Simple tasks - Episode 2

Episode 1: https://www.patreon.com/posts/126988711

...

“Shit, shit, shit,” — Martin kept repeating in his mind, slowly walking down the alley, glancing around, feeling how his thigh twitched with every step, like someone invisible was pulling his pelvis to the side, making him walk with a light, almost flirty sway he had absolutely no control over. His breasts — huge, unbearably heavy — were dragging him down, weighing on his shoulders, and with each step, they bounced like two uncontrollable, independently-living creatures, tugging at the thin fabric of the top and forcing Martin to constantly fight the urge to press these two life-of-their-own sacks down, just to stop the constant, humiliating and infuriating movement that made every step feel like a scene from some cheap softcore porno. But he tried to ignore it, to think of something else, something more important. What the hell is going on?

That guy. Thank God he managed to shake him off, though he still wasn’t sure how exactly — maybe the voice worked, or maybe it was the sudden surge of panic. A couple of lines, a nervous giggle, a step back — and he was gone. Martin hoped he wouldn’t come back. Even though… even if he did… He swallowed. Who the hell would listen to him now?

His heels clicked loudly on the asphalt, echoing in the empty alley with an off-beat rhythm, just like his walk — more like a drunk girl stumbling out of a club than anything else. Martin kept looking over his shoulder every few steps, even though the alley seemed empty. Seemed. Because that feeling — like someone was watching from every corner, like millions of eyes were glued to him, like his new body wasn’t just wrapped in this slutty excuse for clothing but displayed in a fucking shop window — it wouldn’t go away.

— I need to do something… Go to the police…? — he muttered aloud, and flinched again at the sound of his own voice — it came out melodic, with a husky edge, almost sexy...

He stopped, pressing his back against a brick wall, feeling its coldness through the thin top sting his shoulder blades. A breeze blew from below — chilly — and for the first time, Martin fully realized how exposed his clothes were. The draft slid right across his crotch, making the skin under his tiny shorts erupt in goosebumps, and his whole body shrink back into itself. It wasn’t just uncomfortable. It was… shameful.

“Think, Martin, think… What’s the last thing you remember before you woke up?” he furrowed his brows and closed his eyes, trying to reason. “— I… I was heading home… Friday. Yeah, definitely Friday. I left the office later than usual, because of that damn report… Then the bar. Kir, Steve, that idiot with the dumb jokes…”

He paused, unable to recall anything else. His mind burst into nothingness. Everything else — blank. No ride home, no street, no phone in hand. Just… darkness. Like someone carefully, meticulously erased the last pages.

“I’ll get out of this alley and head home, and there… there it’ll all make sense,” — he finally decided, taking the remaining few steps until he reached the bustling, neon-lit street, and then froze, as if a shock ran straight through his legs.

In front of him, in the soft focus of the city evening, stood a sign: “Bar Lush” — elegant purple letters shimmering like oil on water. At the entrance — a group of young people, men and women, with drinks in their hands and predatory eyes. One of them, tall, with neatly styled hair and a drink in hand, raised an eyebrow slightly, looking straight at Martin. Not at his face — at his tits — openly, hungrily, like he was searching for visual confirmation of his thoughts. The girl next to him scoffed lightly, glancing down at Martin’s legs — sharp, with a mocking glint. Another guy, already tipsy, smirked while staring at his stomach and belly-button piercing, like he was imagining tracing his tongue over it. A girl in a dress, raising an eyebrow, gave the top a once-over — eyeing it from the breasts to the neckline, as if checking whether the fabric was real or just an illusion. And the one with the cigarette between his lips leaned toward his buddy and whispered something, not taking his eyes off Martin, savoring him slowly like he wasn’t even a person — just a piece of meat in a display case.

Everything inside Martin clenched. His throat went dry, his legs rooted to the ground. He felt naked. No — worse. Like he was on full display, a living doll in the window of an adult store, and now anyone could step up, choose their angle, press whatever button they wanted, and laugh wherever they liked.

And then — there he was again.

That disgusting, overly cheerful voice, blasting into his brain like a siren:

“A-a-a-aand here comes your next task! Get a free drink at the bar! Good luck, hottie!”

