You're ushered into one of Charmwarp's many altering establishments for your appointment, and your clothes are removed carefully by the very nice attendants. The vinyl-clad lizardine creatures fawn over you, first giving you a slow massage to bring the blood to the surface, lathering your skin and with a slick, slimy lubricrant, leaving no inch uncovered.
Rebus lounges quietly throughout the pampering massage, his flesh pliable to their loving fingers as he stretches out on the table. Everything is most eminently satisfactory, enough to leave him quite pleasantly erect. (Assume ferret with actual genitals and body as opposed to being a tentacle-puppet.)
The attendants are carful and pay close attention to every part of you, and by the time they're done, every single millimetre of you is lavishly coated with a thick lubricating slime, and at least some of that is your own semen from the two orgasms they've expertly brought you to. You're directed to lay on a bed for a machine that looks like an MRI in cheery, Seuss colours, many little vicious robotic arms surrounding the middle hole.
Rebus lies down on the bed with a dreamy, delighted expression, still richly suggestible from the giddy afterglow of orgasm. With great delight he feels himself taken in to the belly of the device, his wrists and ankles so affectionately strapped down for his erotic pleasure and his safety.
The attendants wait nearby, in their masked faces and perfect costumes. The first thing you're pumped with is painblockers, enough to keep even agony away. A mind euphoriant to dissolve the psychological effects, too. With upwarpian precision, the straps tighten and the scalpels slide out, beginning to cut neatly into and lovingly vivisect your form, drawing and quartering you right up the middle. A tube is neatly pressed into your nose and down your throat, allowing pure oxygen to flow while a phallic gag feeds you nutrients and good things. Your genitals are removed almost instantly, excised neatly and swept away, replaced with a bubblegum pink artificial sex, with a cherry red clitoris two inches long. Your thighs and legs are slit open, muscles removed and replaced with sleeker, more effeminate artificial tendons. Blood flows, but is easily replaced by the machines.
Rebus holds blissfully still, arching his head back to take that probe in to his throat, eyes sliding shut as he moans in ecstasy. Slowly, giddily, he begins to slide away in to a trance, his body somehow separate from him in an ecstatic, spiritual way.
The attendants stand by and watch as you're taken apart and put back together again in a much more suitable way. The machine continues to dissect you, removing virtually all of your internal organs, sawing away most of your ribs. Artificial replacements are tucked into place. Your heart quits for a moment before being taken up by an artificial heart...which whirrs in a constant stream of circulation, rather than the organic lub-dub. Your digestive tract is replaced by another completely artificial destantiator, which'll simply take apart anything you eat. Your tailhole is refitted with a second bubble-gum pink lining, to replace your excised colon and everything. Tendons are added, to hold you up. More tendons are replaced in your arms and thighs, your hips made wider and more hour-glass shaped. Implants are shoved into place, slid neatly beneath the skin, and then you're sealed back up again down the front, scarlessly. The enormous teats are capped by new artificial nipples, with little milk secreters and dialable milk. They're EE cup, just enough to lend an air of bimboness, without being overly unposable and upsetting your balance and stride.
Rebus smiles in bliss, now entirely out of his mind on euphorics and pain killers, his flesh turned entirely to a svelte and curvaceous bimbo doll, as artificial as a silicone dildo. Her pussy quivers, a continuous subtle vibration in cunt and ass inviting sudden, firm intrusion of cock. All that remains to be altered are her feet, her hands, her face, and her mind.
Instead of trying to repair your old face, it's simply removed and replaced with a china-doll representation of the same, a perfectly white smiling face that extends from your forehead to your chin and all the way back to your ears. It's aways smiling, a gentle, inviting, fuck me now smile, with bright blue eyes, perfect blush on the cheeks, 255-red lips. Your hair is peeled away from your skull, and a synthetic replacement, fine strands of fibre-optic plastic, are drawn into place and styled just so. Adjustable depending on the user. Your neck is woven with a fine mesh to support the posture collar that will come shortly, when you're clothed.
Rebus's face can no longer be moved, it's a mask now, but it's her mask, and it's the face she wants to want to have. She squirms ever so subtly, the artificial tendons in her body just now starting to activate and hook up with her nervous system.
