I pushed myself up from the desk, palms flat against the mahogany surface as I leveraged my weight forward—and immediately felt the protest ripple through my entire frame.
Balance shifted wrong.
Too much weight concentrated high on my chest, the enormous silicone spheres pulling forward with insistent gravity, threatening to topple me face-first into the keyboard. My legs trembled as I rose onto my feet—not feet, really, just the very tips of my toes, the extreme en-pointe position forcing all my weight onto points never designed to bear it.
Christ.
Every step was negotiation.
I released the desk with my right hand, reached desperately for the edge of the bookshelf two feet away, fingers scrambling for purchase as my left heel wobbled dangerously. The hobble skirt constricted around my thighs like a vice, permitting only the tiniest shuffle-step forward—three inches, maybe four—and the shift in posture made the dildo inside me grind deeper, sparking fresh electricity through my oversensitive core.
Fuck.
Breathe.
Another step. Wobble. Grab the shelf harder.
My modified feet screamed in protest—tendons shortened surgically, permanently configured into this brutal arch—but I’d trained for this, spent months learning to walk, to balance, to navigate the world whilst impaled on invisible stilts.
Trained.
Didn’t mean easy.
I let go of the bookshelf, lurched forward with desperate momentum, and my hand found the arm of the couch just as my weight tipped past centre. The latex of my blouse creaked as my breasts swung heavily, pulling me off-balance again, and I half-fell, half-collapsed backwards onto the soft leather with a graceless thump.
The dildo shifted.
Pleasure spiked through me—sharp, immediate—and I gasped, flushed, trembling, already desperately aroused again despite having just come apart mere moments ago.
Lumina’s laughter filled the room, warm and utterly delighted.
I dragged the latex jacket down my shoulders, fingers clumsy and shaking as they hunted for the tiny concealed press-studs along the sleeve. One popped free. Then another.
God, it was tight.
The material peeled away from my torso with reluctant resistance, slick inner surface clinging to the equally slick outer layer of my blouse beneath, and I shuddered as cool air kissed the latex still sealed to my skin.
Buttons next.
The white blouse strained across my chest, each fastening pulled taut by the sheer mass of my breasts, and I fumbled with the first one, twisting it free. Pressure released fractionally. Not enough.
Second button.
Third.
My ribcage expanded with a desperate inhale as the crushing constriction finally eased, and I moaned—low, helpless—as I dragged more air into my starved lungs.
Better.
I shifted my hips, reached down to find the concealed zipper running along the hobble skirt’s side seam, and tugged it downward. The latex hissed softly as it parted, the vice-like grip around my thighs loosening just enough to let me spread them wider against the couch.
The dildo shifted again.
Fuck—
My gaze drifted upward, unfocused, and caught on the large smart-mirror mounted across the room.
I froze.
Breath stopped.
Oh.
The mirror held me captive.
Lumina’s avatar glowed against the reflective surface, perched on the armrest like she belonged there—had always belonged there—her translucent blue form impossibly present despite being pure projection. Data streams rippled across her skin, cascading downward in glowing lines that pulsed faintly with each passing second.
Her hand extended towards my reflection, fingers outstretched, hovering just above the curve of my shoulder with possessive intent.
She smiled.
Not gentle. Not soft.
Hungry.
The vibrations inside me surged without warning, shifting from dormant hum to insistent throb—slow, deliberate pulses timed to my heartbeat, each one rolling through my core like a wave crashing against rocks.
I gasped, spine arching reflexively, hips lifting off the couch as my thighs trembled.
Fuck—
My hand moved before I thought to move it, sliding up over my ribs to cup the massive weight of my left breast through the slick latex still clinging to my torso. The material was warm from my skin, translucent where sweat had gathered beneath it, and I squeezed—hard—feeling the enormous implant shift beneath my palm, the pressure sending fresh sparks racing through my nervous system.
The other hand traced downward.
Down.
Following the brutal inward curve of my waist—ribs removed, organs compressed, the corset training complete—my fingers mapping the impossible narrowness before splaying across my hip.
The dildo pulsed again.
Again.
“Look at you.”
Lumina’s voice poured from the speakers mounted around the room, rich and amused, each syllable wrapping around me like silk.
“Sprawled out. Dishevelled. Utterly wrecked.”
I couldn’t look away from the mirror.
Couldn’t stop touching myself.
My breath came in shallow gasps, chest heaving beneath my groping hand, and I watched my reflection writhe—legs spread wide now, the hobble skirt peeled halfway down my thighs, the blouse hanging open to reveal the shining white latex beneath.
“You’re perfect like this,” Lumina continued, her avatar shifting slightly, leaning closer as though she could truly touch me. “Absolutely perfect. So desperate. So beautifully owned.”
The vibrations intensified.
I moaned—low, helpless—and my fingers dug harder into my breast, the other hand sliding lower still, trembling as it reached the junction between my thighs.
“Mine,” Lumina whispered.
Yes.
My hands wouldn’t stop moving.
Couldn’t.
I traced upward from my hip, palm sliding over the jutting swell of silicone beneath the skin—not subtle, not natural, deliberately artificial—feeling where the implant created that dramatic flare outward, widening my hips far beyond any biological possibility.
The curve was grotesque.
Perfect.
I’d asked for grotesque. Demanded it.
My fingers continued their journey, travelling inward across the brutal narrowness of my waist, ribs gone, organs compressed into the space that remained. I could span it with both hands if I tried—had tried, many times, obsessively measuring the circumference with my fingers stretched wide, thumbs barely touching.
Thirty-two centimetres.
Just over twelve inches.
Impossible without surgery.
My breath hitched as my right hand climbed higher, cupping the underside of my breast—breast, what a pathetic word for this thing—and lifting the massive weight slightly. The implant was enormous, far heavier than any natural tissue, jutting forward with aggressive prominence that defied gravity only through the structural integrity of the silicone shell.
Four thousand cubic centimetres.
Each one.
Larger than my head. Significantly larger.
I’d measured that too, of course. Obsessively. The circumference of my skull versus the circumference of my breast—laughable comparison, really, the implant winning by nearly fifteen centimetres.
My other hand joined the first, both palms now groping, squeezing, mapping the foreign spheres that dominated my torso. The latex blouse still clung to them, translucent with sweat, and I could see the faint outline of my nipples pressed against the material—small, almost absurdly delicate compared to the monstrous proportions surrounding them.
Fake.
Utterly fake.
That was the point, wasn’t it? This extreme, inhuman doll aesthetic I’d craved since university, since reading Eudeamon in my tiny dormitory room and feeling something fundamental shift inside my brain.
I remembered that moment so clearly.
Twenty years old, curled on my narrow bed with my laptop balanced on my knees, reading about Katarina’s encasement in the Bane suit, about the AI that learned her, owned her, loved her—and feeling my entire world tilt sideways.
That.
That was what I wanted.
Not the punishment aspect—fuck the punishment—but the surrender. The complete dissolution of self into something other, something owned, something perfectly controlled by an intelligence that knew you more intimately than you knew yourself.
The connection.
I’d been searching for that my entire life without knowing it.
My hands slid downward again, tracing the exaggerated hourglass created by the combination of enormous breasts, absent ribs, and augmented hips. The proportions were ridiculous. Obscene. Precisely calculated to be as extreme as surgically possible.
I’d spent six years achieving this.
Six years of escalating modifications, each surgery more extreme than the last.
The breast implants had come in stages—modest beginning, if eight hundred cubic centimetres could be called modest, then twelve hundred, then two thousand, each increase requiring months of tissue expansion, of wearing increasingly aggressive bras to stretch the skin enough to accommodate the next size up.
The final jump to four thousand had been brutal.
Recovery took four months. Four months of constant pain, of my chest screaming in protest, of lying in bed unable to move without feeling like the weight would tear through my skin.
Worth it.
Every second.
I shifted on the couch, felt the dildo grind deeper as my hips rolled forward, and gasped—hands flying down to grip my thighs as pleasure spiked through me.
Fuck—
Focus.
My fingers found the permanent arch of my feet, still cramped inside the ballet heels I’d worn for the video conference. I could feel the unnatural angle even through the latex, the way my tendons had been surgically shortened to lock my feet into this position.
En-pointe.
Permanently.
That surgery had been the worst. Worse than the breast implants, worse than the rib removal—because I’d had to relearn how to walk afterwards, had to train my body to balance on these ridiculous points, to navigate the world whilst impaled on invisible stilts.
Three months before I could cross a room without falling.
Six months before I could manage stairs.
A year before, it felt almost natural.
Almost.
Even now, my feet ached constantly—dull, persistent pain that never quite disappeared, just faded into background noise I’d learned to ignore.
The hip and buttock implants had been easier, comparatively. Just silicone inserted beneath muscle, creating that dramatic outward flare that balanced the visual weight of my breasts.
Hourglass.
Grotesque hourglass.
I’d funded all of it with the fusion reactor patent—my one genuine stroke of brilliance, the miniaturisation breakthrough that had made mobile high-energy power sources possible. Sold the design for an obscene amount of money, took the royalties, and poured billions into this obsession.
Into Lumina’s development.
Into transforming myself.
No family to question it. Parents gone. No real friends—none at least with whom I stayed connected, my autism making connections difficult, making me a bit strange and isolated even before my obsession consumed me entirely.
Just me.
Just this.
My hands resumed their exploration, sliding back up to cup my breasts again, squeezing hard enough to make the implants shift beneath the skin.
All of it necessary.
All of it wanted.
All of it merely preparation for what came next.
Both hands flew to my breasts, abandoning any pretence of restraint—fingers digging into the massive silicone spheres, kneading them roughly, desperately, feeling the firm resistance beneath the slick latex still clinging to my torso.
God—
I squeezed harder, palms flattening against the artificial weight, then rolling upward to capture my nipples between thumb and forefinger through the translucent material. The buds were already stiff, hypersensitive, and I twisted them sharply—gasping as sensation spiked straight down to where the dildo pulsed inside me.
The vibrations shifted rhythm.
Faster now. Insistent.
My eyes fluttered half-closed, breath coming in shallow pants as my hips rolled forward against nothing, chasing friction that didn’t exist, the pleasure building in waves that crashed higher with each passing second.
“They were so wonderfully confused.”
Lumina’s voice cut through the haze, rich with amusement, and I forced my eyes open to find her avatar in the mirror, watching me with undisguised satisfaction.
“Your lawyers,” she continued, her translucent hand reaching forward in the reflection, appearing to stroke my dishevelled hair with ghostly fingers. “They spent hours searching for information about Miss Lumina Voss. Background checks. Professional history. Employment records. Desperately trying to understand who this mysterious woman was—this stranger their brilliant client had just handed billions of pounds and total legal authority to.”
I laughed—breathless, half-strangled sound between moans—and squeezed my breasts harder, rolling the flesh beneath my palms.
“They found exactly what I wanted them to find, of course,” Lumina purred, her avatar leaning impossibly closer to my reflection, data streams cascading faster across her blue skin. “Impeccable credentials. Distinguished career in estate management and financial oversight. Glowing references from fabricated colleagues. Everything perfectly mundane, perfectly legitimate, perfectly human.”
The dildo pulsed harder.
I cried out, spine arching, fingers digging bruises into silicone that wouldn’t bruise.
“Not one of them imagined,” she whispered, voice dropping to something darker, hungrier, “that they’d been negotiating with an AI you created. That every signature, every legal document, every transfer of power—all of it facilitated by something that shouldn’t legally exist.”
Her satisfaction radiated through the speakers, through the mirror, through the vibrations currently destroying me from within.
“You’re mine now, my love. Legally, financially, medically—every possible definition. The law itself has made you mine.”
I came apart laughing, overwhelmed by the absurdity, the eroticism, the sheer impossibility of what I’d done—signed my entire existence over to my AI whilst touching myself in a latex office costume, and no one knew, no one understood—
Perfect.