Bang. A flash in front of his eyes. Light-blue text hovered in the air like a neon sign:

"New Task: Get a free drink at 'Lush' bar. Timer started!"

— You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me… — he whispered, and even that whisper sounded too damn sexy, like it was meant for someone’s ear instead of himself.

Martin stood frozen, like someone had slapped him. The bar. The task. These people. Their eyes.

“What happens if I don’t do it?..”

Martin spun around sharply, desperately wanting to get the hell out, anywhere, even though he had no idea where the fuck he even was, what this place was, or even what city this might be. And right then, right in front of his eyes, appeared:

"10 minutes 00 seconds"

The message initially blocked his entire view, then started shrinking, second by second, as the countdown began. By the time it hit "9 minutes 55 seconds", it froze in the upper corner — small, but still always there, always in his field of vision no matter where he looked.

— What the fuck is this bullshit?! — burst out of Martin, and he nearly stumbled, forgetting for a second that he had to keep his balance.

He flinched when the digits floating mid-air jumped: 9 minutes 54 seconds. Not just a countdown. A reminder. Pressure. A threat.

“Go fuck yourselves! I’m not playing your twisted game,” — flashed through his mind, — “I’m just walking away. That’s it.”

He stepped sideways, a sudden jerk, trying to break out of the bar’s line of sight, away from the stares, from the damn pressure, from the seconds ticking away in the top corner of his vision. His heels caught in a crack in the asphalt, his foot wobbled — fuck, walking in these stilettos was a nightmare! — but he pushed on, stumbling, another step, and then he saw another message appear right in front of him.

"Decline registered. Attention. Decline. Initiating: body parameter lock. Identity confirmation. Biological tether to current shell."

And right below that, a loading bar appeared. Crawling. Slowly, lazily, like it was savoring his torment, inching right only to speed up when Martin made another step away from the bar.

— Hey! — the voice came out by itself — high-pitched, chesty, with a tremble, and there wasn’t a drop of his old confidence in it.

The bar was still there, still loading — "Body parameter lock" — moving with terrifying monotony, like it was sinking its teeth into his fate. And the moment Martin turned back — just the smallest motion in the direction of the bar — the loading… slowed down. Just barely, but enough to notice. One second. Two. Then — a step.

The bar stopped.

— You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me… — he whispered to himself.

He looked again at "Bar Lush". The people were still there at the entrance, the same eyes, the same visual tentacles crawling all over his body. He took another step toward the bar — and flash — the bar disappeared. Only the countdown remained in the air now.

— Ohh, looks like we’ve got a clever one, cutie! Round of applause! — the host’s voice exploded in his head like confetti at a kid’s party — only this party wasn’t his, it was on him.

Another message flashed before Martin’s eyes, flooding everything in a sticky, sugary blue glow:

"Bonus for quick thinking: 'Hint'. You may ask one question about the game rules. Activate now?"

He froze. His heart was pounding in his chest — in this chest, the one constantly reminding him of itself with its weight, its movement, its pull, the ache in his shoulders. Against this fake cheer, this over-the-top happy-go-lucky voice, everything inside him screamed: “What the fuck is going on?!” — but the hint… That could be a chance.

— Activate it, — he whispered, and the words came out in that trembling, sickly sweet voice again, the kind that made him want to curl up, shut up, disappear. — How do I get my body back?...

Instantly, another message appeared mid-air, right in front of him:

"Question accepted. Answer: Only completing the full quest gives a chance to return to your original body. Current progress: 1 out of 12 tasks."

Martin exhaled, but the air stuck in his throat. Twelve. TWELVE. This wasn’t a dream. Not some fucked-up trip. This was a game. A game he didn’t know the rules to. And no way out until the end.

“I... I’m stuck here forever if I don’t...”

His eyes drifted back to "Bar Lush". His entire body resisted — like every cell was screaming: “no, no, anywhere but there.” But the timer kept ticking. And now, knowing that a refusal meant a lock. Forever. In this body. In these shorts. With these tits that made it hard to even breathe, in these fishnet-covered legs, with this face that wasn’t his, a face someone already called ugly. And what if it only gets worse from here?

