The scale didn't blink this time. It just told the truth.
Brett stepped on naked after his morning shower, water still beading on his golden shoulders, his long honey blonde hair wrapped in a white towel, his skin steaming in the cold air of the bathroom.
He looked down.
129.0
He stared at the red numbers until they burned into his retinas. Ten pounds gone in two weeks. Forty-six pounds total since the night Lance found him at one seventy-five, crying over his mother's funeral bills in a stained t-shirt in Whitefish.
He was twenty-one, five foot eight, and he weighed one hundred and twenty-nine pounds.
Only nine more pounds to go until one twenty, the number Nico had written on his chart on day one in red pen and circled three times.
"Holy shit," he whispered, and his voice echoed off the marble, high and clear and female.
His hands flew to his mouth, covering his perfect white veneers with their slightly sharpened canines, and he started to laugh, a wild, bubbling, hysterical sound that turned into sobs halfway through.
He sank to the floor in a puddle of water and tears, naked and shivering, and wrapped his arms around his knees.
He looked down at his body and didn't recognize it as his own.
His legs, crossed in front of him, were long and lean and completely hairless, golden from months of tanning, the muscles long and feminine from ballet. His hips flared dramatically from his tiny waist, a true hourglass now, fat redistributed by the hormones into the perfect womanly curve. His stomach was flat and soft, with the faintest line down the middle from Pilates. His breasts, oh god his breasts, were full and heavy and round, a solid D cup now, bouncing slightly with each sob, nipples peaked and pink and sensitive in the cold air.
He cupped them with both hands, feeling their weight, and cried harder.
Dr. Ellison came at noon with a new prescription bottle, no pill case this time.
"Maximum dose," she said simply, sitting on the edge of Brett's vanity while he sat in his silk robe, his hair down, his big blue eyes still puffy from crying. "Your body can take it now. Your labs are perfect. This is it, Brielle. This is as female as we can make you chemically."
She handed him the bottle. The pills inside were the darkest pink he'd ever seen, almost red.
"You'll feel it within hours," she warned, her kind eyes serious. "Mood swings will be intense. Crying. Euphoria. Your breasts will grow more. Your skin will get even softer. Your... emotions will be very close to the surface. Are you ready?"
Brett looked at his reflection in the mirror behind her, at the girl with the golden skin and the long blonde hair and the perfect white dangerous smile and the D cup breasts pushing against the silk robe, and he nodded, tears already falling again.
"I'm ready," he whispered.
He took the first maximum dose with his green juice at lunch and by three pm he was weeping in the sauna for no reason at all except that the cedar smelled beautiful.
By four pm he was in his closet, dressed in full uniform because he couldn't stand to be out of it, black satin corset laced to twenty-three inches, black sheer stockings with the back seam, black garter belt with six clips pulling tight, black suede 120 mm Louboutins.
He walked to the three-way mirror and just stared.
The girl in the glass was a goddess.
At one twenty-nine, every ounce of his former male bulk was gone. His shoulders, once broad from warehouse work, were now narrow and sloped and elegant. His collarbones cut sharp shadows above the swell of his breasts. His waist was impossibly tiny, cinched by steel but also by nature now, his body remembering the shape. His hips flared like a violin, his ass high and round under the invisible line of his thong. His legs went on forever in heels and stockings.
His face was his mother's face perfected. Big blue eyes huge and luminous with tears, cheekbones carved by weight loss, his smaller than average nose straight and cute, his full lips painted nude gloss, his perfect white veneers with their slightly dangerous canines flashing when he parted his lips.
His long honey blonde hair fell past his breasts in soft waves.
He turned sideways and ran his pink-nailed hands down his body, over his breasts, down his tiny waist, over the flare of his hip, down his stockinged thigh, and shivered at how soft his own skin was.
"Oh my god," he breathed out loud to the empty closet, his voice thick with hormones and wonder. "I'm a goddess."
He said it again, louder, letting the words fill the room. "I'm a fucking goddess."
He started to cry again, happy tears this time, mascara running down his golden cheeks, his perfect teeth showing in a watery smile.
He grabbed his phone and opened the camera, flipping it to video. He didn't care about Lance's rules anymore. He needed to see himself.
He filmed himself walking in the heels, turning, posing, his corset creaking, his stockings whispering, his breasts bouncing softly with each step.
"One twenty-nine," he whispered to the lens, his voice breaking. "Only nine more pounds to go. Hormones at maximum. Look at me, Lance. Just look at what you made."
He saved the video and didn't send it. Not yet.
He walked downstairs for dinner like he was walking a runway, each step deliberate in his Louboutins, each sway of his hips practiced, each breath shallow in his corset.
Elena took one look at him and put her hand over her heart. "Brielle."
Julian came out of the pantry and actually gasped. "You look... unreal."
Brett slid onto his barstool, crossed his endless legs, felt the familiar intoxicating pull of the garter against his stocking, and smiled his dangerous white smile.
"I feel unreal," he purred, his voice low and smoky from crying.
His phone buzzed at 9 pm.
Lance: How are you tonight?
Brett was lying on his white fur rug in front of the fireplace, naked except for his stockings and garter belt and heels, his long hair spread around him like a halo, his D cup breasts heavy against the fur, his tiny waist on display, his body humming from the maximum dose of estrogen running through his veins.
He sent a voice note, his voice thick and sleepy and female and full of power.
"I'm one twenty-nine, Lance," he whispered into the phone, and he could hear his own smile. "Only nine more pounds to go. Dr. Ellison put me on the maximum hormones today. I feel... everything. I'm so soft. I'm so curvy. I'm a goddess and you aren't even here to see it."
He paused, then added, his sharp canines catching his lower lip, "Your loss, handsome. x"
He hit send, arched his back on the rug, ran his hands over his perfect, soft, goddess body, and stared into the fire, tears of pure euphoric joy sliding down his temples, waiting for the man who made him to finally come home and worship what he'd created.…