Chapter 1: The Fine Print
Derek Weston lived for his reflection.
Every morning started the same: a glance in the mirror, a smug smirk, a flexed bicep. The gym was his second home, protein his religion, and masculinity something he wore like armor. He was rude. He believed only in himself, confident in his body and in the world that responded well to it. Women liked him, guys envied him, and everything in his life felt sharp, focused, and under control.
But lately, something had been off. He’d wake up groggy, not quite as hard, not quite as hungry. His sets felt sluggish, his pump didn’t last, and there was a weird fog sitting behind his eyes. He chalked it up to overtraining, maybe poor sleep. Still, one lazy evening scrolling on his phone, something caught his eye.
A slick ad with soft lighting and glowing skin read:
“Feeling low energy? Losing drive? Rebalance your system. Detox Package B. Three sessions only £19.89.”
There was a picture of a guy who looked like him—chiseled, beaming, towel around the waist. Derek snorted at the price but something about it held his thumb. He tapped, read a few reviews, and with a shrug, booked his session for the next morning.
Sycamore Street was strangely quiet when he arrived. The spa had an unnatural calmness to it, too clean, too perfect. The glass doors opened automatically, and the scent hit him instantly—floral, sugary, almost… addictive.
A receptionist behind a sleek counter greeted him with a warm smile, voice soft and soothing as if reading from a script etched into her bones.
“Welcome to The Spa, Mr. Weston. Detox Package B, correct?”
“Yep. First timer.”
She handed him a glowing tablet.
“Please review and sign the agreement. All standard disclaimers.”
He didn’t read most of it. Words like “psychological recalibration,” “identity adjustment,” and “completion mandatory” stood out, but he assumed it was wellness mumbo jumbo. He tapped AGREE, scrawled his name, and followed a quiet attendant into a dimly lit massage room filled with flickering candles and warm, pink light.
Derek stripped to his boxers and lay on the table, head cradled in the face ring. The masseuse worked in silence, rubbing warm oil down his spine, across his lower back, and around the outer curves of his glutes in slow, methodical circles.
At first, it just felt good—relaxing. Then the warmth turned electric, a gentle buzzing beneath his skin. Her hands never felt inappropriate, but something about the way she lingered, the rhythm she built… it stirred something in him he couldn’t name.
He told himself he was imagining it when his thighs flexed involuntarily, when his breath hitched as her fingers brushed the edges of his hips. He felt dizzy afterward, not bad—just light, euphoric. She left the room with a bow, and he got dressed quickly, brushing off the weird arousal blooming inside him.
Back home, he cracked a protein shake and fell into bed with his laptop. Out of habit, he queued up some porn—his usual taste: big tits, submissive girls, dumb dialogue. But as the scene played out, his attention kept drifting. Not to the woman, but the guy. His muscles. The way he moaned. The way he thrust.
Derek frowned and scrolled again. New video. Same thing. He couldn’t stop watching the man. His dick twitched, but it felt... wrong. Or right in a way that felt wrong.
He slammed the laptop shut and told himself it was a fluke. Just bad lighting. Weird mood. Everyone got off track sometimes. He showered and went to bed, still half-hard, still confused, a whisper in the back of his mind that he couldn’t shake.
He slept restlessly, tossing and turning. And in his dreams, someone was calling him—not Derek, but something sweeter.
Something he didn’t want to remember. Not yet.
End Of Chapter 1
--
Chapter 2: Second Skin
Derek woke up with an erection. Not unusual. But something felt... different.
His body felt oddly light, as if he’d dropped ten pounds overnight. He threw the blanket off and sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. His chest tingled faintly under his fingertips. Probably just sore from yesterday’s lift.
He stood, stretched, and walked to the closet. His go-to outfit for a gym day—loose tank top and joggers—was already laid out. He didn’t remember doing that.
He pulled the shirt over his head and immediately felt the tightness. It clung to him differently now—across the chest, the sides, even under the arms. The joggers, too. The waistband resisted his thighs, and as he turned toward the mirror, he realized his silhouette looked... curvier.
Not bulkier. Curvier.
He frowned, then laughed it off.
“Chill. Probably water retention.”
