The Bunny Protocol - Andi Journal (TG), Preview (Patreon)

Preview of a Full Story with 51 pics; 8000 words

Erotic Transformation Thriller, Psychological Body Horror, Selfie Archive Fiction, Forced Bimbofication, Gym Bimbo Transformation, Control and Identity Los

Adrian went to Mara Vale because pain made him obedient before fear ever could. Her private studio promised posture correction, glute rehab, and relief from the backache that had stolen his twenties. At first, every humiliating drill worked. Then came the photos, the contract, the blackmail, and the new name waiting inside him: Andi. Month by month, Mara reshaped his body, habits, hunger, and reflection until resistance became another pose to train out. This is his archive: same phone, new shell, a descent into bimbohood recorded one selfie, one craving, one surrender at a time, for Mara’s approval completely.

Intro:

I chose Mara because pain had made me desperate. My lower back hurt every morning, every meeting, every train ride home. I was twenty-five and already moving like I was afraid of my own spine. Mara Vale looked severe on her website: black gymwear, private studio, corrective movement, testimonials from people who said she rebuilt them. I wanted that word to mean rehab. I wanted her to fix my hips, my glutes, my posture, my weak core, the dull ache that made me feel pathetic. When she answered my intake email herself, she wrote, Your pain pattern is trainable. I thought that meant freedom. I did not know Mara looked at bodies the way other people look at unfinished rooms. I did not know she had a shape in mind before I ever walked through her door.

SELFIE_001 — Intake Day

I look so normal here it almost hurts. Gray shirt, black shorts, dead eyes, bad posture, bare phone, no idea what is about to happen. Mara made me take the selfie before she touched me. She said bodies lie less than memory. I remember thinking she was dramatic, but I was too nervous to argue. My back was already tight from standing. My hips felt locked, my shoulders pulled up near my ears, my stomach held like I was bracing for impact. Mara watched me in the mirror, not with pity, but with ownership. She named every weakness: asleep glutes, collapsed ribs, unstable pelvis, lazy core. It was humiliating, but it also felt intimate, like she saw through my clothes into the machinery underneath. I wanted her to fix me. That was the first permission I gave her.

SELFIE_014 — First Shake

The first shake was pink, thick, sweet, and embarrassing. I told Mara the color was ridiculous. She said recovery should be memorable. I laughed because I thought she was joking. She was not. My body was shaking from glute activation drills so basic they made me feel weak: bridges, clamshells, holds, pelvic tilts. Nothing looked impressive, but something deep in my hips woke up, hot and burning, and my lower back went quiet for the first time in months. That scared me. Mara stood behind me in the mirror, tall and black-clad, while I held the shaker with both hands like a reward I had not earned. She told me to drink slowly and notice how relief felt. I did. Vanilla, sweat, pain fading, her eyes on me. My body learned its first association.

SELFIE_033 — Office Posture Check

I took this alone in the office restroom because I needed proof that the pain was actually changing. I stood sideways like Mara taught me: ribs down, pelvis tucked, shoulders low, weight through my heels. I could feel the difference. Sitting through a meeting did not make my back seize. Walking to the copier did not send that pinch up my spine. I should have been happy. I was, partly. But I had started hearing Mara’s voice in my head when I moved. Softer. Lower. Hips under you. Waist controlled. She replied to the photo with, Better. Still stiff through the waist. Not “good job.” Not “glad you feel better.” Just another correction. I hated that I immediately wanted to fix it. I had hired a trainer, but my body was already waiting for her approval.

SELFIE_041 — Waist Support Fitting

Mara called it posture support. She did not call it a waist cincher until later, when the word had already stopped shocking me. The first time she wrapped it around me, I felt ridiculous and exposed, shirt lifted, stomach pale under the locker room lights. Then she tightened it. The pressure stole my breath and forced my spine straight. My back relaxed almost instantly, which made the humiliation harder to reject. Her hands were calm at my waist, firm and clinical, but the contact made my skin prickle. She told me my body needed boundaries before it could learn alignment. I repeated that in my head while she hooked me tighter. Boundaries. Alignment. Rehab. Anything except the truth: I liked the relief, and because I liked the relief, she could make the pressure normal. The first cage worked because it helped.

SELFIE_052 — Leg Day

Leg day destroyed me. Glute bridges, hip thrusts, abductions, step-ups, frog pumps until my ass felt swollen and hot and useless. Mara kept saying my back pain came from my hips refusing to work. She made my ass work instead. I hated how crude that sounded in my head, but the body does not care about dignity. My lower back stopped screaming because my glutes started burning. I sat on the floor with my legs spread, too exhausted to close them, sweat cooling under my shirt. In the mirror behind me, Cass moved through her set in mint leggings, round and effortless, laughing like this was fun. I felt ugly, weak, male in the clumsiest possible way. Mara looked at me and said, “Development has started.” Not recovery. Development. I should have noticed the difference. My ass noticed first.