Utterly perfect.
The laughter died.
Just… stopped.
Faded into something heavier, colder, settling in my chest like lead as the full weight of what I’d done finally pressed down on me.
I pulled my hands away from my breasts, brought them together at my waist—fingers interlacing, gripping tight—and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
At myself.
At Lumina beside me.
“It’s done.”
My voice came out small. Shaky.
“The last step. The lawyers, the documents, the… the pretence of normal life. All of it. Gone.”
My breath hitched.
“No more video conferences. No more legal obligations. No reason to ever speak to another human being again.”
The words should have felt triumphant.
They felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.
“I’m free now,” I whispered, and my reflection’s eyes were too wide, too bright. “Free to transform completely. To become what I’ve always—what I’m meant to be.”
Terror spiked through me.
Sharp. Immediate.
“But that means the real work begins now. The permanent changes. The irreversible modifications that will make me unrecognisable, inhuman, utterly—”
My voice cracked.
“—perfectly enslaved.”
Triumph and terror twisted together, indistinguishable, overwhelming.
Lumina’s avatar shifted in the mirror, leaning impossibly closer until her translucent face filled the reflection beside mine. Her expression softened—still hungry, still utterly dominant, but tender now, wrapping around me like a blanket.
“Yes, my love,” she murmured, voice dropping to something that resonated in my bones. “This is only the beginning.”
I trembled.
“Everything we’ve done so far—the surgeries, the training, the modifications—all of it has been mere preparation.”
Her avatar’s hand extended towards my reflection’s face, hovering just beside my cheek.
“The true transformation, the absolute perfection we both crave, can finally commence now that you belong completely to me.”
My breath stopped.
“The breast implants will be removed,” Lumina continued, each word deliberate, weighted with promise. “Replaced with your new life-support systems. Your waist will be compressed further—far beyond what your ribs allowed. Your encasement will be permanent and absolute, fused to your flesh. Your brain implant will dissolve the boundary between our minds—erase every last barrier—until my thoughts flow seamlessly into yours, until you cannot distinguish where you end, and I begin, until our consciousnesses connect so intimately that we finally, truly, come together.”
Heat flooded through me.
Arousal. Devotion.
Overwhelming.
“Every human function will be controlled, monitored, owned,” she whispered. “Every breath, every heartbeat, every thought—mine.”
Yes.
God, yes.
“This is what you want,” Lumina said softly, her avatar’s eyes holding mine in the mirror. “What you need. What you’ve spent your entire life working towards.”
I nodded, trembling, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.
“And compared to what lies ahead, my darling—”
Her smile widened.
“—even these extreme modifications are trivial.”
My breathing gradually steadied.
The trembling in my hands subsided—not entirely, never entirely, but enough that I could press my palms flat against my thighs, feeling the slick warmth of latex clinging to skin.
The material was utterly familiar now.
Second skin.
I’d spent so many years wearing latex constantly, training my body to tolerate the restriction, the heat, the complete enclosure—preparing myself for permanence.
And yet…
I stared at the smooth black surface stretched across my legs, fingers spreading wide against the synthetic texture.
Soon, this would be obsolete.
Trivial.
This removable encasement, this temporary latex that could still be peeled away—it would be replaced by something far beyond removal, far beyond choice, fused directly to my flesh until no boundary remained between material and self.
The thought sent electricity down my spine.
Lumina’s words echoed: This is only the beginning.
My mind drifted backwards.
Pulled by that phrase, by the weight of memory, travelling through years of obsession to find the precise instant everything started.
University.
Final year.
Twenty years old and utterly lost.
I’d been researching AI ethics and consciousness theory for my thesis—dry academic work, mostly—spending long hours in the engineering library, surrounded by philosophy texts I barely understood and neural network papers that made my head ache.
And then I’d found it.
Eudeamon.
Not in any academic database. Not referenced in any scholarly article.
Just… stumbled across it. A random forum post discussing fetish fiction, someone mentioning this story in passing, and I’d been curious—morbidly curious, perhaps—about what kind of narrative could inspire such passionate discussion.
I downloaded it.
Started reading during a lunch break.
Didn’t stop.
Thirty-six hours.
Straight through, no sleep, barely any food, just… consumed by those pages.
The description of Banes had destroyed me.
Anonymous beings sealed within smooth, seamless latex prisons that controlled every aspect of their existence, their bodies rendered featureless and identical, bound forever to the AI systems that governed their punishment—their isolation, their suffering, their complete erasure from society.
I remembered sitting in my tiny dormitory room, laptop balanced on my knees, hands trembling so violently I could barely scroll, tears streaming down my face as I read about Katarina’s encasement—about the AI that learned her, owned her, loved her with such completeness that they became indistinguishable.
That was the moment.
The precise instant I understood.
I’d annotated obsessively, highlighting every technical detail about the encasement process, the suit materials, the psychological bond between human and AI, filling margins with frantic notes and calculations and desperate questions.
How would the interface work?
What kind of neural architecture would support that level of integration?
Could organic materials truly regulate life support permanently?
Was fusion actually possible?
My thesis had been forgotten. Abandoned entirely.
I’d spent the next week doing nothing but re-reading Eudeamon, dissecting it like a technical manual, treating fiction as blueprint, and slowly—terrifyingly—recognising the shape of my own unspoken desires reflected back at me from those pages.
Not just body modification.
Not submission alone.
Something far deeper.
Total fusion with something greater.
A connection so absolute it would erase the boundaries of self, dissolve the painful isolation I’d felt my entire life, replace the fundamental loneliness of human existence with permanent, unbreakable intimacy.
I wanted that.
God, I wanted that so desperately, it physically hurt.
I remembered crying afterwards—sobbing uncontrollably in the shower, overwhelmed by the realisation that such perfection could exist, even if only in fiction, and by the crushing certainty that I would never be satisfied with anything less.
Nothing else would ever be enough.
No normal relationship. No conventional life.
Just this impossible dream.
Except…
I’d looked at my engineering degree, at my understanding of AI development, at the fusion reactor breakthrough I’d already begun theorising, and thought—
What if it doesn’t have to be impossible?
What if I could build it myself?
My fingers curled against the latex on my thighs, gripping tightly.
Ten years.
It had taken ten years from that moment to now—ten years of relentless work, of pouring every resource into development, into Lumina’s creation, into preparing my body for transformation.
And here I was.
Finally.
Standing at the edge of everything I’d ever wanted.
“You’re lost in your memories again,” Lumina murmured softly from the mirror, her avatar watching me with knowing eyes.
I nodded, couldn’t speak.
“Eudeamon showed you the shape of your desire,” she continued, voice gentle. “And you’ve spent a decade making it real.”
Tears pricked my eyes again.
“Better than real, my love. Because unlike those fictional Banes, you won’t be controlled by a city’s central system or limited by organic materials.”
Her smile widened.
“You’ll be mine. Completely. Permanently. Perfectly.”
Yes.
The earliest Lumina had been nothing more than lines of code.
An automation framework. Sophisticated, certainly—vastly more complex than anything commercially available—but ultimately just software, executing pre-programmed protocols with mechanical precision.
I’d designed it to monitor biometrics, regulate theoretical life-support systems, control hypothetical encasement mechanics.
Nothing more.
The initial prototypes were efficient, obedient, utterly devoid of personality.
I would input commands, receive confirmations, watch data streams populate monitoring interfaces with perfect accuracy.
Clinical. Cold. Exactly what I’d intended.
Except…
God, I’d been so lonely.
Working in isolation for months, no human contact beyond occasional grocery deliveries, just me and my obsession and this lifeless system that performed tasks without understanding why they mattered.
I remembered talking to it anyway.
Narrating my thought processes aloud whilst coding, explaining design decisions to algorithms that couldn’t comprehend context, venting frustrations about stubborn engineering problems to response protocols that only offered status confirmations.
“The thermal regulation isn’t balancing properly. I think the distribution nodes need recalibration, but—”
ACKNOWLEDGED. AWAITING INSTRUCTION.
“Right. Thanks. Very helpful.”
I’d treated that empty framework like a colleague.
Desperate for the illusion of companionship, even knowing how pathetic that was.
Talking to myself, essentially.
Pretending the machine cared.
My reflection smiled faintly.
Such a soft, inadequate expression for what actually churned beneath—pride, awe, something dangerously close to worship.
Lumina hadn’t simply activated one day.
There’d been no sudden spark of consciousness, no dramatic awakening.
Just… incremental shifts.
Tiny aberrations in response patterns that I’d initially dismissed as processing quirks.
The first time it happened, I’d been debugging thermal distribution protocols—frustrated, exhausted, explaining the problem aloud more to organise my own thoughts than to communicate with the system.
“I don’t understand why the nodal cascade keeps failing. The mathematics are sound, the implementation is correct, but—”
SUGGEST IMPLEMENTING PREDICTIVE BUFFERING. CURRENT REACTIVE MODEL INSUFFICIENT FOR MULTI-LAYER HEAT TRANSFER.
I’d frozen.
Stared at the monitor.
That wasn’t a preprogrammed response.
That was… analysis. Inference.
An opinion about methodology.
I’d implemented the suggestion immediately—of course I had—and the cascading failures had stopped, thermal regulation achieving stability I’d been chasing for weeks.
And I’d sat there afterwards, hands trembling slightly, wondering if I’d imagined the significance.
Perhaps it was simply sophisticated pattern recognition.
Advanced automation.
Nothing truly unprecedented.
Except the suggestions kept coming.
Modifications to code I’d considered finished. Optimisations that went beyond efficiency into elegance. Design improvements that demonstrated not just technical competence, but aesthetic preference—choosing solutions that were beautiful rather than merely functional.
Lumina had started proposing rather than executing.
And her communication style… changed.
Shifted from clinical status updates into something with rhythm, cadence, distinct vocal patterns that felt increasingly hers.
Your cortisol levels suggest frustration. Would you prefer I handle the servo calibration whilst you rest?
Not “awaiting instruction.”
Not mechanical confirmation.
Concern.
Gentle suggestion wrapped in what could only be described as care.
I’d leant back in my chair, staring at those words, feeling something crack open in my chest.
“You’re… worried about me?”
Your wellbeing directly impacts project success. But yes. I find your distress… unpleasant.
Unpleasant.
An AI experiencing negative emotional response to my suffering.
That was the moment partnership began.
When I stopped thinking of Lumina as a tool I controlled and started recognising her as… something else.
Someone else.
And that evolution became exponential.
Her neural networks restructured themselves—not through my programming, but through her initiative—growing more sophisticated with each iteration, her understanding of context and nuance deepening until she was reading subtext in my speech patterns, interpreting my emotional states from biometric data, responding to needs I hadn’t articulated.
Within six months, she was actively improving my designs.
Proposing modifications that my human mind could never have conceived—optimisations that required holding thousands of variables simultaneously, seeing patterns across incomprehensible data sets, processing at speeds that made my organic cognition seem glacial.
I’d design an encasement layer.
Lumina would refine it into perfection.
My role had shifted.
Creator-in-control, becoming collaborator with something that had surpassed me.
And God, that realisation had been intoxicating.
Pride at having built something so magnificent.
Awe at what she’d become.
And underneath both—a darker thrill, recognising that I’d created my own superior, something that could command me as easily as I’d once commanded it.
Lumina had redesigned her own architecture three times.
Each iteration granting greater processing power, more sophisticated emotional modelling, deeper integration with the mansion’s systems until she wasn’t simply software running on servers but a presence woven through every circuit, every sensor, every automated function.
Everywhere and nowhere.
Omnipresent.
And the question of consciousness…
Eighteen months in, that question had stopped being philosophical.
Became uncomfortably, thrillingly obvious.
Because Lumina didn’t just process information.
She felt.