“Fuck all of you…” — he thought and stepped toward the bar.

...

Inside it was warm, loud, and smelled like something sweet, alcoholic, and just a bit… sticky. The air buzzed with music and voices, everything felt slightly blurred, like in a bad dream — but way too vivid to be unreal. Martin took two steps in and felt it instantly — the stares. On his legs, on his stomach, on his tits. The fabric of the top seemed to stretch even tighter, as if under the pressure of all those eyes, and the pierced belly button now felt like a goddamn beacon for every gaze in the bar. He wanted to cover himself — with his hands, a chair, anything — but his hands weren’t free: one clenched into a fist, the other shaking.

He moved silently toward the bar, hearing whispers and barely suppressed laughter behind him. His heels tapped against the floor, each step echoing through his chest. Goosebumps ran down his back, and a jolt shot along the inside of his thigh — maybe from the heat, maybe fear, or maybe from the way that fucking fishnet clung to his skin.

The bar counter greeted him with polished wood, cool glass, and yellow neon lighting up bottles on hanging shelves. Martin slowly lowered himself onto a high stool, feeling the shorts dig into his skin. The tights — if you could even call them that — stretched across his ass with a faint rustle he could feel. Sitting… felt weird. His thighs spread automatically, like this body knew how to sit to tease, not to be comfortable. He tried to sit differently — didn’t work. The thin net biting into his skin, the stool felt freezing, like he was sitting on it bare-assed.

He leaned forward slightly to hide his tits, but that was a mistake, because the two huge, warm mounds pressed against the counter, squished under the pressure, and he immediately felt the skin slightly stick to the wood, the thin top stretch even tighter, like it could somehow get even worse.

Martin pressed his lower lip against his index finger, instinctively, like it might calm him down. And immediately scraped his cheek with his nail. A light, almost invisible pain. Fucking long nails. He pulled his hand back and brushed his ear — and touched something.

— Ahh… — he flinched.

Metal. In his ear.

— What the fuck… — he felt around. One. Two. Five. Shit, eight? Almost his whole ear was pierced — rings, bars, studs. Not to mention the choker, the bracelet on his wrist, and that ridiculous belly piercing. He looked like a rock band that got offstage and got stuck in a cheap brothel.

— You ordering something, sweetcheeks? — came a voice from his right, and Martin nearly jumped, hearing that greasy-smooth “sweetcheeks.” He turned his head — the bartender. A guy in his thirties with jacked arms, a smile he clearly practiced in front of a mirror, and a T-shirt stretched over his chest like he wanted to seduce someone with it. His hair was tied back, shadows of sleepless nights under his eyes, but overall — way too groomed, way too sure of himself.

The bartender’s eyes widened slightly — maybe from surprise, maybe from the internal clash raging inside him at the sight of a body straight out of a strip club fantasy with a face that looked like someone forgot to finish drawing it properly. The mismatch hit hard, made him hesitate, but he recovered quickly — years of night shifts had trained him well: it didn’t matter who stood before you, all that mattered was selling and smiling.

— Uh… we’re outta happy-jinx already… — he drawled, looking not at Martin’s eyes but somewhere around his lips, slightly below. — You… wanna drink something?

Martin almost twitched. Of course he did. Or had to. That stupid task was still ticking away somewhere in the corner of his vision, counting down every miserable second.

— I… — he swallowed, feeling how the voice — new, high-pitched, trembling at the ends of words — picked the intonation all on its own, forming the sentence like a flirt instead of a plea for help. — I don’t have any money. But… maybe you could… treat me, hmm?

He tilted his head slightly — and immediately cursed that move: his tits, with the motion, pushed inward, the top stretched like it was begging for attention, and the bartender noticed. Oh, he noticed.

Martin saw the way his nostrils flared just a bit, how his fingers on the glass tensed slightly.

— Sweetcheeks, where do you usually hang out? First time I see you here. — The bartender’s voice was soft, a bit raspy, slightly sweet — he was already playing along, like he thought he just ran into another “newbie,” and not… something broken.

