Short Story: The Chair [Forced Feminization, Mind Control, Body Modification, non-consensual]

The strange looking massage chair’s leather was cracked, the metal frame rusted at the joints, but despite its age, it hummed—a low, vibration. Darren’s hoped that this shitty old chair still worked as lowered himself into it, hoping for some relief for his aching spine. He’d found it while clearing out his dead grandfather’s basement, wedged between moldering boxes of war medals and moth-eaten uniforms. The moment his ass hit the seat, the vibration sharpened. A leather strap snapped over his chest, pinning him backward as the armrests clanged shut around his wrists. His shout died in his throat when the headrest clamped his skull in place, cold metal probes drilling through his scalp. Darren screamed before the chair's probes dulled his pain by dropping a bomb of raw dopamine on his pleasure center. Darren's eye rolled back as a bit of drool escaped his mouth.

Another much larger probe punched into him without warning—a thick, greased rod ramming past his asshole, deeper than anything he'd thought he could take without dying. He screamed, but the chair absorbed the sound, the room silent except for the wet schlick of the machine’s mechanics. Liquid flooded his veins as the probe injected its payload: synthetic estrogen, cool and relentless, followed by a surge of electric current that made his cock twitch, then droop, soft and useless between his thighs. The electrodes embedded in his skull fired, a jagged bolt of pleasure tearing through his prefrontal cortex, building addiction to these new experiences. His vision exploded into fractured light as the chair forced his eyelids open, the images beginning immediately.

Week One: Rewiring Desire

The screens—projected directly into his corneas—flashed a montage of hard, hairless male bodies. Chiseled abs, thick cocks slapping against stomachs, hands gripping hips, fingers digging into asscheeks. Each image synced with a brutal pulse from the anal probe, the machine fucking him in shallow, rapid thrusts. The electrodes in his brain lit up every time a man’s face filled the screen—hungry eyes, stubble-shadowed jaws, lips curled in dominance. Darren’s body arched against the restraints as the chair taught him a new hunger. Cum leaked from his limp dick, but the machine denied him release, rerouting every spark of pleasure to his ass, his nipples, the back of his throat.

By day three, his tits ached. The suction cups latched onto them now, rhythmic pulls swelling the tissue, stretching his areolas into puffy, sensitive discs. The screens showed close-ups of men sucking nipples, biting them, twisting them between fingers—each touch mirrored by the cups’ relentless tugging. Darren’s moans turned high, reedy. When the machine fed him a vision of a faceless man shoving a cock down his throat, he gagged, but his hips jerked forward, seeking friction that wasn’t there.

Week Two: Body as a Tool

The estrogen worked fast. His skin softened, body hair thinning to nothing. His hips ached as the bones subtly realigned, the chair’s straps digging into his widening waist. The probe in his ass never stopped moving, now vibrating at a frequency that turned his prostate into a live wire. The screens shifted to instructional vignettes: a slim-hipped figure kneeling, lubed fingers working open a pink hole; the same figure gasping as a veiny cock speared them, tears of ecstasy streaking their face. The electrodes burned the lessons deeper: You exist to be entered. Pain is the door. Pleasure is the prize.

His tits were full now, the suction cups replaced with milking pumps that drew viscous fluid from his swollen nipples. The machine rewarded each droplet with a hit of dopamine so sharp it blurred his vision. When the screens displayed a man kneading a pair of heavy breasts, Darren’s back arched, his own tits jiggling under the machine’s mechanical hands. He sobbed, but his nipples hardened, aching for more.

Week Three: Erasure and Replacement

The chair erased his name. The screens bombarded him with pronouns—she, her, good girl—flashing in time with the anal probe’s thrusts. A new electrode cluster activated, targeting his language centers. When he tried to scream “Stop”, what came out was “More”. When he begged for death, his tongue shaped the words “Deeper, please.”

His cock had shriveled to a nub, but his asshole gaped, dripping lube and pre-cum as the machine pistoned into him. The screens now showed his reflection—or what it would be. A smooth, hairless body with round tits, hips flared for gripping, lips plumped and painted red. The figure in the screen moaned as a shadowy man took them from behind, hands squeezing their tits, teeth sinking into their neck. Darren’s body convulsed, a dry orgasm tearing through him as the electrodes fused the fantasy to his identity.

Week Four: Completion

The final images were mundane. A pretty dress zipped up his CGI counterpart’s spine. Pink nails tapping a phone screen, texting a man named “Daddy”. A bridal veil, a diamond ring, a marriage bed. Each scene stabbed into his pleasure centers, the chair’s programming replacing ambition with submission, resistance with craving.

When the straps finally released, Darren collapsed onto the basement floor, his body a map of the machine’s work. His tits swayed with every shuddering breath, nipples raw and leaking. His asshole clenched around nothing, hungry. He tried to stand, but his knees buckled, thighs instinctively spreading. The screens had shut off, but the images lingered—the men, the cocks, the promise of being used.

Upstairs, the doorbell rang. Heavy footsteps crossed the porch. Darren’s new body knew what to do. He crawled to the stairs, hips swaying, a moan bubbling from his throat as his tender nipples brushed each step. The chair had given him a purpose. All he needed now was someone to fulfill it.