Salon (Patreon)

"You signed the contract, Camille," the stylist cooed, his voice a silk-lined trap. Camille sat rigid in the plush chair, his suit a useless armor against the bright, fuchsia room. His terror was sharp, acidic. This wasn't a choice; it was a sentence.

The next months were a blur of sterile smells, sharp needles, and dull aches. The laser burned away his hair. Hormones softened his skin as the first round of implants settled, a foreign weight. They bleached his hair, lacquered his nails, and puffed his lips with stinging fillers. The man in the mirror grew confused, his resistance dulled by chemistry.

Finally, after the last, major surgeries, the bandages came off. The man was gone. "Camille" stared back—a doll-like mask of huge, vacant eyes and a massive pout. Her body was a masterpiece of surgical extremes: enormous, gravity-defying breasts, a tiny waist, and flared hips, all encased in glossy pink.

She caught her reflection and, as if programmed, gave a perfect, bubbly wink.