SELFIE_060 — Vacuum Drill

The stomach vacuum drills made me feel hollow. Mara tightened the cincher, placed two fingers below my ribs, and told me to breathe smaller. Smaller breath, smaller waist, softer shoulders, hips under me. I watched my torso narrow in the mirror and felt my back relax into the pressure. It was terrifying how well it worked. She said my waist had to learn where it belonged. I laughed nervously, but she did not. The cincher turned every breath into obedience. I could not slump. I could not forget my middle. I could not move without feeling her correction wrapped around me. My body was becoming quieter in the places that hurt and louder in places I had never thought about. That was the trick. Pain relief made me grateful for the first thing that started changing my shape.

SELFIE_078 — Pants

The elevator mirror caught what I was trying not to see. My work trousers were loose at the waist and tight across my thighs and ass. I stared like the fabric had betrayed me. Mara’s program was supposed to make me stronger, leaner, pain-free. It was doing that. My face was thinner, my shoulders less tense, my stomach flatter, my back almost normal. But below the waist, everything was going the other direction. My thighs filled the trousers. My ass pushed the seams. A woman behind me glanced down, looked away, then smiled politely like she had noticed something private. I felt heat crawl up my neck. The worst part was not shame. It was awareness. I could feel my hips inside the pants for the rest of the day. Every step reminded me that Mara was not just fixing pain. She was moving me.

SELFIE_096 — First Leggings

Mara said loose shorts let me lie. Leggings would show compensation. I knew she was right, and I hated her for it. The black fabric exposed everything: waist smaller, thighs fuller, ass rounder, shoulders softer, hair brushing my ears. I looked less like a man getting fit and more like something unfinished between categories. She stood behind me with her arms crossed, waiting for me to see it. My back felt amazing that day. No ache, no pinch, no stiffness. The leggings made my hips move cleanly. The cincher kept my core tight. Every practical benefit came wrapped in humiliation. Mara said, “Your body is finally distributing work correctly.” I wanted to say it looked wrong. But the words stuck because it did not feel wrong. It felt efficient, smooth, strangely sensual. My body liked the correction before my mind allowed it.

SELFIE_105 — Office Cincher

Wearing the cincher at work felt insane until it started helping. Then it felt worse. I tucked my shirt over it in the restroom, flattening the fabric, checking whether anyone could see the hooks through cotton. My back stayed supported through meetings. My waist stayed pulled in. I moved carefully, knees softer, steps shorter, because the pressure punished stiffness. When a coworker walked in behind me, I panicked like I had been caught naked. She only smiled, but I saw her eyes flick to my waist, then my trousers. She knew something was different, even if she did not know what. Mara made me send proof by lunch. Her reply was simple: Good. Tomorrow too. The contract had not happened yet, but the pattern had. She requested, I obeyed, my body improved, and another private thing became routine.

SELFIE_119 — Bunny Milk

The new formula tasted too good. That bothered me more than the name. Bunny Milk. I hated saying it, hated seeing the pink shaker in my kitchen, hated that my body craved it after training. Mara said it supported recovery, sleep, glute growth, inflammation, hormonal balance. She always gave enough science to make refusal feel childish. My thighs ached. My ass felt heavy from the pump. My waist felt empty after taking the cincher off, like my body missed being held. I sat under the kitchen lights with messy hair and tired eyes, drinking something sweet and creamy that felt like comfort and conditioning at the same time. I told myself it was just a supplement. But my mouth liked it. My body liked it. And somewhere under the exhaustion, I liked being told exactly what to consume to become whatever she was building.

SELFIE_128 — Office Shaker

The pink shaker on my desk looked obscene because it did not belong to Adrian’s world. It belonged to Mara’s studio, to sweat, mirrors, glute bands, cinchers, her voice saying again. Now it sat beside spreadsheets and quarterly reports. Nina saw it and asked if I was doing a fitness challenge. I said it was for my back. That was still true, technically. My back was better. My posture was better. My body was becoming something else. She said I looked healthier, then glanced at my hair, my face, maybe the way my thighs pressed into the chair. Her smile was kind, almost curious. I wanted her to laugh so I could hate her. Instead, her approval slid under my skin. Mara’s reply was worse: Public consistency matters. Public. She had already moved the program out of the studio. I was becoming visible.

SELFIE_136 — Stair Climber Proof

Thirty minutes on the stair climber made my ass feel like it was pulsing with its own heartbeat. Mara watched from behind me, silent except when my posture slipped. Ribs down. Hips back. Do not grip so hard. Let the glutes carry you. The sweat was everywhere, and my body felt split in two: upper half thinning, lower half swelling with heat and effort. My chest looked flatter, shoulders narrower, face sharper. My thighs looked stronger every week. My ass pressed against the compression shorts like it wanted attention. I hated noticing that. I hated more that the burn was starting to feel good after the first wave of pain. The stair climber made my back feel loose and my hips feel open, almost hungry. Mara said endurance teaches the body what it is for. I did not ask what she thought mine was for.

