Hot Flash: Artificial Enhancements

“And you’re sure she won’t feel anything?”

Rosen smiled, examining the tip of his cigarette as it burned bright red.  “She’ll feel plenty, Mr. Dixon, she just won’t feel anything you don’t want her to.”

It was always this way when they first came in, full of nervous energy and guilt, chewing their lips and darting eyes around the office in all its wood-paneled glory.  The office smelled like smoke, of course, given Rosen’s penchant for the habit, but it was softly lit and warm, like a den in a manor, lined with books and stained oak furniture that gave the room an air of old-world sophistication.  Rosen leveled his eyes at Dixon, fixing him in his chair.

“You came here for a reason, Mr. Dixon, and if you have any doubts about that reason, you should leave now.  What we do is irreversible.  The woman you married will never be the same.  I believe she will be better, and if you don’t believe that, too, then this process is not for you.  This decision cannot be un-made.  Do you understand?”

Dixon nodded shallowly and quickly, his eyes meeting Rosen’s.  “I want her to behave, that’s all.”

“Oh, she would most certainly do that, Mr. Dixon.  She would have no choice.”  He rose, circling the heavy desk in the center of the room and leaned back against it, staring down at the nervous, middle-aged man with the soft belly in the chair before him.  He was pathetic, in Rosen’s estimation, but that made him no less valuable as a customer.  In fact, most of his clients matched this profile – wealthy and powerful in their world of business dealings or law, but weak when it came to their women.  They married young, beautiful women, or perhaps kept them in an apartment in the city, but they were plagued by the knowledge that these women did not truly love them, only what they could offer.  Dixon was the same – a young wife, far too beautiful for a man of his age and doughy appearance, probably engaged in an affair or two to keep her satisfied while she spent her husband’s money.

“If you agree to this, your wife will be forever beautiful, forever in love with you.  She will be the perfect wife and if she isn’t-”  Rosen shrugged.  “-we make some slight adjustments.  She will be whatever you want her to be, Mr. Dixon.”

Dixon looked down at the floor, considering.  Rosen knew this dance too well.  He would agree.  They all did.  The one part of their lives they could not control could be controlled, now.

“The question is, Mr Dixon, what changes would you like us to make first?”

Nadine Dixon threw her head back and moaned, her hips sliding against the hard pelvis of her lover, pushing him deeper inside her as she came.  gasping with the release.  She looked down at the man beneath her, a well-muscled Latino that could have modeled, she was sure of it.  His chest was smooth, and her long-nailed fingers roamed the expanse of it as he bucked beneath her.  Unlike her routine and disappointing appointments with her husband, this encounter had been spontaneous and unbridled, immediate attraction between two strangers fulfilled within an hour of their meeting.  Nadine was no whore, not the way she viewed it, but she needed her release, and Michael Dixon may have been many things, but a satisfying lover he was not.

Rolling away from the beautiful stranger, Nadine swept a sweat-stained string of dark hair from her face and smiled.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered, turning toward Nadine to nibble at the lobe of her ear.

“I have to go,” she replied with a  hint of a smile.  As much as she loved the orgasm the stranger provided, she enjoyed her anonymous rebuff of his pursuit even more.  She was a sexual creature that would flit into his life and back out, having achieved her goal and left him wanting her more.  Being desirable and equally unattainable was the thing that had netted her the wealth and adoration of her husband, and the sense of being somehow ethereal to the men in her life made Nadine feel sexy in an untouchable way.

“Now?” he asked, clearly disappointed.

“Now,” she said and kissed him, quick and soft, like a breeze that rose and fell in a breath.

Some might argue that Nadine’s walk was an affectation, an exaggerated swing of her hips, a confident air that suggested an invulnerability to the slings and arrows of normal life.  For her, it was an expression of the confidence she felt.  Nadine knew herself well, knew what compromises she made to live the life she desired, and felt no regret over those decisions.  To feel a twinge of shame at the choices that led her here was to somehow negate this current life, and she would never allow herself to linger on “what-might-have-been”s.

Her home with Michael was a well-furnished apartment on the 23rd floor of a luxury high-rise, and Nadine enjoyed the stares from the few neighbors milling about the lobby as she strolled through the marbled room to the elevators.  The black skirt she wore flared at mid-thigh, a rolling tide of fabric with every step, offering tantalizing glimpses of her toned legs.  The blue blouse was low cut enough to show off her modest cleavage, her breasts lifted by the bra she wore.  She might not have been the most buxom, she mused, but there was plenty to be said for the perfect handful.  At least no man she’d ever shared a bed with complained.

