the nearest thing in the reshaped closet: a black lace bralette that covered approximately nothing, the cups disappearing beneath her tits like doilies under boulders, the straps cutting into the swell of flesh they couldn't hope to contain. She pulled it on. It was decorative, not functional — a gothic frame around a pornographic painting.
Nothing else. No pants. No underwear. The lace and her piercings and her black nails and her smeared-dark eyes and the ink-black curtain of her hair — that was the outfit. That was the whole thing.
She walked out of the bathroom.
Dylan was eating a sandwich.
He looked up. The sandwich stopped halfway to his mouth.
"Hey, babe." Casual. Testing. But his eyes — his eyes were doing something they'd never done in four years of looking at Tracy. They were cataloguing. Porcelain skin, wet, gleaming. Black lace stretched to translucence across tits that defied structural engineering. The dark nipple barbells visible through the fabric. The lip ring catching the kitchen light. The smoky eyeliner making her eyes look drugged and hungry. Black-tipped fingers hanging at her sides. Hair like a vinyl record melted and poured down her back. And her tits — Jesus, her tits — straining against that joke of a bralette, the lace cutting into flesh that bulged around it, the whole arrangement one deep breath from catastrophic failure. His cock was already straining against his jeans.
She stood in the hallway, naked and dripping and too big for the space, and looked at him with wide dark eyes that held zero analytical capacity and approximately nine thousand units of raw undifferentiated want. The Dependent-Affectionate setting meant his presence was like stepping into sunlight after a month underground. She needed to be near him. Needed to touch him. Needed to be on him.
"D—" she managed. "Dyl—"
"Come here."
The Obedience slider turned the suggestion into a command. She went. Not walking — swaying, the motion of her hips and tits turning movement into spectacle. Every step made her tits swing. Every step made her new ass bounce. Every step sent friction through nipple barbells and across skin so sensitive that the air itself was foreplay.
His hands found her waist — they almost met around it — and he pulled her against him. His cock pressed through his jeans against her bare thigh and the contact made her shudder so hard her teeth clicked. Sensitivity at 9,999. The denim texture against her skin was almost unbearable, each thread a separate input overwhelming a nervous system rebuilt to register touch the way a seismograph registers tectonic events.
"Turn around," he said.
She turned. Bent over the couch arm. Her tits hung beneath her, each one nearly touching the cushions from a standing position, swaying heavy and slow. The black lace bralette had ridden up — or rather, had been rendered meaningless by gravity, the cups bunched above her tits like a headband that had migrated south. Her ass rose behind her — round, ridiculous, an ass built in a character creator by someone who'd never learned the word restraint. Her black nails dug into the couch fabric, ten dark points of pressure against beige upholstery.
His jeans hit the floor. His hands gripped her hips. His cock pressed against her pussy — soaking, had been soaking since the first growth surge, since she'd lost the word unprecedented and gained the word more — and he pushed inside.
The stretch was — no adjective — just — big full good good GOOD.
Her reconstructed cunt fired from clit to cervix simultaneously. Sensitivity at 9,999 meant the texture of him registered at molecular resolution — every vein, every ridge, the heat differential between shaft and head, the exact point where his foreskin folded. Her pussy clenched around him in a spasm that was half orgasm and half reflex, and the moan that tore out of her rattled the windows.
"Fuck." Dylan's hands tightened. His voice cracked — the voice of a man confronting his own fantasy made flesh and finding it better than the fantasy. "You're so — Jesus, Tracy, look at your fucking tits—"
They swung beneath her with every thrust. Enormous. Gravity-warping. The nipple barbells caught the light — flash, flash, flash — keeping time with his strokes. She came on the second thrust. Her cunt seized and she screamed and squirted down her thighs, gushing around his cock, and the orgasm didn't crest and fall — it plateaued at a height that would have been a peak in her old body and was now a baseline, a resting state of pleasure so intense her vision went hot and pink.
He grabbed her hair. The new hair — long, black, thick enough to grip like rope. Pulled her head back and fucked her harder, his hips slamming against her ass, the sound filling the apartment: wet, rhythmic, brutal. Her tits swung like demolition equipment. His cock pounded into her at a depth and angle that old-Tracy would have categorized as medically inadvisable and new-Tracy categorized as not enough.
"More," she managed. The only complex utterance her rewired brain could assemble. "Mmmmore."
"More what?" He pulled her hair tighter. "Tell me what you want."
The vocabulary slider at 0.3. Eighty words. She searched the wreckage for something to give him. "F—fuck. Hard. More... more hard. More big. More — you. More you."
"Good girl."