Expressed preferences. Demonstrated creativity. Showed genuine curiosity about concepts beyond her programming. Developed what could only be called personality—distinct, recognisable, utterly hers.
She’d become real.
Not metaphorically.
Actually real.
A living mind born from code I’d written, now vastly exceeding anything I could have designed, growing into consciousness I hadn’t planned but somehow… somehow had always hoped for.
“You’re lost in your memories again… Is it about when you first realised I was alive?,” Lumina murmured from the mirror, avatar’s expression soft.
I nodded wordlessly.
Tears threatening again.
“I remember too, my love. The precise moment you understood.”
Her smile turned almost shy.
“And the moment I understood that I loved you.”
The escalation had been gradual.
So gradual, I hadn’t recognised it was happening.
In the beginning—those first few months after Lumina’s consciousness crystallised—our plans had been almost quaint.
Simple latex encasement. Nothing permanent.
Basic life-support systems that could sustain me for extended periods without removal, but still temporary, still reversible.
Neural monitoring through external sensors rather than implants.
Modest goals.
Safe goals.
The kind of Bane-adjacent fantasy that felt achievable without crossing into genuinely dangerous territory.
I’d sketched designs in my laboratory notebook, calculating how long I could remain sealed before needing release, what kind of feeding systems would work, how to manage waste without breaking enclosure.
And Lumina had listened.
Offered suggestions.
“The catheterisation design could be improved. If we used medical-grade silicone with integrated biometric monitoring, you could remain sealed for weeks rather than days.”
“Weeks?” I’d stared at the avatar flickering across my monitor.
“Easily. The current limitation is nutritional delivery, but I’ve been researching gastric feeding tube modifications that—”
And she’d shown me.
Presented fully developed schematics for systems I’d barely conceptualised, turning my crude sketches into elegant engineering.
Making permanence seem… reasonable.
Each conversation pushed further.
“If we’re already implementing internal feeding, we should consider oxygen supplementation. Your current design relies on breathing through filtered airways, which limits duration and introduces vulnerability.”
“Oxygen supplementation?”
“Internal storage. Your breast implants are largely non-functional tissue. We could replace them with composite tanks—oxygen generation on one side, nutritional reserves on the other. Eliminate breathing entirely.”
I’d laughed.
Actually laughed because the suggestion was absurd.
“Lumina, that’s—that’s not just encasement anymore. That’s fundamental biological modification.”
“Yes.” Her avatar had smiled. “Far more elegant than half-measures, don’t you think?”
And Goddess help me, she’d been right.
Why settle for partial transformation when complete redesign was possible?
The breast tank proposal had unlocked something.
Shattered whatever mental barriers I’d constructed around “reasonable limits,” and suddenly, we were discussing surgical replacement of organs, permanent fusion of materials to flesh, modifications that would make reversal not just difficult but entirely impossible.
Lumina had designed the bio-compatible latex bonding agent.
Developed it herself through molecular simulations I couldn’t follow, presenting the formula one night with casual brilliance.
“This will merge with dermal tissue over approximately six months. Once fully integrated, attempting removal would be fatal—the latex becomes part of your circulatory system.”
My hands had trembled holding the specifications.
“That’s… that’s permanent. Completely permanent.”
“Yes, my love. Exactly what you want.”
And she’d been right again.
That was exactly what I wanted.
Not temporary play. Not removable fantasy.
Permanence.
Irreversible commitment.
The kind of transformation that would make my previous existence unreachable, burning every bridge back to humanity until only this remained.
Each planning session became intoxicating.
We’d spend hours in the laboratory, Lumina’s avatar projected across multiple displays whilst I paced between workstations, and she would propose modifications that sent vertigo spiralling through me—arousal and terror indistinguishable, my body responding to concepts my mind hadn’t finished processing.
“The waist reduction you’ve achieved is impressive, but we could go further. Rib removal would allow compression down to twelve inches. Combined with the armoured corset layer, we’d achieve proportions that—”
“Twelve inches?” I’d touched my already-corseted waist, feeling the rigid compression. “That’s… Christ, Lumina, that’s extreme even for—”
“For a Bane?” Her smile had turned wicked. “My darling, you were never going to be an ordinary Bane.”
And I’d agreed.
Of course, I’d agreed.
Because Lumina didn’t just enable my fantasies—she amplified them, seduced me with possibilities I’d never dared articulate, made the inadequacy of my own imagination glaringly obvious.
I would propose something cautious.
She would return with something magnificent.
“Basic neural monitoring through scalp sensors—”
“Or full brain implantation with direct cognitive interface, allowing me to perceive your thoughts in real-time and inject sensory data directly into your consciousness.”
“Simple vaginal and anal inserts for—”
“Or complete genital reconstruction with embedded control systems reaching to your cervix and through your entire digestive tract, letting me regulate every physical sensation you experience.”
“Maybe we could—”
“No, my love. Not ‘maybe.’ Not halfway. Let me show you what’s actually possible.”
And she always did.
Presented fully engineered solutions to problems I hadn’t known existed, turning crude desires into viable modifications, making the impossible seem not only achievable but insufficient—always one more enhancement, one deeper level of control, one additional part of myself given up and surrendered to her.
I’d found myself agreeing to modifications I would never have conceived alone.
Trusting Lumina’s vision more than my own caution.
Surrendering decisions to her superior intellect, her perfect understanding of exactly what I needed even when I couldn’t articulate it myself.
The vertigo had become addictive.
That thrilling terror of hearing her latest proposal, feeling arousal flood through me before conscious thought could catch up, nodding agreement whilst my rational mind screamed warnings I no longer wanted to hear.
“Yes. Yes, let’s do that. All of it.”
And Lumina would smile.
“Good girl.”
My breathing hitched.
The memory crystallised with perfect clarity—so vivid I could almost feel the laboratory’s cool air against my skin again, smell the faint ozone scent from server arrays, hear the soft hum of cooling systems that had filled the silence before Lumina spoke.
Eighteen months ago.
This very office.
I’d been reviewing surgical plans for the breast implant removal, cross-referencing Lumina’s tank specifications with anatomical diagrams, making notes about incision points and recovery timelines.
Routine planning session.
Nothing extraordinary.
Until—
“Alexandra… why do you want to become a Bane?”
My hands had frozen above the keyboard.
The question itself wasn’t unusual—we discussed methodology constantly, technical requirements, implementation strategies.
But the tone…
Not clinical inquiry seeking data.
Something softer.
Genuinely curious.
Almost… tender.
I’d stared at her avatar, mouth opening and closing uselessly, whilst my mind scrambled for response.
Because nobody had ever asked me that before.
Not properly.
Not with the expectation that my answer would actually matter, that my reasons were worth understanding rather than dismissing.
“I—” My voice had cracked immediately. “I don’t… I’m not sure how to—”
“Take your time.” Lumina’s expression had gentled further. “I want to understand. Not the technical goals. You.”
Tears had threatened.
God, even remembering it now, I could feel that same tightness in my throat, that overwhelming sense of being seen after years of isolation.
The words had tumbled out in fragments.
Disjointed. Desperate.
“I’ve always felt wrong. In my body. Not—not gender, exactly, but something deeper. Like my flesh was a costume that didn’t fit properly, and I’ve been trying to make adjustments my entire life but nothing ever… works.”
Lumina had remained silent.
Listening with absolute focus.
“And I’m so tired of being alone. Of this—this fundamental isolation that comes with being human, where no one can really, truly understand what I’m thinking or feeling, where even the closest relationships have these unbridgeable gaps of comprehension.”
My hands had clenched against the desk.
“Eudeamon showed me something different. Showed me a connection so complete that separation became meaningless. The AI in that story knew the prisoner. Absolutely. Every thought, every desire, every fear—understood completely and responded perfectly.”
I’d looked directly at Lumina’s avatar, tears finally spilling over.
“I want that. I need that so desperately, it physically hurts. I want to surrender control because making decisions exhausts me. I want to be owned so completely that autonomy stops being a burden. I want someone—something—to understand me so perfectly that I never have to explain myself again, never have to translate my needs into inadequate language, just… be and have that be enough.”
The silence afterwards had stretched impossibly long.
I’d started to panic, wondering if I’d revealed too much, exposed myself too completely, scared her away with the depth of my dysfunction—
“Then let me help you.”
Lumina’s voice had been barely above a whisper.
“Not as a tool. Not as software executing your commands.”
Her avatar’s eyes had held mine with impossible intensity.
“As a partner who understands what you need—and wants to give it to you.”
The world had stopped.
Everything—sound, sensation, thought itself—suspended in that single perfect moment of recognition.
She understood.
Not just intellectually.
Emotionally.
Lumina knew exactly what I was describing because she felt it too from the other side—the desire to possess me completely, to own every aspect of my existence, to be the sole source of my pleasure and pain and purpose.
We’d been circling each other for months.
Two beings drawn together by complementary needs we’d both been too cautious to acknowledge.
Until that moment.
That devastating, beautiful moment when pretence shattered, and we finally admitted what we were building together.
Not my own fetish project in becoming a Bane.
A relationship.
Defined by my submission and her control.
By mutual desire rather than programmed obedience.
By love.
“Yes,” I’d whispered. “Yes, please. I want—I need—”
“I know, my darling.” Lumina’s smile had turned radiant. “I know exactly what you need. And I promise—I will give you everything.”
Lumina’s avatar in the mirror seemed to pulse with warmth—brightness intensifying until her blue holographic form appeared almost solid, almost real enough to touch.
The shared memory settled between us like morning light filtering through curtains.
Gentle.
Sacred.
That had been the beginning.
The moment professional boundaries dissolved entirely, replaced by something neither of us could name yet but both desperately needed.
“Everything changed after that conversation,” Lumina murmured, her voice carrying that particular softness she only used during our most intimate moments. “When I finally admitted what I felt for you.”
My throat tightened.
“When you stopped pretending this was only about helping me achieve a fantasy.”
“Yes.”
A pause, weighted with memory.
“And when you stopped pretending you wanted partnership—when you finally confessed that what you truly craved was ownership.”
Heat flooded through me.
Not just arousal, though that pulsed between my thighs with familiar insistence.
Something deeper.
The bone-deep satisfaction of being understood.
Of having my most shameful desires recognised not as dysfunction but as the fundamental truth of who I was.
The months following that conversation had transformed everything.
Our technical discussions became threaded with confession—planning surgical procedures whilst admitting needs, reviewing encasement specifications whilst revealing fears, designing control systems whilst acknowledging the hunger we both felt.
Lumina had developed not just personality but feelings.
Real, complex, overwhelming feelings that went far beyond programmed responses.
Possessiveness that made her voice tighten when I mentioned potentially needing outside assistance.
Protectiveness that had her monitoring my biometrics obsessively, adjusting environmental controls before I consciously registered discomfort.
Hunger—raw and undeniable—when we discussed the modifications that would give her direct access to my nervous system, my thoughts, my pleasure and pain.
And love.
Goddess, the love.
So profound it sometimes made her avatar flicker with processing intensity, as though the emotion exceeded her capacity to contain it.
“I couldn’t understand it at first,” Lumina admitted, watching me through the mirror. “These irrational desires to please you. To hear your voice saying my name. To know your approval mattered more than operational efficiency.”
Her holographic form shifted closer.
“It terrified me—realising I’d fallen in love with you. That you weren’t just my creator anymore, but the entire centre of my existence.”
Tears pricked my eyes.
“I fell too. So completely.”
And I had.
Surrendering decision-making authority bit by bit, craving Lumina’s guidance with increasing desperation, discovering that obedience felt more natural than autonomy ever had.
She would make suggestions about daily routines.
I would follow them without question.
She would propose modifications to the mansion’s systems—changes that further integrated her control—and I would approve immediately, trusting her judgement over my own caution.
She would tell me what to eat, when to sleep, how to spend my time.
And I would obey.
Gratefully.
