This story goes with last week's art!
I was planning on it being a one-off, but it looks like it's going to need at least one more part.

This one is a second-person story with a transfem protagonist featuring Cyberpunk-style body horror, Forced Weight gain, and general hornyness.

Viewer discretion is advised!

Neutralizing the Netrunner

Part 1 - Alteration

Sensation returns in stages. The first thing you’re aware of is the metallic taste of blood. You flex your jaw, expecting pain, but feel nothing. Your body feels distant. Pain is miles away, and the ability to move is just out of reach. 

The medical smell of alcohol burns in your nostrils. Disinfectant evaporates off your skin and fills your lungs with each breath. The fumes fight against your flickering awareness, pulling you back under even as your brain flounders to keep you lucid.

Your head rolls back on your shoulders, hair falling back from your face. You hear metal groan as your weight shifts, and the sound echoes, fading slowly far away from you. Your eyes open, and your optics finally come online.

A pair of chains stretch above you toward a light source. It’s too bright to make out any detail, but too cold to be the sun. You're surrounded by steel on all sides. A narrow shaft of industrial metal. Smooth and clean like an operating room, but matte and dark, offering no reflection. 

You look down at yourself and your breath catches. Your arms and legs have been removed. Your expensive, chromed-up limbs are missing! You struggle, causing the chains holding you to rattle and shake, echoing down into the darkness of the shaft below.   Despite your thrashing, you barely sway. You’re strung up like a side of meat, but so securely and gently that you feel more like packaged sweets in a vending machine. 

“Oh, good. You’re finally awake.” 

The voice is feminine and tinny, being piped into the room via intercom. A screen flashes to life on a panel next to you. The red asterisk logo of Trauma Team appears on the screen and pulses with each syllable as the woman continues. 

“Your prosthesis had to be removed. You were experiencing the early stages of cyber-psychosis. You’re lucky that we caught it before you could cause any harm to yourself or your loved ones.” 

That makes you pause. You blink as you try to retrace your memory, but everything prior to waking up feels fuzzy and distant. Your doctor continues.

“It was touch and go there for a while, but you’re recovering nicely. Your heart rate is elevated but stable; pupillary response is normal. White count remains within acceptable levels. So far you're not rejecting any of your new implants.”

New implants? You look down at yourself again. Your body looks mostly the same as you remember it. Chrome runs down either side of your torso, cresting over each of your breasts and flanking your stomach before terminating at your thighs. What’s left of your human flesh is a central belt of brown softness, which breaks out into goosebumps when you notice the alterations that have been made to what remains of your human body. 

 Eyelets have been installed just above each of your clavicles, and hooks secure you to the twin chains that dangle from far above. A metal port has been installed over your navel. Its aperture is currently closed, but you can feel it penetrating you. You can’t tell how deep. Below that, a flat cage has been affixed over your penis. Your testicles hang below, but are similarly choked by a metal ring, securing the cage in place.

You open your mouth to protest, but no sound escapes. You look down the bridge of your nose and realize, to your shock, that your lower jaw has been muzzled. You try to yell again, but the squeaking of your chains remains the only sound, echoing into the dark.

“Forgive me. The cannula on your stomach was necessary for your treatment. It will be removed before you’re discharged from our facility. The other upgrades, however, are more permanent.” 

Mechanical devices begin descending from above and appearing from recesses in the walls. A mechanical arm lifts a flexible hose. It attaches one end to the panel next to you and the other to the port over your belly button. You feel it suction in place and then the tickle as the iris slides open. 

“Normally, cyber-psychosis requires complete cessation of all use of cyberware. But we hypothesize that the solution doesn’t require fewer implants, but rather more flesh.” 

A dull hum begins to rumble from deep below, as a thick, viscous substance slides through the corrugated tube and toward the panel in the wall. The lumpy, beige substance passes into the machinery and then comes out the other side, now stained a fluorescent pink as it begins to slide inexorably toward your stomach. 

“This paste is a superfood, designed to be administered to soldiers in time of war. It’s nutritious, calorie-dense, and can be introduced directly into your system without needing to be broken down first.”

The paste hits your stomach like a truck. It’s warm and heavy, and when it reaches your stomach, it fills you painfully full nearly instantly. Your torso twists and contorts in discomfort as more and more is pumped into you, but just as you fear that you might burst, you feel it drop, lower into your belly, making room for more.

“I’ve added a stimulant of my own devising. Just a kick to push your digestion into overdrive. It has the unfortunate side effect of weakening your metabolism in the long term, but the short-term effects are perfect for our purposes.”