He didn’t notice how the sound of his own voice had softened, ever so slightly.
Downstairs, his mom was making tea. She turned, smiled at him, and tilted her head.
“Derek, you’re glowing today. Did you shave?”
He blinked. “No. Why?”
“No stubble. And your skin looks great.”
He offered a half-smile, unsure how to answer. His skin did look unusually smooth, even around the jaw. He mumbled something about moisturizer and took his tea upstairs.
He had planned to hit the gym today. But instead, around noon, his phone buzzed again.
[SPA]: “Session 2 begins in one hour. We’ll be expecting you, Mr. Weston.”
He stared at the message for a while.
He could cancel. But something made his thumb move. A strange warmth in his chest. His legs were already carrying him toward the bathroom to shower.
At the spa, the same receptionist greeted him.
“Welcome back, Derek.”
She said it slowly this time, like savoring the name.
“Feeling any different?”
He hesitated. “A little... lighter, maybe.”
“That’s the toxins flushing out. You’re doing very well.”
She handed him a small bottle of water and gestured toward the hallway.
“Same room. The attendant is ready for you.”
This time, Derek undressed in silence. He noticed his briefs hugged his hips higher than before. And his chest looked just a bit more... pushed out. He turned quickly and got on the table.
The oil was warmer today. The hands firmer. They moved in circles over his lower back, then slid under his sides, brushing the curve of his waist. A moan escaped him before he could stop it.
He bit his lip.
“You okay?” the attendant asked softly.
“Yeah,” he said too quickly. “Just... sensitive today.”
The attendant said nothing more. Just continued. And Derek let it happen.
When it was over, he lay there for a minute longer, dazed and flushed. His thighs twitched. His chest rose and fell rapidly.
Once dressed, he left the spa in a daze. Every step home felt like walking through syrup.
That night, in bed, he didn’t even open a porn tab. He was already hard. He didn’t need visuals—his own fingers seemed to know where to touch.
He grabbed his shaft... but his fingers drifted lower.
He stroked lazily, eyes half-closed, his other hand pressing softly on his chest. When he came, the pleasure was different. Fuller. A shudder rolled through him from head to toe.
He lay there after, panting, not sure what had just happened.
“I’m fine,” he whispered to himself.
But in the dark, something inside him smiled.
End of Chapter 2
--
Chapter 3: Memory Lock
Derek woke up to the sound of rain.
His sheets were damp again. Not with sweat—just something in between, something... warm. He sat up slowly, blinking at the grey light pouring in through the curtains. His room looked the same, but something inside him didn’t.
He stretched, yawning, and reached for a pair of briefs from the laundry basket.
Empty.
He opened his drawers. All his underwear had been washed the night before, but they were still wet. Even his emergency pairs. His gym shorts were hanging by the window, still damp and clingy. The only dry option was the pair of pants he had retired months ago for being too tight. They barely fit his waist anymore. But today, he had no choice.
He picked them up, tried one leg, then the other. The fabric pulled up his thighs with resistance. His hips fought back. He exhaled as he finally yanked the zipper closed.
Then he felt it—something shifted in the fabric. Something soft, stuck between his legs.
He froze.
There it was, on the floor. A pale pink panty. Lacy. His sister’s, probably. Somehow, it had stuck to the inside of the pants during laundry and slipped into the fabric. Just seeing it made him twitch.
“No. Nope,” he whispered, peeling it out carefully.
He should have tossed it aside.
But instead, his fingers held onto it. He brought it up, felt the lace between his fingers. His cock stiffened against the zipper.
“No. This is... wrong.”
Yet his hands moved on their own. He stepped out of the pants, slid the panty up his legs slowly, the fabric caressing his skin like it belonged there. The waistband hugged his hips perfectly. The sensation against his cock sent a tremor through him.
“Oh fuck…”
He groaned softly. Then shoved the pants back up, hiding the panty beneath. His bulge looked... shaped. Teased.
The tightness of the panty made him harder, and harder still when he realized he liked it.
He didn’t want to.
But he did.
By the time he reached the spa, his walk had changed. Every step reminded him of the lace sliding over his shaft, keeping it hard and sensitive. The receptionist was waiting for him, same smile as always—but this time, something about her gaze felt heavier.