She was fumbling in her matching black purse for keys to her apartment when she noticed it open, a thin sliver of sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows that served as the wall of the room filtering through the crack.  She frowned, pushing the door inward cautiously, peeking around the corner into the well-lit living room with its simple and modern furniture.  The television mounted on the far wall was on, the volume silent, a business channel scrolling the movements on the exchange that day.

She stepped inside, glancing behind her down the hallway as she approached the coffee table, snapping the television off with the remote.  She paused, listening, wondering if perhaps she hadn’t fully closed the door on her way to her tryst.

“Michael?” she called down the hallway, past the kitchen up a step from the living room.  The hallway was dark, the bedroom and bathroom doors closed.  She dropped her purse on the pristine white couch and moved toward the hallway, slowly, ears open for any errant sound.

Her hand found the light switch for the globe in the hallway, snapping up once, then down, and again, faster.  The light remained cool and dark.  The nervousness graduated to real fear, and Nadine resolved to grab her purse, leave the apartment and call the police.  She stepped backwards, eyes flitting between the closed doors dimly outlined in the dark hall, the fingers of her right hand, shaking with fright, trailing along the surface of the wall.  She did not – could not – see the figure step behind her, the hulking man with the damp rag in his hand.

He grabbed her, fixing the rag over her mouth even as Nadine’s eyes widened and she screamed, a muffled and desperate sound that barely reached the edges of the room.  She inhaled, tasting the sharp, medicinal air that filled her lungs and sent a not-unpleasant numbness through her extremities as the figure behind her tightened his grip, lifting her off her feet so that she dangled limply in his arms.  Her last thought was of Michael, how he would pay for her release, how he would do anything to get his love back.

Rosen tsk-tsked as he circled Nadine Dixon, mourning the loss of such a natural beauty.  She was lovely with her high cheekbones and rather severe features that gave her a model’s air of superiority.  Dixon, unsurprisingly, had given Rosen and his associates a laundry list of changes, all direct from the most puerile of fantasies.  The alterations would reshape the slight frame of Nadine Dixon into something else entirely, but Rosen enjoyed his moment with the Nadine of birth, this attractive woman who would cease to be, replaced by a manufactured body and mind.

“Mr. Rosen, we’re ready,” a voice announced from beyond the two-way mirror, most likely Gabe, the technician.

“Of course.”  Rosen bent to Nadine, her eyes shut, lips half-parted, and left a kiss there.  “Good night, Nadine,” he whispered and left the sterile white chamber.

Outside the transformation chamber, the world became gray and black and industrial.   Rosen followed the curving metal steps up to the control room where a half-dozen technicians looked into the room from behind a bank of computer monitors and medical displays.

Nadine Dixon’s body had been mapped in fine detail, every nook and cranny, every follicle, and her mind had been evaluated similarly.  The men in this room could create a simulacrum of the lovely woman given half a chance, so familiar were they with her form.  On a tall, vertical  monitor to the right of the two-way, an image of the Nadine-to-be rotated, a reference for the work the geniuses who manned these computer stations.

“Inserting mass,” one called from Rosen’s left and robotic arms appeared around Nadine Dixon, extending from the ceiling.  The chair where she sat leaned back to position her body, spreading her arms and legs even as it reclined.  She was nude already, and again Rosen shook his head at the loss of the lean and athletic form Nadine had clearly worked so hard to achieve and maintain.

The arms, eight of them, tapered into needles, wide-gauged extension that slid into Nadine’s skin – two on either side of her face, two at her chest, two at her hips, and the final two in each of her thighs.

“Follow it up with the implant,” Gabe said, looking from his station to the monitor beside the mirror.  Gabe was the one who had developed the process, using a blend of cosmetic surgery, genetic manipulation, nanotechnology and neuroscience to alter a human inside and out.  It had become routine, but the gleam in his eyes as Nadine Dixon’s body swelled at the points of insertion where his robotic assistants delivered their payload of formless proteins and fats suggested he felt no less excitement with each customer.

“Neural implant is go,” another tech said, a greasy-haired obese man who stared up at the window as a ninth arm dropped from the ceiling, turning and twisting until it positioned itself at the base of Nadine’s neck.