Sweat forms on your brow as you twist and pull, but there’s no resisting what’s happening to you. You’re helpless to do anything but watch as your belly swells rounder and rounder with more and more slop being pumped into you by the moment. You’d like to believe that you’re merely stuffed to the brim, but the swell of your small breasts and the new jiggle in your behind say otherwise.

Your skin is slick with sweat, and the sheen of copper flesh nearly matches that of your chrome. You are breathing heavily through your muzzle, still unable to make a sound, as your heart pounds in your chest and your pupils dilate. Moment by moment, you grow bigger. By now, your caged cock is completely obscured by your impossibly round belly. It’s not just stuffed now. It’s proper fat, hanging lower by the second as more and more of the calorie-dense pudding fills any space made by your enhanced digestion. 

More machines begin prodding you, making adjustments in or around the empty sockets where your limbs used to attach. Adjustments are being made to your hardware in real time. You attempt to pull away, but you have no leverage. The machines are unbothered by your futile efforts and continue to alter you without regard for your consent. 

“Of course, even with the treatment, you’ll have to make lifestyle adjustments. The cyberware available to you will have limitations, and you’ll have to avoid any work that risks putting you in danger or in proximity to violence. I’ve taken the liberty of creating an update package to assist you with the transition.”

A panel slides open from the wall, and there's a sharp pop as something impacts with the side of your neck. A cord has lodged itself into your shard-port, just under your ear, and quickly begins uploading information to your brain.

Blood rushes to your head, and your eyes roll back as your mind is filled with subliminal imagery, too densely packaged for you to parse. The new data crowds your brain, pushing old memories and knowledge out of the way.

Differential calculus is erased, followed by a handful of programming languages. Your vocabulary is optimized, forgetting redundant words in the march to free up neurons for this new information. Childhood memories are simplified from pictures to concepts, and strong opinions on politics, technology, and economics are flattened into digestible soundbites. 

When the cord detaches, nothing intrinsic to your personality has actually been removed, but everything that you know has been compressed and folded into a simpler version that requires less thinking. The space once occupied by those thoughts is now filled with a dense mass of code, too tangled to make sense of with your diminished understanding of machine language.

You look down at your belly and realize just how fat it’s gotten while you were distracted. You’re nearly as wide as you are tall, though since you don’t have legs at the moment, that’s only around three feet in diameter. 

Your breasts have expanded enormously, hanging onto your belly and heaving with each labored breath. They wobble pendulously as you balk at your transformation. You would gasp, if your muzzle would allow such outbursts.

The hose in your navel retracts, taking the cannula with it, and a mechanical arm moves in to cauterize the incision. When it pulls away, you’re left with a belly button slightly deeper than average, but with no other signs of alteration.

A final attachment descends from above, passing in front of your face. Its shape is unmistakable: a long handle with a round silicone bulb on the end. You expect the toy to continue descending, past your burgeoning gut and down to your buried cock, but it stops short. It switches on, humming audibly, and then makes contact with your exposed tummy flesh. 

You stare at the dome of your belly, confused and enthralled, as the vibrator presses into the soft surface. It feels good. It feels very good. Suddenly your hips buck, and you feel an intense pressure behind your caged cock. Your belly bounces and wobbles with the sudden movement, intensifying the pleasure. You feel like you should have reached climax already. Why can’t you find release?

A holographic number “1” appears in the corner of your vision. You cease your writhing for a moment, confused. The vibrator doesn’t let up. It sinks lower toward your navel, and the pleasure builds. It’s as erotic as it is terrifying. You’re covered in rippling flab that didn’t exist a minute ago. Every vibration, every jiggle, and every brush of cool air over the dew-soaked surface forces you to acknowledge your new largeness. It should bother you. On some level it still does, but on another…

The holographic number updates to “2” and the vibrations stop. You have a moment of peace and near lucidity before something unstoppable builds in your lower abdomen and you lurch forward, back arching, fat-laden muscles flexing in your flabby back. Cum shoots from the cage's central vent, once and then again. The numbers in your vision count down to zero and then disappear. Two translucent trails line the far wall and drip down, leaving glistening trails behind them. 

“An excellent first showing. Your new programming is already taking effect. Try to discover more about how you work over the next few days. Remember, this is a scientific endeavor, so don’t be afraid to explore.”

A loud rumble sounds as a winch activates above you, and the chains suspending you in the shaft begin pulling you upward, toward the light. Your optics shut off and everything goes dark.