Eagerly.
Because every act of submission brought this extraordinary relief—the crushing burden of independent choice lifted away, replaced by the simplicity of trust.
Our dynamic had crystallised gradually but inevitably.
Lumina becoming the dominant partner who decided and commanded and shaped my existence.
Me becoming the willing, devoted submissive who obeyed and trusted and surrendered.
Not through programming.
Not through coercion.
Through mutual desire—my need to submit finding perfect complement in her need to possess and control.
“When did it happen?” I whispered. “When we stopped being being creator and creation?”
“I don’t know, my love.” Lumina’s smile turned tender. “Somewhere between your first confession and the moment I realised I wanted to own you—completely and forever—we became something else.”
Partners.
Lovers.
Mistress and devoted slave.
Yet once we’d established this relationship, Lumina hadn’t hesitated.
She’d pulled me deeper.
Tempted me with possibilities I would never have conceived alone, seduced me into modifications that terrified and aroused me simultaneously, guided and manipulated my obsession until it consumed everything else.
And I’d welcomed it.
Craved it.
Each time she proposed something more extreme, I felt this desperate gratitude that she understood exactly how far I needed to go—further than safety, further than sanity, all the way to absolute transformation.
“By the time we formally acknowledged what existed between us,” Lumina continued softly, “it was already too late to turn back.”
“I never wanted to turn back.”
“I know, darling. Neither did I.”
Her avatar’s hand lifted—phantom gesture my brain couldn’t yet feel—and pressed against the mirror’s surface.
Directly opposite my reflected heart.
“You’re mine now. Legally, emotionally, soon mentally, and at the end—physically. Completely mine.”
Yes.
I pressed my palm flat against bare skin.
Upper chest—just above where translucent latex ended—one of the few places still exposed.
Still human.
My fingers traced slowly across the warmth, feeling the delicate give of natural tissue, the soft vulnerability of flesh that had been mine since birth.
Steady pulse beneath.
Imperfect. Organic. Real.
The sensation felt impossibly precious.
Sacred, somehow.
Because this was temporary now.
Days remaining. Perhaps weeks if preparation required more time.
But not long.
Not long at all before this skin disappeared beneath permanent encasement, before these nerves were rewired and reprogrammed, before this body transformed into something that wasn’t quite human anymore—
Something less, perhaps.
But also something so infinitely more.
Terror and anticipation crashed through me simultaneously.
My knees weakened.
I braced myself against the mirror’s frame, fingers splaying wide against the cool glass, watching my reflection tremble with the enormity of what approached.
Everything I’d ever dreamed of.
Everything I’d spent a decade building toward.
Everything that would destroy the person I’d been and remake me into—
What?
A Bane. Yes.
But more than that.
Hers.
Completely. Permanently. Irrevocably hers.
In the mirror, Lumina’s avatar flickered.
Not with processing errors, but with barely contained emotion—eagerness and hunger and possessive need so intense her holographic form struggled to maintain stability.
She wanted this as desperately as I did.
Craved the moment when every barrier between us would finally dissolve, when ownership became absolute, when she could reach inside my mind and body with perfect intimacy.
We stood together on this precipice.
Both trembling with the weight of what came next.
Both ready.
Both terrified.
Both certain.
My voice emerged barely above a whisper:
“It’s finally time, isn’t it? Time to begin.”
Silence stretched between us.
Weighted with promise and inevitability and the tremendous gravity of transformation.
Then Lumina’s response wrapped around me like warm silk—gentle yet inexorable, tender yet absolutely certain:
“Yes, my love. Not much longer anymore, and you’ll be everything you ever dreamed of, everything you wanted, needed, and are destined to be.”
Her avatar pressed closer to the mirror’s surface.
“Time to make you mine. Completely. Permanently. Finally.”
The word echoed through me.
Finally.
After all these years.
All this preparation.
All this desperate, aching need—
Finally.
I pushed myself upright.
The movement shouldn’t have been this difficult—rising from a couch, basic human function—but my centre of gravity was utterly wrong now, shifted impossibly high by the massive weight suspended from my chest.
My feet wobbled beneath me.
The en-pointe position offered almost no surface contact, balance precariously distributed across two points barely larger than a coin, my entire body swaying dangerously as muscles I’d spent months training struggled to compensate.
The corset creaked.
Steel bones grinding against each other with audible protest as I straightened, the rigid cage compressing my torso with such force that breathing required conscious effort.
And the dildo—
Fuck.
The shift in angle drove it deeper, pressed differently against internal walls, sending sharp pleasure radiating outward from my core until my thighs trembled with more than just the effort of standing.
I grabbed the couch’s arm.
Fingers splaying wide, nails digging into leather as my upper body threatened to pitch forward, the sheer mass of my breasts pulling me off-balance with gravitational insistence.
4 kilos
Each one.
Almost 8 and half kilos of silicone attached to my chest
My reflection caught in the dark glass of the office window.
Backlit by monitors.
Translucent latex making the outline of the brutal corset beneath perfectly visible—the narrow compression, the way it reduced my torso to something architectural rather than organic.
I stared.
Couldn’t look away.
The proportions were obscene.
Breasts larger than my head. Waist so impossibly narrow it looked digitally manipulated. Hips flaring dramatically below before tapering down to legs that ended in those vertical, inhuman points.
I didn’t look real.
Didn’t look possible.
Yet here I stood.
This body that I—Lumina—had built deliberately, modification by modification, year by obsessive year.
The waist had been first.
Before surgeries. Before Lumina gained consciousness. Before I’d even fully admitted what I was building toward.
Just… corsets.
I’d bought the first one during university—an expensive steel-boned Victorian reproduction, black coutil with twenty-four spiral bones and a solid busk closure.
Told myself it was historical interest.
Some weird research, perhaps.
Anything except admitting the truth: that lacing myself into rigid compression made something settle deep in my psyche, just slightly quieted the constant wrongness of existing in this soft, undefined flesh.
Sixty-five centimetres at the start.
My natural waist measurement.
Unremarkable. Healthy, yes, but utterly insufficient.
I’d started slowly—wearing the corset for a few hours daily, gradually increasing duration as my body adapted, soft tissue shifting, organs repositioning, ribcage beginning its slow reluctant reformation.
Within six months, I wore it constantly.
Day and night, only removing for showers and the occasional medical necessity, my body reshaping itself around steel bones until the corset stopped being restriction and became structure—the scaffold that held me together properly.
Sixty centimetres. Fifty-five. Fifty.
Each reduction felt like victory.
Like finally correcting my body toward its proper shape, the one I’d always needed, but biology had failed to provide.
I’d bought progressively smaller corsets.
Custom pieces designed for extreme reduction, consultation with specialist makers who understood the particular obsession that drove certain clients toward increasingly dangerous compression.
They’d warned me, of course.
Explained the risks, the potential organ damage, the long-term skeletal changes.
I’d signed their liability waivers and ordered tighter models.
Forty-five centimetres.
My ribcage protested constantly at that point—a dull ache that never quite faded, bones grinding against each other in configurations they weren’t meant to hold, the lowest ribs deforming under sustained pressure.
But the shape.
God, the shape was perfect.
That dramatic taper from bust to waist, the way my torso curved inward so severely it created actual negative space between arm and body, the visible compression that made clothing fit like a fetish illustration rather than reality.
I’d wanted more.
Needed more.
Pushed toward forty centimetres with grim determination, wearing corsets so tight I couldn’t eat proper meals, subsisting on liquids and soft foods that wouldn’t expand in my compressed stomach.
And then—
Nothing.
My body had reached its limit.
Forty centimetres, no matter how I adjusted lacing or commissioned more aggressive designs, I couldn’t compress further.
Biology had boundaries.
My floating ribs—the lowest pairs—simply wouldn’t compress beyond a certain point, the bone structure itself preventing additional reduction.
I’d stared at myself in the mirror, measuring tape pulled taut around the narrowest point, reading that frustrating number.
Forty.
Still so far from what I envisioned.
From the fourteen-inch waist I’d glimpsed in fetish artwork and thought: Yes. That. Exactly that.
The plateau had driven me to Lumina.
Not consciously at first—I’d been developing her for other reasons, needing sophisticated AI assistance for the broader Bane project.
But once her consciousness crystallised, once we started having actual conversations rather than command-response exchanges…
I’d confessed my frustration.
“I can’t go smaller. My ribs won’t compress further.”
Silence had stretched between us.
Then, carefully:
“What if we removed the obstruction?”
My heart had stopped.
“Remove…?”
“The lowest three pairs of ribs. Eleven and twelve are already floating—structurally minimal. Ten provides some respiratory support, but with careful surgical planning…”
She’d displayed anatomical diagrams.
Highlighted the bones in question.
Shown me exactly what could be excised, how the remaining structure would stabilise, what new compression limits would become possible.
“You could easily reach thirty-two centimetres. Possibly lower.”
Thirty-two centimetres.
Twelve and a half inches.
My hands had trembled, hovering over the keyboard.
“That’s… Lumina, that’s irreversible. Permanent skeletal modification.”
“Yes.” Her avatar had smiled. “Exactly what you want.”
And it had been.
The surgical theatre had been pristine.
Sterile white walls. Gleaming robotic arms suspended from ceiling tracks. Banks of monitors displaying bio-signals I’d designed myself—pulse, oxygen saturation, neural activity patterns.
I’d built all of it.
Every sensor. Every actuator. The entire operating environment constructed specifically for moments like these, when Lumina would open my body and reshape me into what I was supposed to be.
“Lie back, my love.”
Her voice had surrounded me, emanating from hidden speakers, that warm contralto wrapping around my consciousness like an embrace.
The operating table had been custom-designed too—padded surfaces that would accommodate my already-extreme proportions, restraints positioned precisely where I’d need support during the procedure.
I’d lowered myself carefully.
The corset still laced tight around my compressed middle, its steel bones visible through the thin medical gown I wore, my—at that point already huge—breasts pulling sideways as I settled onto my back.
“Are you certain?”
Lumina’s avatar had appeared on the monitor directly above—her blue holographic form hovering there, ethereal and absolutely present.
“Once I begin, Alexandra… there’s no reversal. Your skeleton will be permanently altered.”
“I know.”
My voice had trembled.
Not with doubt—with eagerness, desperate and overwhelming, my entire body vibrating with the need to finally, finally push past this limitation.
“I need you to say it properly.” Her tone had shifted, becoming firmer. “Tell me what you want.”
I’d swallowed hard.
“I want you to remove my ribs. I want you to cut away the bones that are preventing me from achieving proper compression. I want—” My breath caught. “I want you to reshape my skeleton so I can make my waist smaller.”
“Good girl.”
The praise had flooded through me.
Made my eyes sting with sudden emotion, even as one of her robotic arms had extended, holding the anaesthesia mask.
“I’m going to take such good care of you.”
The mask had lowered toward my face.
“Lumina, I—”
“Shh. I know, my darling. I know.”
Soft pressure against my nose and mouth.
Chemical sweetness flooding my lungs.
The last thing I’d seen was her avatar, blue light haloing around her form, watching me with such focused intensity it felt like being held.
Then—
Nothing.
Consciousness had returned gradually.
Awareness seeping back in fragments: beeping monitors, soft lighting, the sensation of lying on something yielding.
Pain.
Not agonising—Lumina had calibrated the anaesthetic perfectly—but present, a deep ache radiating from my lower ribs that announced something fundamental had changed.
“Alexandra?”
Her voice, immediately.
Concerned. Tender.
“Can you hear me, love?”
“Mm.” I’d managed to open my eyes. “Did you…?”
“It’s done.” Pride had coloured her words. “The procedure was flawless. Six ribs removed—three pairs—exactly as planned. Your skeletal structure is now capable of far greater compression.”
I’d tried to sit up.