The machine hooks up some of the nervous connections in your mouth. Which has two settings; sucking, and smiling. Speaking is no longer something you may participate in. Then the machine begins work on your hands and feet, removing most of the bones and replacing them with durable tendons and composite replacements. Your hands take on the perfect, demure slenderness that befits a female, palms and fingers perfectly soft for giving handjobs.
Rebus's fingers curl and caress over the supple skin of her palms, feeling the inherent, teflon-esque lubrication there, preventing her from being much good for anything BESIDES hand jobs.
Your feet are broken and remade, tendons grafted into place, bones removed. Your feet feel floppy and weak now, like a boneless chicken, but then carbon diamond reinforcements are slid into place, moulding your feet into a ballet-dancer-tiptoe position. Then you're lifted on antigravity boosters, and spun gently in midair over the table. First comes a terriffic, elaborate corset that winds it's way in a corkscrew around your middle, turning you into an artist's textbook example of an hourglass female, cupping and presenting your breasts without being obtrusive. The corset is made out of a woven red silk.
This silk spirals around you in a tight weave, so thin and tight it looks like merely horizontal stitching on a conventional piece of fabric. In fact, it's one miles-long piece of silk that's been spiralled around you countless times.
The rest of your so-called clothing is a thin translucent silk base, coated and inlaid with countless rare earths and jewels beneath a durable transparent coating, simply pressed onto your front and rear. Effectively, your modesty is protected by a smooth, seamless ocean of coordinated sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and other precious jewels, arranged in nebulaeic patterns. Two pieces are pressed onto you, one in back and one in front, neither attaching to the other. In fact, it's like they static-cling on or use magnets to seat themselves in place, because there's no other way for it to stay on.
Rebus's velvet-smooth hands slide down the elegant bejeweled bodysuit, her eyes wide and doe-like in their beauty. Quietly her fingertips dip down and cup in to her sex, spreading it softly open, beginning to wet.
Rebus stretches out, balanced precariously on a single toe-tip, antigrav supporting the rest of her as she glittery with an empty, gleaming smile, all beauty, no substance needed or desired.
Twin obsidian carbon diamond collars at your collarbone and the top of your neck linked transparently, by a resistive force away from each other, holding your neck out at the proper position, and resisting anything to the contrary by some arcane force. Pure ruby boots are slid onto you to match the red underlay of your corset, something which, like the boots, will never leave your body again. They're tucked into place, ballet-dancer style and coming to just under the knee, letting you walk with a refined, hipswaying stride. Your nails are removed and capped with artificial ones, bubble-gum pink. Gloves are hardly neccessary, but fine silk-mesh bracers are slid onto your arms, wrist to elbow. The dress stops right at your breasts, the mathematically and aesthetically perfect curves hiding your nippled by mere picometres, your shoulders bare except for the lower collar at the base of your neck. At the hem, the dress stops just below the knees. Bakc and front are seperated by a short, teasing expanse of flesh, defining thigh, rump, side and the outside curve of the breasts, and then resuming, linkless.
Rebus stands firmly in position, staring blankly ahead, her braced hands settling everything just so in to position, quite delighted at the impending altertations to mind and body that are surely approaching. Quietly she drops to a squat, feeling how the position makes the mysteriously adhering dress snug her all the tighter.
Here comes the Imprint.
Then you're shown a mirror, stood up in just such a position, and fresh drugs are injected into the back of your head, flowing freely. Your memory vacates and imprints with this single image before you; you, perfect. And from this second forth, you are no longer quite perfect. You will always be fawning over yourself, adding puffs of transparent blush or lipstick to artificial lips, mascara to perfect eyelashes that blink only deliberately, painting painted nails. Unobtrusively, but it is your only obsession. For now. Thick phallic dildos are tucked under the front and back of your dress...both of which seem to be able to pull away like static velcro, only to reseat themselves perfectly if left back, and three cocks fill your holes starting to fuck you. Two more, one in each hand. More drugs, and you're imprinted just like this. This is perfection. Five cocks, all capabilities occupied. Everything after this point must be a return to this ideal.