SELFIE_139 — Headphone Mantra

The headphones changed everything because Mara’s voice stopped needing Mara’s body. She recorded cues for breathing, posture, walking, glute engagement. Soft knees. Loose hips. Waist held. Ass leads. At first I laughed at that last line. Then I used it. Then I needed it. The audio made my movement smoother, slower, less stiff. My back stayed relaxed when I let my hips move first. I sat on the mat afterward with the headphones still on, feeling her voice inside my skull like a second pulse. Cass stretched behind me in mint leggings, smiling like there was nothing strange about a grown man learning to move from his ass. My lips shone with clear gloss. My nails were clean. My hair was too long. I looked calm in the photo, but I was scared because the mantra worked even when I resisted it.

SELFIE_144 — Private Sway Drill

The private hallway was supposed to be empty. Mara had given me the “awareness tool” after mobility work and told me to walk until my hips stopped fighting. I told myself I was checking form, but I was really checking what it did to me: the plug, the tight leggings, the pressure inside, the way every step made my ass feel awake and humiliatingly present. I turned sideways for the mirror, phone raised, hip pushed back too far, hand sliding down my thigh like I had seen Cass pose. Then I saw Mara behind me. She had been watching the whole time.

My face went blank with panic. I had not been resisting. I had been posing.

Mara stepped closer, calm and black-clad, and said, “So you found the line by yourself.”

That was worse than being punished. That sounded like approval.

SELFIE_160 — The Contract

This is the day “no” became decorative. Mara laid out the contract in her glass office: training, nutrition, grooming, medical compliance, image documentation, social media management, sexual conditioning. I laughed at that section because panic needed somewhere to go. She opened the folder. Every selfie. Every cropped body check. Screenshots. Office proof. Private photos I had sent when I thought this was still rehab. She did not yell. She did not threaten dramatically. She just explained consequences in a calm voice until my hands went cold. Then she said Adrian was the injured version, the resistant version. Andi was the corrected one. I hated the name instantly because something in me heard it. I signed because she owned the archive, the pain relief, the secret shape my body was becoming. Mara smiled and said, “Good girl.” I got hard from terror. That was the real signature.

SELFIE_176 — Nose Injury

I still do not know if the injury was an accident. Mara said my footwork failed. Dr. Sable arrived too quickly. He touched my face with gloved fingers and talked about swelling, fracture risk, asymmetry, correction options. Correction. That word had become a door they could push anything through. My nose hurt. My eyes watered. My lips were shiny because Mara had pressed balm onto them before the picture, like even injury needed presentation. The pale-pink case appeared that day too. She said my old phone looked unfinished. Dr. Sable said if we fixed the nose now, he could make it cleaner, smaller, more harmonious. Mara said Barbie nose like she was naming destiny. I should have been furious. Instead I stared at my reflection, blood on the towel, her behind me, him beside her, and realized they were already discussing my face as a shared project.

SELFIE_188 — Pink Set

The pink leggings made me understand how much of me she had already won. Nose taped, hoodie cropped, ass round and high, thighs thick, waist narrow. I looked ridiculous and pretty and could not decide which frightened me more. Mara positioned me in the locker room mirror: one hip back, one knee soft, shoulders relaxed, phone higher. “Pretty,” she said. Then she made me repeat it. My throat tightened around the word. I whispered it first. She made me say it again. Pretty. The sound went through me like shame with a pulse. My taped nose made my face vulnerable, my gloss caught the lights, and the pink fabric hugged the body her training had built from my pain. I did not feel masculine in that mirror. I did not feel female either. I felt captured halfway through a sentence Mara already knew how to finish.

SELFIE_205 — Barbie Nose Recovery

The recovery notes were taped to my bathroom mirror in Mara’s handwriting. No skipping shakes. No sleeping wrong. No touching the nose. No mirrors for too long, except of course the selfie she demanded. The swelling had gone down enough that I could see the shape underneath: smaller, lifted, soft in a way my old face had never been. Barbie nose was not subtle. It made my lips look fuller, my eyes wider, my whole face easier to feminize. I pulled the hoodie up around my neck like hiding the rest of me could make the face less real. Bunny Milk sat by the sink with its stupid rabbit logo. I kept turning my head, searching for Adrian’s profile. The old line was gone. I hated how cute the new one was. Cute is dangerous because people forgive cute things. Mara knew that before I did.

SELFIE_211 — Smooth Front Test

Mara said the front was ruining the line. She said it like she was correcting posture, not handing me underwear that made my stomach twist. The gaff looked small, soft, almost harmless in the Vellum box, but once it was on and the pastel leggings slid over it, the mirror changed. Everything was smooth. Too smooth. My waist looked smaller, my hips rounder, my ass more deliberate, and the front of me looked flat in a way that felt more exposing than hiding. Almost feminine. Almost like a camel toe if I stared too long, which made my face burn because the shape worked. Mara stood behind me, calm and satisfied, watching me notice. I wanted to say it was humiliating. It was. But it also made the leggings look right. And that was the part that scared me most: Andi looked cleaner without Adrian showing.

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