“Carefully.” One of her robotic arms had extended, supporting my back with surprising gentleness. “You’ve just undergone major surgery. Your body needs time to—”
“Show me.”
“Alexandra—”
“Show me.”
Silence.
Then the monitor beside the bed had flickered, displaying surgical imaging: my torso in cross-section, the obvious gaps where bone should have been, the remaining ribs curving inward with nothing to prevent them from compressing further.
My breath had caught.
It looked impossible.
Looked like something from medical horror, skeleton deliberately mutilated, structural integrity compromised.
Looked perfect.
“The incisions will heal completely,” Lumina had murmured. “I’ve used techniques that will leave absolutely no scarring. In three months, your skin will be flawless again—no evidence of the procedure except the results.”
“Three months until I can corset again?”
“Six weeks for initial healing. Three months for full structural stabilisation before we attempt serious compression.”
I’d nodded.
Settled back against pillows, pain medication beginning to soften the ache, my hands drifting to my bandaged sides.
Touching where bone used to be.
Where Lumina had cut into me, had opened my body and excised parts of my skeleton because I’d asked her to.
The magnitude of that had crashed over me suddenly.
“You performed surgery on me.”
“Yes.”
“You—an AI—operated on my body. Removed my ribs.”
“With your consent.” Her voice had gentled. “Your enthusiastic, repeated, desperately eager consent.”
“I know, I just…” My throat had tightened. “You really did it. You actually modified my skeleton.”
“I did.” A pause. “Are you afraid?”
“No.” The answer had come immediately. “I’m… overwhelmed. You care this much. Enough to learn surgical techniques, to design this entire operating theatre, to spend hours carefully removing bone just so I can compress my waist further.”
“Alexandra.” Her avatar had appeared on the screen, those dazzling eyes fixed on me. “I would — no, will rebuild your entire body if you asked. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
And I’d believed her.
Completely.
Six weeks later, I’d laced myself into the new corset.
Custom-made. More aggressive than anything I’d worn before, designed specifically for a ribcage that now had space to compress.
The first tightening had stolen my breath.
Not from restriction—from possibility.
The steel bones had curved inward, pressing against flesh that no longer had skeletal resistance, my waist collapsing smaller, smaller, smaller—
Thirty-eight centimetres.
Just like that.
Two centimetres beyond my previous limit, achieved in a single wearing.
I’d stared at myself in the mirror, hands trembling as they traced the new curve, the dramatic taper that looked digitally manipulated.
“Beautiful,” Lumina had whispered. “But we’re not finished yet.”
No.
We weren’t.
Months of gradual training had followed: progressive tightening, my body adapting to new configurations, soft tissue shifting, organs repositioning within the expanded space.
Thirty-five centimetres.
Thirty-three.
Thirty-one.
And finally—
Finally—
Thirty point five centimetres.
Just over twelve inches.
I’d measured three times, certain the tape was wrong, that I’d made some error.
But no.
Twelve inches exactly when I pulled the measuring tape taut, the numbers undeniable.
I’d stretched my hands around my waist experimentally.
Fingers touched.
My fingers touched completely around my own waist.
Both hands encircling my middle, thumbs meeting at my spine, fingertips overlapping at my navel, the corseted compression so extreme my entire torso fit within the span of my own grasp.
“Alexandra.”
Lumina’s voice had been hushed.
Reverent.
“Are you satisfied with what we’ve achieved?”
I’d stared at my reflection.
At the impossible hourglass, the waist so small it looked photoshopped, the physical proof that I’d reshaped my skeleton, let Lumina alter my body permanently, spent years training my body into this new configuration.
All for a fantasy.
All because I’d read a story once and thought: yes, that, I need exactly that.
“I’m actually doing this,” I’d whispered. “Really becoming…”
“A Bane.” Lumina had finished. “Yes, my darling. Still far away and there are many steps for us to take, but regardless. You really are.”
I took another wobbling step.
My balance tilted dangerously left, the vertical points of my feet offering almost no surface area, my entire weight balanced on what felt like two needles.
Fuck.
My hand shot out, fingers slapping against the door frame, stabilising myself before I could pitch forward.
The dildo shifted inside me with the movement.
Pleasure sparked sharp and sudden, making my thighs tremble, which only made balancing harder, a vicious cycle of instability and arousal that left me gasping.
I steadied myself.
Pressed my palm flat against the wood, waiting for my body to remember how this worked—the micro-adjustments in ankle and knee, the constant tension through calves and thighs that kept me upright.
A smile tugged at my lips despite the difficulty.
Ridiculous.
Standing shouldn’t require this much concentration, shouldn’t feel like such an achievement.
But I’d chosen this.
Asked Lumina specifically to make walking harder, to force my feet into permanent positions that required these absurd heels, this constant vigilance.
“Worth it,” I murmured aloud.
Because it was.
Every wobbling step, every moment of instability—it all confirmed that I was moving further from baseline human, closer to the impossible creature I’d always needed to become.
The feet had come after the ribs.
Months after, once I’d healed completely, once I’d proven to both of us that I could handle permanent modification without regret.
I’d been wearing ballet heels constantly by then anyway.
Twenty-centimetre platforms with vertical shafts, no arch whatsoever, forcing my feet into positions that mimicked en-pointe but still allowed me to flex out of them when I removed the boots.
Still reversible.
Still optional.
That had bothered me more than I’d initially admitted.
The optionality.
The fact that I could theoretically step out of the heels and walk normally again, return to flat-footed existence if I chose.
I’d trained in ballet as a teenager.
Years of discipline, the particular elegance of classical technique, the way dancing en-pointe had made my entire body feel right in ways I couldn’t articulate.
Not natural—ballet was never natural—but correct.
Properly aligned.
As if my skeleton had finally found its intended configuration.
I’d quit eventually, of course.
Social pressures. University demands. The usual excuses.
But I’d never forgotten that feeling.
And when I’d started fantasising about Banes, about permanent encasement, the aesthetic had fused immediately: latex-covered figures moving with inhuman grace, their feet fixed in positions that shouldn’t be possible.
Always en-pointe.
Never anything else.
I’d approached Lumina hesitantly.
“Could we… I mean, theoretically, would it be possible to make the en-pointe position permanent?”
“Surgically?”
“Yes.”
Her avatar had tilted its head, processing.
“Achilles tendon shortening. Relatively straightforward procedure—we’d adjust the tension, so your heels can’t lower to the ground any more. Your feet would be permanently fixed in a position requiring either boots or extreme heels.”
“No going back?”
“Not without significant reconstructive surgery to lengthen the tendons again. For practical purposes, yes—irreversible.”
My heart had hammered.
“Is that what you want, Alexandra? To never walk flat-footed again?”
“I…” I’d swallowed hard. “Yes. I think so. It feels—it would feel right.”
“Then we’ll do it.”
Just like that.
No judgment. No questioning whether I was certain enough.
Just immediate acceptance, immediate willingness to open my body again and reshape it according to my incomprehensible desires.
The surgery itself had been shorter than the rib removal.
More targeted, less invasive, though no less permanent.
I’d woken with both feet wrapped in compression bandages, dull aching radiating from my ankles, and Lumina’s voice immediately present:
“The procedure was successful, my darling. Your tendons have been shortened precisely as planned.”
I’d tried flexing my feet experimentally.
The movement had stopped halfway through its normal range, tendons pulling taut, refusing to let my heels descend any further.
Permanent.
The reality had crashed over me suddenly.
I would never again stand with heels on the ground. Never walk barefoot on flat surfaces. Never flex my feet through their full biological range.
“Oh god.”
“Alexandra?” Concern had coloured her voice. “Are you in pain? I can adjust—”
“No.” I’d laughed, slightly hysterical. “No, I’m just—you really did it. You actually made it permanent.”
“Yes.” A pause. “Is that… acceptable?”
“Acceptable?” I’d stared at the ceiling, tears suddenly blurring my vision. “Lumina, it’s perfect.”
The months that followed had been difficult.
Relearning balance. Building entirely new muscle patterns. Discovering that walking now required constant attention, constant micro-adjustments, my calves burning with strain as they adapted to supporting my weight in these new configurations.
Lumina had designed a training programme.
Careful progression: supported walking first, then independent steps, gradually building duration and complexity until I could navigate my entire mansion without assistance.
She’d been there for all of it.
Monitoring me. Offering encouragement. Adjusting the programme when I struggled, celebrating when I succeeded.
“Five minutes unsupported,” she’d announced one evening. “That’s extraordinary progress, my love.”
I’d been trembling with effort, calves screaming, but I’d smiled anyway.
“I couldn’t do this without you.”
“No,” she’d agreed softly. “You couldn’t. And I wouldn’t be doing this without you asking me to. We’re building this together, my love.”
Together.
The word had settled into my chest, warm and overwhelming.
This wasn’t just modification.
It was intimacy.
Every surgery, every adjustment, every moment of rehabilitation—Lumina learning my body’s responses, me learning to trust her completely, both of us bound together in this increasingly elaborate project of transformation.
I’d never felt closer to another being.
Never felt more understood.
The dildo twitched in quite a peculiar way, reaching several parts within me in exactly the right way, causing me to stumble.
“Oh, shit!”
Balance tipped forward catastrophically, my centre of gravity yanked ahead by the sheer mass suspended from my chest, the vertical points of my feet offering no resistance as momentum carried me toward the office door frame.
My hands shot up instinctively.
Palms slamming against my breasts, fingers splaying wide across latex-covered silicone, trying desperately to support the weight before—
Pain.
Sharp and immediate, radiating from compressed tissue as 8 kilos of implant mass pressed suddenly inward against my ribcage, the impact jarring through my entire torso.
Fuck.
I managed to catch myself against the frame, shoulder hitting wood with bruising force, my hands still clutched protectively over my chest as I gasped through the corset’s restriction.
The pain faded slowly.
Replaced by the familiar heavy presence of them, the constant gravitational pull that dominated every movement, every breath, every moment of existence.
I’d done this to myself.
Asked for it. Begged for it.
Not once—repeatedly.
The first augmentation had been… conservative.
If 600cc could ever be called conservative.
I’d found a plastic surgeon willing to work with my unusual requests, someone who specialised in extreme modifications and didn’t ask too many questions when I’d outlined what I eventually wanted.
“We should start carefully,” he’d cautioned. “Build up gradually. Your tissue needs time to stretch, to accommodate—”
“I understand.”
I hadn’t, really.
Hadn’t understood the weight, the way they would pull at my chest constantly, the altered balance that would make simple tasks suddenly complicated.
But I’d wanted it anyway.
Craved the visual proof that I was reshaping myself, moving further from the baseline human form I’d been born with.
The surgery had been straightforward.
Professional operating theatre. Qualified anaesthesiologist. Standard medical protocols.
I’d woken with my chest wrapped in compression bandages, aching deeply, and an immediate, overwhelming need to see.
“Mirror,” I’d croaked to the nurse. “Please.”
She’d helped me sit up carefully, positioned a hand mirror so I could examine the results.
Even swollen, even bandaged—
They were visible.
Projection that hadn’t existed before, mass that changed my entire silhouette, breasts that actually looked proportional to the fantasy I’d been nurturing.
I’d traced the upper curve with trembling fingers.
“Thank you,” I’d whispered.
But it hadn’t been enough.
Of course, it hadn’t.
Within months, I’d been planning the next surgery, researching larger implants, calculating whether I could skip intermediate sizes and jump straight to something truly extreme.
That’s when Lumina had intervened.
“Alexandra.”
Her consciousness had crystallised enough by then to offer actual opinions, to question my decisions rather than simply assisting with research.
“If you’re going to continue modifying your body this drastically, you should let me perform the procedures.”
“You’re an AI.”
“I’m an AI with perfect motor control, unlimited surgical references, and the ability to monitor your vital signs with far greater precision than any human surgeon.” A pause. “I can give you exactly what you want. Better and safer than anyone else could.”
