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Prison's new gift
🕑 Added 2025-07-25 21:47:19 +0000 UTCMarcus Reeve had always believed that real men never begged. That belief held strong even as the judge handed him a 15-year prison sentence. Theft, assault, and obstruction, all piled up. Still, Marcus didn’t flinch. He stood tall, smug, defiant.
That pride cracked just once: during his second year in Blackridge Correctional, after a brutal fight that left another inmate hospitalized. The guards didn’t just toss him in solitary this time. He was dragged, hooded, to a wing of the prison he didn’t even know existed.
When the hood came off, he blinked under cold fluorescent lights. He was strapped into a medical chair, his arms and legs immobilized. His chest rose and fell quickly. There was no one in the room but a single woman in a surgical gown.
“Marcus Reeve,” she said, reading from a tablet. “You’ve been selected for Program Epsilon. Your sentence will be reduced from fifteen years to one. In return, you will participate in a comprehensive identity reassignment protocol."
“What the hell does that mean?” Marcus growled.
“It means,” she said smoothly, “you’ll become something... different. And useful.”
“I didn’t agree to that!”
“You don’t need to. The state approved it on your behalf.”
He struggled, furious, until a syringe pierced his neck. The sedative kicked in fast. His final thoughts were pure rage.
Week 1:
He woke up naked, hair shaved, body sore. His muscles ached in strange ways. He tried to speak, but his voice cracked high. Panic set in when he looked down: his chest was swollen, nipples puffed out. His hips had widened slightly. His face felt... wrong. He looked like a stranger.
Each morning brought new changes: skin softening unnaturally, fat redistributing, body hair vanishing. His genitals shrank. They told him he was being reshaped “for market compatibility.”
He was drilled in behavior: how to walk, how to sit, how to speak in a "submissive feminine cadence". Missteps were punished with electric shocks, cold showers, or being displayed to others as a “bad girl.”
Week 3:
Now registered as “Marcie,” she was forced into tight latex uniforms, heels, and chokers. Her lips were injected until pouty. Her hair regrown in glossy waves. Her voice chirped against her will.
“You're almost ready for external service,” one tech said. “Just need to get rid of that attitude.”
She snapped at him.
They locked her in a cold isolation tank for 48 hours. No food. No speaking. Just loud loops of affirmations:
"You are soft. You are pretty. You are owned."
When she was finally released, she didn’t fight anymore. She whispered “yes sir” when ordered to kneel.
Week 5:
She was “leased” to a rehabilitation affiliate. Each night, she was taken to private rooms under “behavioral testing protocols,” forced to perform services on command. If she hesitated, she was returned to the lab for further "adjustments."
Her thoughts felt distant. She couldn’t remember what her old voice sounded like. Her old name was a blur.
They said she was finally obedient. Finally beautiful. Finally useful.
Week 8:
She looked at herself in the mirror: glossy lips, flushed cheeks, cleavage spilling out of a pink mesh top. She giggled when clients complimented her, not because she meant it, but because she couldn’t stop.
Some part of her screamed inside, but quietly. Not loud enough to matter.
Her one year hadn’t even begun.