“Send it home,” Gabe said with a smile.

The newly-arrived arm extending a needle of its own, smaller than those injecting fluid into the unconscious woman, pressing against the base of Nadine’s neck until it pierced the skin, sliding upward until it reached the base of the medulla.  When it paused, a plunger depressed, firing microscopic metallic bodies into the cerebro-spinal fluid.  Some congregated at the medulla, electrical impulses firing between these artificial neurons, others moving deeper into the brain to rewire the neural pathways that made up Nadine’s personality and manner of thinking.  Slowly erasing were her childhood memories, her accumulated experiences, smoothed over and diverted into something new.

“Bye-bye, Mrs. Dixon,” Gabe said, “and hello, Dolly.”

Even as her mind was being reshaped, the organic fats pumped into her body at key points were being discovered and manipulated by the nanites injected into her, transported to their new homes where the nanites would bind them and the genetic makeup of her cells would record it as natural, a new genetic code to maintain her new shape.

Rosen was transfixed as her skin rippled and smoothed as cheeks were rounded, breasts grew, hips flared and thighs thickened.  A few cosmetic touches were required, and the neural programming would take a few hours, but the hard work, essentially, was done.

“Good work, as always, gentlemen,” Rosen said, clapping a hand on Gabe’s back as he passed by on his way to the door.  “Call me when she’s finished.”

Two days later, the call came.  Nadine, or the woman who had been Nadine, had been awake for twenty-four hours, and she was showing no signs of rejection, either the physical alterations that had been made to her, nor the mental reassignment.  She was, in all evaluations, a rousing success.  Rosen peeked in on her once or twice, but he had not engaged in conversation, which, to be fair, was not her strong suit now, anyway.  Gabe had spoken with her a time or two, and, aside from her desire for her owner, she was perfectly docile and happy.

She was being kept in a room of Michael Dixon’s design, one he had recreated in their apartment just for her.  The holding room at Rosen’s facility and the new decor in the apartment matched perfectly, as Rosen had instructed, so she could imprint.  Dixon wanted his new toy to be obsessed with the color pink, so she was surrounded by it.  The vacant smile on her face suggested she delighted in being immersed in the pink glow of her room.

The door opened behind him and Michael Dixon entered ahead of the primly well-dressed secretary.  Rosen noted the nervous flitting of Dixon’s eyes and the way his hands wound over one another.  It was a common response.  He was still dealing with the idea of having erased someone from existence to have a creature of his own design.  It usually lasted until first contact with the creation.

“Ah, Michael, good to see you again,” Rosen said, stepping to Dixon and extending a hand.  “I’m sure you’re excited to meet her, so I won’t keep you long.  Just a few notes and reminders.”

“Of course.  Is she-?”  Dixon trailed off, unsure of how to complete the question.  He had rehearsed his initial meeting with his new wife, but he felt awkward calling her his doll out loud.

“Complete?  Oh, yes.  First things first.  You understand that you are not to discuss with anyone you know what caused the change in your wife.  I don’t care what you tell them, but no one involved in this organization is to be mentioned.  Ever.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course.  Is she-”

Rosen cut him off again.  “You are never to mention your wife’s former name.  She will not recall it, best case, and it could lead to some neural damage if her wiping was not entire.  The worst case is a fragmenting of her personality that could result in catatonia.  Nadine Dixon is gone.  Forget her.  Do not talk to her as you once did.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Dixon replied and Rosen saw that his anticipation was reaching a fever pitch.

“Good,” Rosen said, his stern look replaced by a warm and winning smile.  “Let’s go say hello to your new wife, then.”

The door was locked shut by a keypad, and Rosen keyed in the code, an LED flashed from red to green on the nondescript wall that could have been the underground hallway of any manufacturing plant.  A CLICK sounded, and Dixon placed his hand on the handle of the door, held closed by Rosen a moment longer.

“Remember the rules, Mr. Dixon.  The room’s monitors are now turned off for the next hour.  You can take her home at once, if you like, but we recommend sampling the merchandise, so to speak.  Ensure she is designed as you like before you take her home.  Once you’ve left these premises, you are not to contact us again.  Understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Rosen, I understand,” the middle-aged man replied, trembling.

“Then, enjoy.”