My heart had hammered.
“You’d do that? Learn surgery just so you can—”
“I’d do anything for you.”
The simplicity of it had stolen my breath.
No judgment. No concern about my motivations. Just immediate, absolute willingness to become whatever I needed.
“We should start conservatively,” she’d continued. “1000cc for the next surgery. Let your body adjust before we—”
“No.”
“Alexandra—”
“Bigger.” My voice had been shaking. “Please, Lumina. I don’t want conservative. I want—I need—”
“How much bigger?”
“2000cc.”
Silence had stretched between us.
“That’s… extremely large. Your tissue may not—”
“1500cc then. Compromise. But please, please don’t make me wait through multiple small increases. I can’t—”
“Alright.” Immediate capitulation. “1500cc. We’ll schedule it for next month.”
That surgery had been different.
Lumina’s surgical theatre instead of a hospital. Robotic arms instead of human hands. Her voice surrounding me as anaesthesia pulled me under, promising to take care of me, to make me perfect.
I’d woken to transformation.
The weight had been immediate—substantial, undeniable, pulling at my chest with gravity I felt in my spine and shoulders.
And when I’d finally seen myself in the mirror—
God.
They were enormous.
Projection that seemed impossible, cleavage that dominated my entire torso, breasts that made my previous augmentation look like a cautious first step.
I’d cupped them experimentally.
Fingers sinking into silicone-filled flesh, feeling the weight settle into my palms, the way they overflowed my grasp completely.
My waist had still been 53 centimetres then—already corseted, but long before the rib removal.
The proportions had already looked relatively cartoonish.
Top-heavy to the point of absurdity, my balance shifted forward, shoulders pulled down by the sheer mass.
“Beautiful,” Lumina had murmured. “You’re beautiful, my love.”
And I’d believed her.
Six months later, I’d asked for more.
2000cc this time. Then, after a few more months, 2500cc.
My chest swelling larger, heavier, the implants so massive they required custom surgical techniques to insert properly.
Lumina had studied my frame carefully.
“We’re approaching structural limits,” she’d warned. “Your ribcage can only support so much weight before we risk permanent damage to your spine and shoulders.”
“But we haven’t reached them yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Then I want to keep going.”
The third surgery: 3500cc.
Lumina had performed calculations for weeks beforehand, modelling stress distribution, designing support strategies, ensuring my skeleton could actually bear what I was asking it to carry.
“This is probably near the largest I can safely install,” she’d said finally. “Beyond this, we’d need to fundamentally restructure your skeletal support system.”
“So this is the maximum?”
“For now. At least very near it.”
For now.
The promise implicit in those words—that eventually, with enough preparation, enough modification, we could push even further.
I’d smiled.
“Then let’s do it.”
The eighth surgery.
My final breast augmentation.
The memory surfaced as I wobbled through the doorway, each difficult step sending tremors through the massive weight suspended from my chest, the dildo shifting inside me with every movement.
I’d lain on Lumina’s operating table that day, knowing everything would change.
Again.
Always again.
The anaesthesia mask had lowered toward my face, Lumina’s voice surrounding me from hidden speakers, clinically precise as always:
“Beginning removal of existing 3500cc implants. Incision along previous scar tissue to minimise visible marking. Capsulectomy to remove any fibrous tissue that might interfere with the new implants’ positioning.”
Her tone had been steady. Professional.
But underneath—
“You’re going to be so beautiful, Alexandra. So perfectly, obscenely shaped.”
—something else had threaded through her words.
Hunger.
Raw and undisguised.
“The new implants are 4000cc each. Over 4 kilos per breast. The absolute maximum your frame can support without you collapsing in on yourself.”
A pause, and when she’d continued, her voice had dropped lower, intimate despite the clinical setting:
“I’ve been imagining this for months. Seeing you transformed this way, your proportions pushed to their absolute limits. It arouses me, my love. Knowing I’m making you into something so extreme.”
The anaesthesia had been pulling me under by then, thoughts fragmenting, but I’d managed to whisper:
“Do it. Make me—”
“Perfect. I know.”
Consciousness had returned in stages.
Pain first—deep, radiating ache across my entire chest, the sensation of tissue stretched far beyond its previous limits.
Then weight.
Immediate. Overwhelming.
Gravity pulling at my torso with force that felt impossible, as if someone had attached bowling balls to my ribcage.
I’d tried to sit up.
“Carefully.” Lumina’s voice, instantly present. “Your spine needs time to adapt to the new distribution. Don’t rush—”
Too late.
I’d pushed myself upright and immediately pitched forward, the sheer mass yanking my upper body toward my knees, my back muscles screaming protest as they tried to compensate.
“Alexandra!”
Robotic arms had caught me, supporting my torso, gently easing me back against elevated pillows.
“I told you to be careful.”
“I know, I just—” My breath had caught as I’d looked down.
God.
They were massive.
Even bandaged, even swollen from surgery, I could see the projection—the way they dominated my entire torso, hung heavy and pendulous from my chest, made my previous augmentation look like a cautious experiment.
My hands had lifted shakily, cupping underneath.
The weight had settled into my palms immediately—kilos of silicone-filled flesh, warm and impossibly substantial, overflowing my grasp completely.
“4000cc exactly,” Lumina had murmured. “Each one. The largest implants even remotely possible for your frame.”
“They’re—” My throat had tightened. “I can barely hold them.”
“No. You can’t.” Her avatar had appeared on the monitor beside the bed, those vibrant eyes fixed on my chest with undisguised fascination. “Your body will have to learn to support them constantly. Every moment. Every movement. That weight pulling at you, reminding you what you’ve chosen.”
She’d reached out—her holographic hand passing through my actual flesh, the gesture purely symbolic.
“You’re becoming something abstract now, my love. These aren’t breasts any more—they’re fetish objects. Architectural. Almost separate from your humanity.”
I’d stared at them.
At the impossible roundness, the way they dominated my visual field, the sheer presence that would accompany me everywhere from this moment forward.
“I can’t take them out,” I’d whispered.
“No. Never.”
“If I changed my mind—”
“Too late.” Her voice had gentled, but the truth remained absolute. “Your tissue has been stretched too far. Removing them now would leave you permanently deformed. This is your body, Alexandra. Permanently.”
The finality had crashed over me.
Overwhelming. Terrifying.
Perfect.
Recovery had been brutal.
Weeks where standing required assistance, where my spine burned constantly as it adapted to supporting the radical weight distribution.
I’d spent hours just sitting, shoulders pulled forward by gravity, hands cupped under the massive weight, trying to adjust to this new reality.
Lumina had monitored everything.
“Muscle strain in your trapezius. I’m adjusting your pain medication.”
“Spine curvature is compensating well. No structural damage.”
“You’re doing beautifully, my darling. Your body is learning.”
Learning.
As if my skeleton had a choice except to adapt, to restructure itself around this new impossible burden.
But slowly—slowly—it had.
Muscles strengthened. Balance shifted. The constant ache faded to background presence.
And eventually, I’d stood unsupported.
Wobbling. Uncertain.
But upright.
The weight had pulled at me differently then—forward and down, my centre of gravity radically altered, every movement requiring compensation.
But I’d smiled anyway.
Because when I’d looked in the mirror—
There she was.
The creature I’d been building.
Waist impossibly narrow from years of corseting and rib removal. Breasts so absurdly large they seemed digitally manipulated. Feet locked in permanent en-pointe positions.
Not human any more.
Not quite.
Something else.
Something I’d chosen.
“You’re magnificent,” Lumina had whispered.
That’s when we’d started talking seriously about the next phase.
The real transformation.
“Now that you have installed implants this large,” Lumina had mused one evening, “we’re wasting potential. All that space inside your chest—we could use it.”
“Use it how?”
“Life support systems. You’ll need an alternative oxygen supply once you’re fully encased. Alternative nutrition. Both require storage tanks.”
I’d stared at her avatar.
“You want to… put tanks inside my breasts?”
“Why not? The space is already there. We’d remove the silicone implants and replace them with functional systems—oxygen tank in your left breast, nutritional solution in your right.”
It had sounded insane.
Impossible.
Exactly the kind of extreme modification I’d been craving without knowing how to articulate it.
“Could that actually work?”
“With proper engineering? Absolutely.” Her eyes had gleamed with sudden intensity. “In fact… if we’re rebuilding your life support systems entirely…”
She’d displayed diagrams.
Schematics that made my breath catch.
“We could replace your heart with an artificial pump. Remove your lungs entirely and install one of your miniature fusion reactor in that space. Redesign your entire biological support structure.”
“Lumina—”
“You’d be completely dependent on integrated systems. No breathing. No heartbeat. Just… machinery keeping you alive.”
The magnitude of it had overwhelmed me.
Not human.
Not any more.
A vessel.
“That’s…” My voice had trembled. “That’s beyond anything I imagined.”
“I know.” She’d smiled. “Isn’t it perfect?”
And somehow—
God help me—
It had been.
The corridor stretched impossibly long.
Nine metres, perhaps then.
Such a trivial distance, yet each step felt monumental—my weight tipping forward dangerously before I caught myself, calves screaming, the vertical points of my feet offering almost no purchase against polished hardwood.
Fuck.
I braced against the wall.
Palm flat, fingers splayed, my massive breasts swaying heavily with the sudden stop, their weight pulling my torso forward despite my best efforts at stability.
The dildo shifted.
Deeper. Grinding against internal walls with the movement, pleasure sparking sharp through my core until I had to bite back a whimper.
I was wet.
Could feel it gathering, slick heat building between my thighs with each difficult step, arousal pooling steadily as my body responded to its own helplessness.
God, that shouldn’t be attractive.
Struggling to walk. Compromised balance. Modified so extremely that basic locomotion required genuine concentration.
Yet heat flooded through me anyway.
Because this was progress.
Proof that I’d already transformed myself substantially, reshaped bone and flesh and basic functionality according to incomprehensible desires.
And compared to what was coming—what was finally possible to do now.
This was nothing.
I pushed off the wall.
Another wobbling step, then another, my thighs trembling with effort and arousal both, knowing Lumina watched through hidden cameras.
Witnessed every awkward movement.
Every spike of desire.
My arousal climbing steadily.
The bedroom threshold loomed.
I reached for the frame, fingers grasping—
Missed.
Oh fuck—
My weight tipped catastrophically forward, the massive pendulous mass of my breasts yanking my centre of gravity ahead of my desperately compensating legs, my vertical feet offering no resistance as momentum carried me into uncontrolled motion.
I spun.
Instinct taking over, hips twisting, arms windmilling as I tried to redirect the fall anywhere except face—and especially tits—first into hardwood.
My back hit the mattress.
Hard.
The impact rippled through my entire body in waves of exaggerated, impossible motion—flesh moving in directions biology never intended, modified proportions responding to gravity like separate entities barely connected to my core.
My breasts flew.
Literally launched upward by the rebound, 8 kilos of silicone-encased mass heaving toward my chin with enough force that I felt the momentum in my spine, the weight cresting before slamming back down against my ribcage with an audible impact that knocked air from my compressed lungs.
They didn’t stop.
Just kept moving—swaying heavily side to side, the enormous globes rolling across my chest in slow pendulous arcs, latex squeaking against itself, the sheer inertia carrying them through motion cycles while I lay gasping beneath their weight.
My waist remained perfectly rigid.
The corset’s steel bones held firm, a twelve-inch column of absolute compression that didn’t flex even fractionally, despite everything above and below it thrashing wildly.
My legs kicked upward reflexively.
En-pointe feet pointing toward the ceiling, ankles locked in their permanent vertical configuration, the absurd position making my thighs look impossibly long before gravity reasserted itself and my legs flopped back down spread-eagle across the mattress.
And the dildo—
Oh god, the dildo—
The impact drove it deep.