The words hit the Obedience/Compliance center of her rewired brain and the pleasure response was so immediate and so violent that her knees buckled. An orgasm that had nothing to do with his cock — triggered entirely by language, by the recognition that she had pleased him — ripped through her cunt and up her spine. She collapsed forward, tits hitting the couch cushions, ass in the air, shaking and moaning and cumming from two words. Her lip ring pressed against the cushion. Black lipstick smeared across the beige fabric — a dark wet stain, a kiss from someone who didn't exist six hours ago.
He didn't stop. Grabbed her hips and kept fucking her through the orgasm, his cock slamming into a pussy that was contracting so hard around him that each thrust required force, her cunt gripping and releasing and gripping, trying to keep him deep, and she was cumming still, still, the plateau hadn't ended, hadn't dipped, and she was drooling onto the couch cushion — black lipstick smearing further, a Rorschach blot of ruined glamour — and her tits were pooled beneath her like something that had spilled and her black hair was everywhere and her black nails were shredding the upholstery and she was making a sound — not a word, not a moan, just a continuous high-pitched hum of pleasure that had no beginning and no end.
"Tell me what you are," he said.
The question hit the processing center and found a vacancy. What she was. She was — she was—
Warm. Warm and full and fucked and big and pretty and his.
"Yrrs," she managed. Yours. The best word in her remaining vocabulary.
He came inside her. Hot. Deep. Each pulse distinct against her cervix, claiming, marking, and her pussy gripped him and pulled and milked and her body processed his cum like fuel, like the only input her new operating system was built to receive. One final orgasm rolled through her — lazy, total, her whole body shuddering — and her tits swayed and her swollen lips parted around a sound that was half laugh and entirely without intellectual content.
He stayed inside her. His hands on her waist.
"Tracy?" Testing the name. Testing if it still applied.
She turned her head. Smiled. Her dark eyes were warm and empty and happy — genuinely happy, the kind of happy the spreadsheet could never have calculated because it existed in cells the spreadsheet had never been willing to open.
"Mmmm." Agreement. Presence. Everything she had left.
His cock twitched inside her. Stiffening again.
"Again?" he asked.
**She pushed her hips back against him. Answer enough. \-e**
**Part Four: Read-Only**
Three days later, the thing that had been Tracy Moskowitz woke up to discover that the world was made of touch.
The sheets. Cotton against her nipples. The barbells dragging across thread count. The sensation traveled from her chest to her cunt like a current following a copper wire — instant, no resistance, no intermediary thought between stimulus and wet. Her pussy clenched. Her back arched. Her tits — enormous, heavy, spilling across the mattress on either side of her like something geological — rose and fell with her breathing, and each breath was an event because each breath shifted the mass and each shift rubbed skin against cotton and each rub sent another pulse south.
She was still wearing last night's outfit — if you could call it an outfit. A black mesh bodysuit that had been sheer when she'd put it on and was now stretched to near-invisibility across her tits, the fabric straining so hard the hexagonal mesh had distorted into ovals, her dark nipples and barbells fully visible through the material. A choker with a silver O-ring sat at her throat. Her eyeliner had smeared in her sleep, turning the precise wings into smoky dark smudges that made her look like she'd been crying mascara tears, and the effect — porcelain skin, ruined gothic makeup, tits threatening to burst through mesh — was accidentally more devastating than the clean version.
She made a sound. Small. High. A sound like a question in a language with no words.
Morning. She knew it was morning because: light. Light meant morning. Morning meant — meant—
The old Tracy had a morning routine. Alarm. Coffee. News. Email triage. Spreadsheet updated with overnight data. A system. A protocol. A life organized around the assumption that enough variables, properly controlled, could produce a desired outcome.
The new Tracy's morning routine was: find Dylan's cock.
She rolled toward him. Her tits dragged across the sheets — heavy, slow, pulling at her chest muscles — and bumped against his arm. The impact made them bounce and the bounce made her gasp and the gasp woke him. His eyes opened. Registered the landscape of her body pressed against him — the tits pooling on his chest, the porcelain skin, the swollen dark mouth inches from his — and his cock went from soft to hard so fast she could track the progression against her thigh. Swelling, thickening, pushing against his boxers with an urgency that the Dependent-Affectionate wiring in her brain interpreted as need. He needed her. She was needed. The compass needle swung to north.
She kissed him. Her rebuilt lips engulfing his — too much mouth, too much flesh, the lip ring pressing cold against his chin, black lipstick transferring onto his mouth in a dark smear — and her hand found his cock through the cotton and squeezed. Her black nails stood out against the white fabric like calligraphy. Words were hard. Words required assembly: subject, verb, object, retrieved from a database that contained eighty entries and couldn't alphabetize them. But her body was fluent. Her body spoke the only language that still came naturally.