Dixon opened the door and blinked against the warm pink glow that seemed to come from everywhere at once.  The carpet was a tumble of pink fabric, pink-painted walls, a wide bed in the center of the room with a pink comforter and a pink teddy bear leaning against the pink-covered pillows.  It was a perfect replica of his wife’s new room.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, also clad in pink, was Nadine.  Well, Dixon corrected himself, what used to be Nadine.  One look told him this was a different person entirely, and not just because of the obvious physical changes.  The cold and calculating intelligence of Nadine Dixon had been replaced by a soft affection, almost a neediness in the glance the girl on the bed gave him.

“Michael?” the girl asked, and Dixon nodded, stunned by the lilting airiness of her voice, an almost musical sound that instantly aroused him.

She stood with a squeak of rubber, his specifications perfect.  She was dressed in a pink mini that mimicked office attire of a sort, but with decorative pink bows on the hips and shoulders and pink latex stockings that sported the same white bows at the tops.  Her lean frame was voluptuous now, with wide hips and thicker legs that Michael knew would feel like silk around his waist once wrapped around him.  Her breasts, before high and haughty as her demeanor, were full and round, pushed up by the mini to look every bit their new D-cup size.  Her hair was dyed blonde, twisted into a brief ponytail at the top of her head with another bow.  The platform heels she wore were pink as well, and one had to squint to see where the latex stockings ended and the heels began.  Her skin had been highlighted with a high sheen to give it an artificial appearance, and her mind was wired to give her movements a stiff and halting motion when she walked.  She was, in all things, a perfect pink sex doll.

“Hello, Dolly,” he smiled and opened his arms for her.

She moved to him on stiff legs, bent slightly to suggest movement even when she was still.  When she pressed against him, her arms surrounded him, and Dixon felt the pressure of her heavy chest against his own.

“I missed you so much, Michael,” she said in that syrupy and musical way, and her lips found his before he could speak.  He wasn’t sure how they had achieved the effect, but the interior of her mouth and the surface of her tongue had a sweet taste, like spun sugar.  He swirled his tongue with hers, holding her, feeling the rubber of her dress and slickness of her skin.  When he broke the kiss, she smiled up at him, batting long-lashed eyes.

“What can I do to please you, Michael?”

“What would you like to do?” he answered, examining the vacant blue eyes.

“Mmmm,” she grinned, “I would love to have my dolly lips around your big cock.”  As she said it, her hands reached up to lift and squeeze her breasts under the latex dress, leaving behind hard nubs of flesh visible through the material.  “And then drink your sweet, yummy cum-cum down in my belly.”

Then, she giggled, a whimsical and innocent sound even as she dropped to her knees and unzipped his pants, her hand exploring the dark recesses until she found his already-stiffening penis.  She gasped in surprised pleasure as she worked it free of his pants and ran her tongue along the underside, coaxing it to its full size with her smiling lapping at the warm flesh.

Dixon ran his fingers through her blonde hair, marveling at the total transformation.  No one would ever recognize her, nor did he expect to give them the opportunity.  Dolly would be kept in her room until needed, cooking and cleaning for Michael until it was time for play.  As if reading his thoughts about playtime, Dolly’s pink-glossed lips slid over the tip of his cock, descending down his shaft, her tongue rolling around the turgid erection.  Her hand wrapped around the base, her head finding a steady rhythm, sliding wetly up and down the shaft as Dixon’s grip tightened in her hair.  Her programming had been supplemented with expert techniques of arousal and pleasure, and Dixon was little match for his new doll’s abilities to elicit bliss.  When she abandoned enveloping his cock to lick from the base of his member to the tip, then swallowing him anew, Michael moaned and spilled his seed into her sugary mouth, her caress of his cock never ceasing as she milked every drop from his spent member.

Dolly looked up at the one she called Michael, but truly thought of as ‘Owner,’ smiling.  A pearly-white drop of cum clung to the corner of her grinning mouth.

“How else would Michael like to use Dolly?” she asked brightly, her tongue flicking out to collect the errant drop of jism.

“Let’s get you home and find out,” Michael said, helping the stiff doll to her feet, clapping a hand on the latex-encased ass of his toy.  She hopped and giggled, moving methodically ahead of him.

Through the closed-circuit television, Rosen watched another satisfied customer leave the facility.  He spun in his chair to Gabe, who seemed disinterested in his creations once they left his lab.

“What’s next, boss?” Gabe asked, funneling lo mein into his mouth with chopsticks.

Rosen laughed.  “How do you feel about cows?”

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