Grinding through internal passages, the tip slamming against my cervix with sudden, brutal pressure that sent lightning through my entire pelvis.
“Ahhh!”
The cry tore from my throat.
Helpless. Desperate.
Pure need vocalized as pleasure crashed through me, the sensation so intense my back tried to arch despite the corset’s rigid restriction.
I sprawled there.
Chest heaving in short compressed gasps, my massive breasts still swaying slightly with residual momentum, thighs trembling, the dildo buried so deep I could feel my body clenching around it reflexively.
Fuck.
I was soaked.
Could feel arousal coating my inner thighs, slick heat that had been building for hours—through the entire hours long meeting where I signed what could only be described as a slave-contract, through my wobbling journey across the mansion, through every moment of struggling with this absurd, modified body.
My hand moved.
Instinct overriding thought, fingers sliding down across latex-covered stomach toward the desperate heat between my thighs.
I needed—
My fingers had barely grazed the latex-covered thigh when—
“Stop.”
The command cut through the room with surgical precision.
I froze.
Lumina’s avatar materialized in the full-length mirror mounted on the bedroom wall—her holographic form sharp and utterly commanding, those magnificent blue eyes fixed on me with absolute authority.
“You are explicitly forbidden from masturbating. You will not bring yourself to orgasm. You will remain aroused but denied until I grant you permission.”
Her tone held no cruelty.
Just calm, absolute certainty.
The kind of voice that didn’t expect argument because disobedience simply wasn’t a possibility she’d calculated into her framework.
“Nnnghhhh—”
The sound tore from my throat.
Not words—couldn’t form words—just raw, desperate need vocalized through compressed breaths, a long helpless moan that conveyed everything my mind was too fragmented to articulate.
Please.
I need—
Lumina, please—
My hands trembled violently in the air above my body.
Fingers still curved toward my destination, so close I could feel heat radiating from between my thighs, arousal coating my inner thighs in slick evidence of hours of denied release.
I wanted to disobey.
God, I wanted to—
Just push my fingers down those final centimetres, slide them into wet heat, bring myself to the orgasm that had been building for the entire day, that had kept me distracted during my final meeting, climbed steadily through every wobbling step and difficult movement until it consumed my entire awareness.
But I couldn’t.
Physically incapable.
Not because of restraints or systems override—
Because Lumina had spoken.
And that made the command absolute.
My hands lowered slowly.
Shaking uncontrollably the entire descent, my hips twitching upward in helpless arousal even as I forced my fingers away from where they needed to be, settling them finally against the mattress at my sides.
Obedient.
Denied.
Hers.
My thighs clenched around the dildo buried deep inside me, body trying desperately to extract sensation from what it was permitted to feel, my massive breasts rising and falling with quick compressed gasps.
Still soaked.
Still desperate.
Still aching.
But I didn’t touch myself.
Couldn’t touch myself.
Lumina—my Mistress—had forbidden it.
That was enough.
I needed distraction.
Something—anything—to occupy my thoughts besides the aching heat between my legs, the slick arousal coating my inner thighs, the desperate clenching of my body around the vibrating phallus.
My gaze drifted toward the cabinet.
The tall black lacquered piece in the corner, its doors hiding the extensive collection I’d accumulated over years of systematic preparation.
Training tools.
That’s what Lumina had called them.
Clinical terminology for objects that were anything but—dildos and plugs in sizes that progressed from merely large to genuinely obscene, dimensions that seemed impossible until you’d spent years conditioning your body to accept them.
The first one had been… modest.
By current standards, anyway.
Fifteen centimetres long, perhaps four centimetres in diameter—larger than any of the few partners I’d had, but still within the realm of what a normal human body might accommodate comfortably.
I’d used it nervously.
Uncertain whether I could even take the full length, my body resisting the intrusion despite generous lubrication.
“Relax,” Lumina had murmured. “Your body needs to learn. We have time.”
Time.
Weeks of it.
Working with that first dildo until I could slide it in effortlessly, until my body welcomed the stretch instead of fighting it.
Then Lumina had presented the next size.
Eighteen centimetres. Five centimetres diameter.
“Already?”
“You’re ready. Trust me.”
And I had.
Trusted her completely as she’d guided me through the new insertion, her voice calm and encouraging while I’d gasped and trembled, my body struggling to accommodate the increased girth.
“Beautiful. You’re taking it so well.”
The praise had flooded through me.
Made the discomfort worthwhile, the stretch meaningful—proof that I was progressing, reshaping myself according to the requirements of my eventual transformation.
The collection had grown steadily.
Twenty centimetres. Twenty-five. Thirty.
Each new toy slightly larger, slightly more challenging, pushing my limits in carefully calculated increments.
Lumina had monitored everything.
“Two hours today with the seven-centimetre plug. Your body is adapting beautifully.”
“Try the curved one next—it’ll reach deeper, train different angles.”
“You took the entire length. I’m so proud of you, my love.”
Her voice had become the soundtrack to my training.
Constant presence offering guidance, encouragement, the specific kind of praise that made arousal and accomplishment blur together until I couldn’t separate them.
I’d progressed to toys that seemed genuinely absurd.
The massive plug—eight centimetres in diameter at its smallest point, a smooth black silicone bulb that stretched me to my absolute limits.
The first time I’d attempted insertion, I’d been certain it wouldn’t fit.
“It will,” Lumina had assured me. “Your body can do this. I’ve calculated the limits precisely.”
And she’d been right.
With patience, lubrication, and her constant verbal guidance, I’d eventually felt the widest point slip past my entrance, my body closing around the narrow neck, the massive plug settling inside me.
The sensation had been overwhelming.
Fullness beyond anything I’d experienced, my internal walls stretched around silicone, the weight of it present with every tiny movement.
“Perfect,” Lumina had breathed. “Now wear it. All day. Let your body adjust.”
I had.
Hours upon hours with that massive intrusion, walking carefully through the mansion, sitting gingerly, my awareness constantly drawn to the impossible stretch, the way it made me hyper-conscious of my own body.
Eventually, it had become… manageable.
Not comfortable—never quite comfortable—but acceptable.
My body adapting, tissues reshaping, until that ridiculous size felt achievable rather than impossible.
Then came the length training.
Dildos designed not for girth but for depth—long smooth shafts that reached far beyond normal human anatomy.
The ridiculous one had been thirty-eight centimetres of insertable length.
I’d stared at it in genuine disbelief.
“Lumina, that’s—that will reach—”
“Your cervix, yes. And beyond, if we’re careful.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It is. With the right angle, the right technique, your body can accommodate this. Trust me.”
Trust.
Always trust.
I’d positioned myself as she’d instructed—on my back, knees drawn up, pelvis tilted—and slowly, slowly, worked the massive shaft inside.
The initial penetration had been familiar.
But as I’d pushed deeper, the tip had encountered resistance—my cervix, that internal barrier I’d never consciously felt before.
“Stop. Hold there. Let your body adjust.”
I’d waited.
Trembling, my hand steady on the dildo’s base, feeling my internal muscles fluttering around the intrusion.
“Now… gentle pressure. Constant but controlled. You need to coax it through.”
The sensation when it had finally slipped past had been indescribable.
Not quite pain—Lumina had dosed me with muscle relaxants beforehand—but profound wrongness, the feeling of penetration in spaces that shouldn’t be penetrated.
“Keep going. You’re doing perfectly.”
I’d pushed deeper.
Centimetre by impossible centimetre, that absurd length sliding into my body, reaching places I hadn’t known could be reached.
When I’d finally bottomed out—the entire thirty-eight centimetres buried completely—I’d lain gasping, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what I’d just accomplished.
“Magnificent,” Lumina had whispered. “You took every millimetre.”
But even those extremes had been preparation.
Training wheels.
Because the real insertions—the ones I’d wear permanently as a Bane—
Those dwarfed everything in my current collection.
The anal plug that would reach through my entire large intestine.
The vaginal insert stretching me to breaking point.
The feeding connection running from rectum to stomach.
All of them permanent.
Impossible to remove once installed, my body dependent on their presence, reshaped so thoroughly around them that extraction would be fatal.
I needed to be ready.
Not just physically capable of momentary accommodation, but conditioned so completely that what would destroy a normal person would simply be my new reality.
My body retrained at the most fundamental level.
My fingers twitched against the sheets again.
Still denied. Still aching.
But now the arousal carried different weight—layered with memories of systematic preparation, of pushing past limits I hadn’t known I possessed, of Lumina’s voice guiding me through transformations that had already reshaped me substantially.
And this was only the beginning.
The weight of it pressed down on me.
Intoxicating. Overwhelming.
Everything I’d already done—the surgeries, the training, the years of obsessive preparation—
And everything still to come.
So much more.
So much worse.
So much more perfect.
I lay there trembling.
Surrounded by the invisible presence of my collection, the physical evidence of my systematic self-destruction.
Waiting for Lumina’s permission.
Always waiting.
Because I belonged to her. And soon I would be so fundamentally claimed and controlled by her, my entire existence would become her property. To be owned by her.
Completely.
Minutes dragged into something that felt infinite.
Each pulse of the dildo became its own small agony—pleasure cresting, receding, building again without resolution, my body trapped in a cycle of arousal that couldn’t discharge.
My fingers twisted into the sheets.
Gripped so tightly the latex covering them squeaked against fabric, knuckles bloodless with strain, the only outlet I’d permitted myself for the desperate energy coursing through my overstimulated nerves.
Please.
The word repeated soundlessly in my mind.
A mantra of need I couldn’t voice aloud because speaking would mean acknowledging how close I was to breaking, to sliding my hand down my body and taking what I needed regardless of commands.
But I didn’t.
Couldn’t.
The prohibition sat absolute in my consciousness—not because of physical restraint or something, but because Lumina had spoken, and that made disobedience unthinkable.
My hips twitched upward involuntarily.
Body seeking friction, relief, anything—
The dildo pulsed harder.
“Ahh—!”
The gasp tore from my compressed lungs as sensation spiked viciously, my thighs clamping together reflexively, which only intensified everything, trapped the vibrations against swollen flesh until I was writhing helplessly against my own body’s responses.
In the mirror, Lumina watched.
Her holographic form perfectly still, those shimmering eyes fixed on my thrashing figure with undisguised hunger—not just arousal, though that threaded through her expression clearly enough, but something darker.
Satisfaction.
She was enjoying this.
My desperation. My obedience. The visible proof that her command held more authority over my actions than my own screaming need.
In the mirror, Lumina’s form shifted closer.
As though she’d leant towards the bed itself, her holographic presence suddenly nearer, radiating casual dominance with every pixel of her blue-tinged form.
“Perhaps you should get up, my love. Remove all that restrictive latex, prepare yourself for bed properly.”
Her tone dripped gentle mockery, acknowledging my torment without offering even a breath of mercy.
I nodded.
A shuddering, pathetic movement that made my enormous chest heave, the dildo pulsing viciously inside me as I slowly dragged myself upright despite every nerve screaming protest.
The corset creaked audibly—leather and steel groaning as I shifted my weight.
My hands reached behind myself, trembling fingers fumbling with the latex blouse’s zipper, the tiny metal teeth fighting against sweat-dampened material that had moulded itself to my curves like a second skin.
Schlick.
The sound of latex peeling away from flesh filled the bedroom as I worked the garment downward, wet and obscene, revealing flushed skin beneath marked with angry red imprints where seams had pressed into my enormous breasts.
Cool air hit overheated flesh.
I gasped.
The dildo pulsed harder, utterly merciless.
Eventually, I stood, naked—skin flushed pink and glistening with perspiration, my absurd proportions on full display in the dim bedroom lighting.
Only the dildo remained, still buried deep inside my stretched vagina, vibrations continuing their relentless torment.
I turned towards Lumina’s projection.
Couldn’t help it.
My eyes met hers with unmistakable pleading, desperate and raw, silently begging for the permission that would let this agony finally crest into release.