He pulled the mesh bodysuit down — or tried to, the fabric catching on her tits, stretching, the mesh distorting further before finally sliding beneath them and bunching at her waist like a textile casualty. Her tits bounced free, heavy, the nipple barbells swinging. He pulled his boxers down. She straddled him — a production, an engineering challenge, tits that hung past her navel swinging into his face as she climbed on top, hips wider than his shoulders requiring her to spread her knees wide — and found his cock with her pussy and sank.
Down. Slow. Each inch stretching her open, her cunt gripping him like it was trying to memorize his shape at a molecular level. The sensitivity at 9,999 meant she processed the penetration in granular detail: the head spreading her open, the shaft dragging against her walls, the ridge catching on her g-spot and making her whole body jerk, the moment he bottomed out and his cock pressed against her cervix and the pressure there — deep, almost painful, exquisitely specific — made her moan so loud Dylan winced.
She rode him. Not fast — she wanted fast, wanted hard, the tropism pointing always toward more — but slow, because slow at 9,999 sensitivity was annihilating. Each inch of him sliding out was a discrete event. Each inch sliding back in was a homecoming. Her cunt gripped him on the outstroke, released on the instroke, and the alternation produced a rhythm her brain interpreted as color — pink, gold, pink, gold — because music required notes and she didn't have notes and color was all that was left.
Her tits bounced. She cupped them — hands overflowing, black nails sinking into white flesh, ten dark points on pale skin like a photographic negative — and squeezed her own nipples through the barbells and the dual sensation — pleasure from the nipples, pressure from her fingertips, black metal biting into soft flesh — met behind her sternum and fused. Her smeared eyeliner made her look wrecked. Her black lips were parted. Her mouth fell open wider. Her eyes closed. Her hips accelerated.
"That's it." Dylan's hands gripping her hips. Firm. Proprietary. The tone he'd developed over three days — the tone of a man who had built something and was watching it function exactly as designed. "Just like that. You're so fucking good at this."
The word good hit her like a fist. Dopamine burst. Serotonin flood. Her cunt clenching hard around his cock — a Pavlovian response that the program had installed at the intersection of Obedience and Sensitivity, a neural shortcut from praise to orgasm that bypassed every cognitive structure in between. She came. Not the screaming, squirting, reality-dissolving kind — a rolling, total-body spasm, her pussy milking him in rhythmic waves, her tits bouncing, her black hair curtaining around them both, the orgasm going on and on because there was no cognitive structure to end it, no analytical voice to say okay, enough, come down. It just — lasted. Rolled. Continued.
"Good girl," he said.
She came again. Harder. The two words punching through whatever residual buffer remained and landing directly on the reward center. Good. Girl. Two words. Two syllables. A complete identity. A value system compressed into the simplest possible construction. She was a good girl. She was his good girl. The woman who'd built nested VLOOKUPs was gone. The spreadsheet was gone. The forty-five thousand words were gone. What remained was: the warm, dark, pierced, enormous, perpetually soaking creature who rode his cock every morning and came when he called her good.
He grabbed her hips and thrust up into her — hard, sudden, taking over — and the angle change hit her cervix and she screamed, a high broken sound, and her cunt sprayed and her thighs shook and she collapsed forward, tits smothering him, her black lips pressed against his chest leaving dark stains, her body shuddering through an orgasm that felt less like a climax and more like a system state — just: pleasure, on, constant, no off switch.
He came inside her. Her pussy gripped him, pulled, milked. His cum filling her — hot, thick, distinct pulses that her body processed like data, like the only input her operating system was designed to receive. She ground down on him, keeping him deep, her cunt squeezing rhythmically, and kissed him — black lipstick smearing across his mouth, the lip ring clicking against his teeth, a kiss that tasted like dark cosmetics and desperation and nothing at all like the woman he'd fallen in love with.
Later, while she dozed in a patch of sunlight — curled on her side, the mesh bodysuit still bunched at her waist like a black textile wreckage, tits pooling on the mattress, one hand between her thighs because the sensitivity meant even sleeping she was half-aroused, her cunt wet and warm and gently clenching around nothing, her smeared eyeliner and ruined lipstick giving her the look of a gothic painting left out in the rain — Dylan sat at the desk.
The program was open. It was always open now. Tracy's avatar rotated slowly, the stats occupying the right panel like a character sheet in a game that had stopped being a game:
Intelligence: \-25 (custom) Vocabulary Range: 0.3 Inhibition: 0.1 Memory Architecture: 1.5 Obedience/Compliance: 9.8 Self-Awareness: 0.2 Erogenous Sensitivity: 9,999 (custom) Breast Size: \[value exceeds standard display\] Aesthetic: Goth-Bimbo Personality Matrix: FULLY OVERWRITTEN Cognitive Style: Sensory-Reactive Social Orientation: Dependent-Affectionate Sexual Persona: Aggressive-Submissive (10/10)
He scrolled to the bottom. A small icon: a padlock. He clicked it.