“Welcome back, Mr. Weston,” she said sweetly. “You made it to the final session.”
“I need answers,” Derek said sharply.
“Of course. Everything will be clear after today.”
“I mean it. Something’s wrong. My body... things feel different.”
She calmly turned her screen toward him.
“You signed for Detox Package B. Three sessions. Full mental and physical recalibration. You didn’t uncheck any of the clauses.”
He stared at the screen. His own digital signature glowed beneath a paragraph he didn’t remember seeing.
“Clause 4B: Incomplete detox may result in identity displacement or memory corruption.”
He took a step back.
“No. No, I didn’t sign up for that.”
She tilted her head, calm as ever.
“You did. And today is your completion session. After this, you’ll be… realigned.”
Before he could protest, another attendant appeared and motioned him to the hallway.
Too stunned to argue, Derek followed.
The third room was new—bathed in pink light, mirrors along the walls, no table this time. Just a reclining lounge chair surrounded by softly glowing crystals and hanging flowers.
“Please undress,” the attendant said.
Derek paused.
“What kind of massage is this?”
“The final one,” she replied.
He hesitated. Then pulled off his hoodie, then the too-tight pants. The lace panty still hugged his waist.
She didn’t comment. She only smiled.
"Lie back.”
As he sank into the chair, a warm mist sprayed from the ceiling—floral and sweet, like perfume and honey.
His body went slack.
The attendant’s fingers worked the oil across his chest, down his stomach, tracing his waist with sensual, unhurried pressure. His cock twitched, straining against the panty.
“Just relax,” she whispered. “Let it all melt away.”
His head swam. He couldn't think straight. His hips arched up as if begging for more.
“Fuck... what's happening...”
“You’re becoming..........”
She pressed her palm against his stomach and whispered something he couldn’t understand. His breathing slowed. His eyes fluttered.
“I’m Derek,” he tried to say. “I’m still... me.”
But his voice cracked at the end, breathy, higher.
When he opened his eyes again, he was alone.
A box sat beside the lounge.
He reached for his clothes—only to find an empty shelf.
He blinked. Then looked into the box.
Pink hoodie. Skirt. Bra. Glossy white heels.
“What the hell is this? Where are my clothes?”
The door opened. The receptionist stepped in, holding a clipboard.
“Your old garments have been... retired.”
“You burned them?! Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“We had no choice. They no longer fit your profile.”
“I’m not wearing this!” Derek shouted, but his voice trembled.
Yet even as he screamed, his hands trembled toward the clothes.
He picked up the skirt. Held it for a second.
It felt right.
He blinked, confused.
“No... no, I can’t... I’m not...”
“You’re already halfway there, sweetheart,” the receptionist said gently.
His body moved before his mind could argue. The hoodie slid on. Then the skirt. Then—hesitantly—the heels.
He was aroused. Embarrassed. And aroused again.
On the way out of the spa, he passed a clothing store. His heart leapt with hope. He could buy something manly again. Baggy jeans. A jacket. Regain control.
But inside, he found himself drawn to the women’s section. His hand reached for a pink blouse. Then a tight crop top. Then a floral bra.
He blacked out for a moment. When he came to, he was at the register, smiling, holding three full bags.
As he stepped out of the store, something strange started happening.
His memories began to fade.
Names, numbers, favorite movies, the gym—gone, one by one.
His walk changed, hips swaying.
He smiled when a man looked at him.
He liked the attention.
He wasn’t sure who Derek Weston was anymore.
Halfway home, a black van slowed beside him. The window rolled down.
“Bimbo?” a man inside asked.
She blinked.
Her lips parted. A soft, breathy voice answered.“Yes.”
She stepped in without hesitation, inside it The Manager of the spa was sitting she explained her everything and then......
Two days later, she sat behind the reception desk, typing slowly with long pink nails.
Her name tag said Delika.
When a tall, smug man entered asking for the detox package, she smiled and handed him the tablet.
“Three sessions,” she said sweetly.
“You’ll love how you feel after.”
He didn’t read the fine print either.
---
The End.
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