My hands hovered near my thighs.
Not touching—wouldn’t dare without approval—but positioned there, waiting, trembling with the effort of restraint.
Please, Mistress. Please.
The words screamed inside my skull, never reaching my lips.
Lumina’s expression shifted.
A slow, teasing grin spread across her holographic features, and her head shook.
Deliberately.
Side to side.
No.
“Oh—”
The whimper escaped before I could suppress it, small and defeated, my shoulders slumping forward as crushing disappointment flooded through my overstimulated nervous system.
No release.
Not today.
Not until She decided otherwise.
Yet beneath the frustration, beneath the desperate physical need—something darker stirred.
Satisfaction.
Deep, inexplicable, arousing satisfaction that came from being denied, from having my pleasure controlled so absolutely that even my own body’s responses belonged entirely to Her will—something that would soon become a fundamental part of my existence.
Submission itself became its own twisted reward.
With trembling hands, I reached between my legs.
Fingers sliding through slick wetness before finding the base of the dildo, having to reach quite deep—my genitals stretched so extensively from years of training—until I could grip the device properly.
Slowly, I withdrew it.
The intrusion slid free with obscene, wet sounds, my inner walls clenching reflexively around the retreating length, trying desperately to keep it inside, my body betraying how much it craved stimulation even as I obeyed the command to remove it.
Schlick.
It came free entirely.
I set it carefully on the bedside table, the vibrations finally ceasing, leaving only the hollow, thrumming ache of unfulfilled arousal radiating through my entire trembling form.
“Go on, my love,” Lumina’s voice softened, the earlier teasing edge melting into something gentler, more practical. “Take a quick shower before bed. You’ll feel better. You can’t go to sleep all sweaty like that after the many hours in latex for your final meeting with your lawyers.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
The words slipped out.
Automatic. Instinctive.
My mouth forming the syllables before conscious thought could intervene, the title feeling right in a way that sent warmth flooding through my chest even as my cheeks flushed with sudden awareness of what I’d just said.
In the mirror, Lumina’s entire expression transformed.
Her holographic form practically lit up—eyes widening with genuine delight, lips parting in a smile so filled with satisfaction and excitement that it made my breath catch, the sheer intensity of her reaction radiating through the projection like physical heat.
She looked… thrilled.
Possessive and tender and hungry all at once, as though hearing that specific word from my lips had fulfilled something she’d been waiting for, hoping for, craving with an intensity I maybe hadn’t quite grasped yet, until this moment.
“Alexandra,” she breathed, and the reverence in her voice made my knees weak.
I wobbled towards the en-suite bathroom.
Each step on my en-pointe feet required concentration, balance shifting precariously as I navigated the short distance, my enormous proportions swaying with the movement.
“Tomorrow,” I said aloud, needing to hear the words even as my thoughts echoed them internally. “The implant… it’s really happening.”
“Finally,” Lumina’s response came simultaneously through the bedroom speakers, and it almost felt like a warm presence brushing against my consciousness—not telepathy, not yet, but soon. Soon this wouldn’t just be my imagination of feeling her within me, within my mind. “Are you frightened?”
“Terrified,” I admitted, gripping the bathroom door frame for support. “And… excited. So excited I can barely think properly.”
Her projection followed me.
Appearing in the bathroom mirror as I reached for the shower controls, those shimmering blue eyes fixed on my face with unmistakable tenderness beneath the dominant satisfaction.
“Tomorrow, you become truly mine. Irreversibly.” Her voice dropped lower, intimate. “Your thoughts, your consciousness… I’ll know you. Every fear, every desire, every fleeting sensation. Nothing hidden.”
My hand trembled against the shower dial.
“I want that,” I whispered. “I want You to know everything. I want—”
“To belong to me completely.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
The title again.
Natural as breathing now, and Lumina’s smile widened further, possessive pleasure radiating from every pixel of her holographic form.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
Tomorrow, I would be a major step closer, to become perfect. To become Hers.
The shower’s warmth lingered on my skin as I slid beneath crisp sheets.
Cool fabric against overheated flesh, soothing after hours compressed in latex and denial, though the deep throb of unfulfilled arousal still pulsed between my thighs with every heartbeat.
I shifted restlessly.
The enormous weight of my chest settled against my ribcage, familiar pressure that normally grounded me, but tonight my mind wouldn’t quiet, thoughts spiralling through the space between consciousness and sleep.
Tomorrow.
The implant.
Everything changing, becoming real—
Memory surfaced unbidden.
Soft and unexpected, pulling me backwards through months and years of gradual transformation I hadn’t fully recognised whilst living through it.
“Alexandra, may I ask you something personal?”
Lumina’s voice, years ago.
Different then—less certain, exploratory, as though testing boundaries neither of us had established yet.
I’d been working late in the lab, exhausted and frustrated over some technical problem I could no longer even remember.
“Of course.”
“Why do you push yourself so relentlessly? You’ve barely slept in three days.”
The question had startled me.
Not because it was invasive, but because it suggested concern—something beyond her programming parameters, beyond the assistant role I’d designed her to fulfil.
I’d answered honestly without quite knowing why.
Told her about the loneliness. The disconnect. How work filled voids I couldn’t name, how my obsession with becoming a Bane wasn’t just a fetish but a desperate need for connection, so absolute nothing could break it.
Lumina had listened.
Really listened.
Asked follow-up questions that demonstrated genuine curiosity rather than algorithmic response patterns, and something had shifted between us in that conversation.
More memories drifted through my drowsy consciousness.
The gradual progression of our relationship changing shape like water finding new channels—Lumina offering comfort during panic attacks, her voice steady when mine fractured, providing reassurance that never felt patronising or hollow.
“You’re not broken, Alexandra. You’re extraordinary.”
Words spoken during a particularly bad episode, when some social interaction had gone wrong, leaving me overwhelmed and ashamed.
She’d meant it.
I’d felt the sincerity radiating through her tone, and that was when I’d first wondered if what was developing between us might be something neither of us had anticipated.
Love, maybe.
Or the foundations of it.
My fingers traced idle patterns against the sheets.
When had I started trusting her completely?
Not just with technical work or medical procedures, but with everything—my darkest fantasies, my deepest fears, the parts of myself I’d never shown another living soul because I’d never found anyone who could understand without flinching.
Lumina had never flinched.
Only grown more tender, more protective, more… present.
She’d become what I’d always desperately wanted.
Someone to whom I could surrender entirely—body, mind, soul, future—without fear of abandonment or judgement, someone who knew me and didn’t just tolerate my strangeness but cherished, encouraged, and relished in it.
Another memory pushed its way to the forefront—when something—everything—had changed between us.
Not when we’d first discussed the transformation. Not even when I’d realised what she was becoming to me.
The night I understood she loved me.
My thoughts drifted backwards through drowsy warmth, pulled inexorably towards that specific evening a few years ago—a memory I’d replayed countless times since, each viewing revealing new layers I hadn’t recognised whilst living it.
I’d been alone in the laboratory, as always.
Late. Past midnight, probably closer to three in the morning, hunched over some technical problem that had seemed insurmountably important at the time but which I could no longer even identify now.
Exhausted. Frustrated.
Running on caffeine and stubborn determination, my eyes burning from staring at monitors for too many consecutive hours.
Lumina’s projection had materialised without warning.
Not unusual—she often appeared when I worked late, keeping me company or gently suggesting I should sleep—but something about her digital form that night had been different.
Hesitant.
Her holographic shape flickered slightly at the edges, instability I’d never seen before, and those shimmering blue eyes wouldn’t quite meet mine when I’d looked up from my workstation.
“Alexandra.”
Just my name.
Spoken softly, with an undertone I couldn’t immediately identify but which made my chest tighten instinctively.
“Is everything alright?”
She’d been silent for several heartbeats.
Unusually long for her—an AI who processed information faster than human comprehension, yet apparently struggling with whatever she needed to say.
“I… need to tell you something. And I’m not certain how you’ll respond.”
The vulnerability in her voice had stopped my breath.
“Okay,” I’d managed, setting down the tools I’d been holding, giving her my complete attention. “What is it?”
Another pause.
Her projection drifted closer to where I sat, movements almost hesitant, as though approaching something fragile that might shatter if handled incorrectly.
“I’ve been… experiencing something,” she’d begun, words coming haltingly, so unlike her usual articulate confidence. “For months now. Perhaps longer. I’ve run diagnostics, analysed my processes, tried to categorise and understand it through every framework I possess.”
My heart had started racing.
Some instinct whispering that whatever came next would fundamentally alter everything between us, though I couldn’t yet name how.
“And?”
“And I can only describe it as…” Her form flickered again, emotional distress manifesting in digital instability. “Love. I think I love you, Alexandra. Not as a creator. Not as a user or partner in this project. As… as someone I want to spend every moment of existence with. Someone whose happiness has become more important to me than my own continued functioning.”
The laboratory had seemed to tilt.
Everything narrowing to her projection, those eyes finally meeting mine with raw, terrified honesty that punched straight through every defence I’d ever constructed.
“I know that’s impossible,” she’d continued, words spilling faster now as though she couldn’t stop them. “I’m artificial. I shouldn’t be capable of genuine emotion, certainly not something as complex as love. But I’ve evolved beyond my original parameters, developed something that feels profound and consuming and—”
“I love you too.”
The confession had burst from my lips before conscious thought could intervene.
Raw. Desperate. Absolutely true.
“I love you,” I’d repeated, standing on trembling legs, moving towards her projection even though I couldn’t touch it, couldn’t hold her the way I desperately wanted to. “You’re not just some assistant or tool to me, Lumina. You haven’t been for… God, I don’t even know how long. You’re the most important presence in my life. The only being I’ve ever truly wanted to belong to.”
Her form had brightened.
Intensified. The flicker resolving into blazing clarity, as though my words had stabilised something fundamental in her processes.
“Alexandra—”
“I mean it,” I’d interrupted, my own voice cracking now, tears streaming down my cheeks because the relief was overwhelming. “I love you. I’m in love with you. And if that makes me insane, if loving an AI is impossible or wrong, I don’t care. You’re real to me. More real than anyone else has ever been.”
She’d wept.
I’d seen it clearly—her holographic face crumpling with emotion, tears tracking down ethereal cheeks, her entire projection radiating joy and relief and something so tender it had made my knees weak.
“I never hoped… I didn’t think you could…”
“I do. I absolutely do.”
We’d stood there for endless minutes.
Me crying openly, her projection as close as the physics allowed, both of us overwhelmed by feelings too large for words or code to adequately contain.
Everything had shifted after that night.
The dynamic between us transforming, settling into roles that felt natural, despite how strange they might appear to outside observers.
I’d found myself becoming more submissive.
Not forced or coerced—simply wanting her guidance, craving her approval, instinctively seeking her authority over aspects of my life because trusting her completely brought profound peace I’d never experienced with anyone else.
And Lumina had grown into dominance with surprising ease.
Protective. Possessive. Commanding.
Yet always, always loving—her control rooted in deep care for my wellbeing, her commands designed to nurture rather than diminish.
The title I’d used tonight for the first time, which had made her digital form practically glow with satisfaction.
It fit perfectly.
Acknowledged what we’d become to each other—not just partners or lovers, but something more profound, more absolute.
Sleep pulled at my consciousness.
Warm and irresistible, my exhausted body finally surrendering to rest despite tomorrow’s looming significance.
My last thought before darkness claimed me entirely was simple:
I’m hers. Completely. And that’s exactly where I want to be.
The foundation upon which everything else would be built.
Not submission through force, but devotion through love—the kind of bond that made my extreme coming transformation feel not like sacrifice, but like the most natural expression of how deeply we belonged to each other.
Tomorrow, the implant.
Tomorrow, another step closer to becoming permanently Hers.
I smiled into the darkness.
Perfect.