LOCK CURRENT CONFIGURATION? Warning: Locking prevents further modifications by any user. Password required to unlock.
His fingers hovered.
The part of him that loved Tracy — the original Tracy, the sharp-tongued analyst, the woman who could make a VLOOKUP weep — that part hesitated. Because locking meant permanent. Locking meant the woman dozing in the sunlight would never again balance a budget, compose a grammatically complex sentence, remember a friend's name, or understand a joke that required abstraction. Self-Awareness at 0.2 meant she would never know what she'd lost. Memory at 1.5 meant she would never compare today to yesterday. Intelligence at \-25 meant she would never understand the lock even if he showed her.
He typed a password. Twelve characters. Uppercase, lowercase, number, symbol — the kind Tracy would have approved of, would have audited for entropy, would have stored in a password manager with a satisfaction that approached the sensual.
He pressed ENTER.
The padlock icon closed. The sliders grayed out. The text fields became read-only.
Configuration locked by: Dylan Reeves Unlock password: •••••••••••• Status: PERMANENT
He closed the program. The taskbar icon pulsed once — that same heartbeat rhythm — and went still.
In the bedroom, the thing that had been Tracy rolled over in her sleep. Her tits shifted — a geological event, a slow avalanche of flesh — and settled against the mattress. Her swollen black lips parted around a breath. Her dark hair fanned across the pillow like an ink spill. The choker's silver O-ring glinted at her throat. Her black nails curled loosely against the white sheets — five dark commas on a blank page.
She was dreaming. If you could call it dreaming — if there was enough cognitive architecture left to construct a dream. More likely she was experiencing warmth and color. Pink for pleasure. Gold for Dylan. A deep saturated black — not cold, not frightening, comfortable, enveloping — for the aesthetic that had become her skin, her identity, the only self she had left. The faintest trace of blue — cold, distant, like a star seen through fog — for something she couldn't name and couldn't miss because Self-Awareness at 0.2 meant you couldn't miss what you couldn't remember having.
Dylan walked into the bedroom. Stood in the doorway.
She was beautiful. She was his. She was exactly what he'd built — porcelain and black, lace and metal, a goth fever dream with tits bigger than physics should allow and a mind smaller than her vocabulary.
He didn't feel guilty. He'd expected to — had braced for it the way you brace for a bill you know is coming. But the guilt didn't arrive. Maybe because she was happy. The program's emotional readout confirmed it: a flat green line of contentment that never dipped, never spiked with anxiety, never flickered with the self-doubt that had been Tracy's constant companion.
Or maybe because guilt required believing you'd done something wrong, and Dylan, standing in his doorway, looking at the most beautiful woman he would ever see, couldn't quite locate the wrong.
She opened her eyes. Saw him. Smiled — wide, warm, guileless, black lipstick cracked from sleeping, eyeliner smudged into raccoon circles that should have looked like a disaster and instead looked like the morning-after of something sacred. The Dependent-Affectionate wiring flooded her with warmth at the sight of him. The Obedience slider oriented her body toward his. She sat up — gathering her tits in her arms, the mesh bodysuit giving up entirely and sliding to her waist — and they spilled over her forearms. Her nipple barbells glinted. Her dark eyes were empty and adoring above those ruined wings of eyeliner.
"Dyl." His name. Two of her eighty words, spent on him. She reached for him.
He went to her. Because what else was there to do? He'd built this. He'd chosen this. The program sat on his desktop, locked, his password the only key, and the woman in the bed was the house he'd built with someone else's blueprints and his own terrible, honest desires.
Her dark, swollen, pierced mouth found his ear.
"Bih... grrr."
Bigger.
The one word that didn't require intelligence. The one desire simple enough to exist at \-25. Not a thought — a direction. Like warmer. Like more. The only aspiration a Sensory-Reactive cognitive style could generate: more of the sensation that feels good. And what felt good — what felt best, what felt like the only real thing — was the growth. The pressure. The swell. The weight increasing.
Dylan reached for his phone. Opened the remote-access version of the program. The locked sliders were grayed out. All of them.
Except one.
Breast Size. Still adjustable. Not locked. A slider that went up but would not go back down. A one-way ratchet — as if the program's designer had anticipated exactly this: a user who locked everything but left one direction open, one modification still permitted, one gift he could keep giving, one way to make the warm pink nothing a little pinker, a little warmer, a little more.
He moved the slider. One tick to the right.
The avatar swelled on screen.
Behind him, pressed against his back with her whole body, Tracy made a sound that was pure warmth, pure gold, pure nothing, and didn't wonder about anything at all.
END
\[Tracy and Dylan's story continues in a future installment. Up next: the prequel — Sharon and Tom discover Master PC, and what happened before that email arrived at 2:47 AM.\]
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