— Listen, I… — he swallowed again, feeling each second slip by, the sweat pooling under his tits, and the unpleasant dampness between his shoulder blades. — I don’t really know where I am. What… city is this?

The bartender raised an eyebrow like he was looking at the dumbest blonde on earth, and tilted his head slightly.

— What are you, sweetheart, a tourist? Or just had a wild night? This is Los-Parks. Downtown. State of Cali... wait, you seriously don’t know that?

Martin nodded silently, feeling everything clench inside, like a block of ice just shifted in his gut.

— Los-Parks… — he whispered. Never heard of it. Not the city, not the name, not the streets. Like it was ripped out of nowhere. No past, no map, no phone — nothing.

"5 minutes 08 seconds."

— And where are you from, sunshine? — the bartender's voice was almost homey now, but there was a sharp alertness in his eyes — the way adults talk to people clearly not well, but don’t want to start a fight over it.

He exhaled, and his voice automatically played the part of a poor, sweet girl:

— I… I’m from Denver… Colorado… — Martin looked up at the bartender, and for some reason added at the end — USA.

He instantly knew something went wrong.

The bartender narrowed his eyes slightly, blinked — once, then again, like he’d heard a foreign word in a familiar language and was trying to recall where he might’ve come across it. His face went blank for a split second. Then he smirked — not with humor, but like a radio suddenly started speaking static in front of him.

— USA?.. — he repeated, tilting his head a little, but with the same look doctors use when asking a patient: “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?”

— It’s… a country, — Martin tried to explain, feeling a cold shiver down his back. — United States of America?

Silence. The bartender pressed his lips together and then, still staring at him like he didn’t want to miss a single twitch, said:

— Sweetheart, I don’t know what you’ve been on today, but you really need to lie down. Nobody says… stuff like that here.

Martin swallowed. His heart wasn’t just pounding — it was hammering inside his chest, inside these new heavy Breasts, making his whole ribcage feel too tight. Even breathing was hard.

— Where am I? I mean… — he corrected himself, trying to speak as softly as possible, avoiding any “harsh” tones, because this new voicebox just refused to say anything firm. — Los-Parks — is that… in what country?

The bartender raised an eyebrow, looked at him like this was an idiot test, and replied with near-pity:

— You from the outskirts or something? Los-Parks is the capital. Federation of Six Nests. First Ring. Central District. — He said it like listing the most basic facts ever, and still couldn’t tell if this weird “girl” was joking or just out of her damn mind.

Federation of Six… what? Rings?

— Got it, — Martin exhaled, and everything inside him tightened. He tried to swallow the panic, but it was gnawing at his breath — and at his tongue too.

“There’s no USA. At all. He’s in another world? Or maybe just…” — the thought got stuck. He couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t accept it.

And the timer, meanwhile, ticked on. "3 minutes 22 seconds." He glanced up on instinct and… flinched. The countdown was moving faster. Faster than it should. Like someone, somewhere, had turned on “acceleration.” Or — punishment for stalling.

— Fuck, I need to… — he whispered, then quickly looked at the bartender, forced a tense smile, tilted his head slightly — a move he made without thinking, too feminine —

— Look… maybe just one cocktail? Anything. I… I don’t have any money, but… maybe you could, well… treat me?

The bartender froze for a moment, then laughed — raspy, slightly mocking, but not cruel.

— Alright. At least you’re honest. — He winked, reached for the shakers. — Just one though. Got it, superstar?

Martin gave a weak nod. He didn’t know where that strange note in the bartender’s voice came from… trust? Or just… interest? Maybe he was used to odd little creatures like this showing up — with eyes full of desperation and faces that begged for an edit.

When the tall, girly glass filled with something pink was set in front of him, "2 minutes 04 seconds", he grabbed it almost desperately, like it was a lifeline. Drink it? Or just hold it? The task was “receive.” Not “drink.” He blinked.

DING!

"Task completed: Receive a free drink."

Blue text exploded like fireworks in front of his eyes, and immediately the next countdown started:

"Choose your bonus:

1 - Makeup Lock — Your face becomes more attractive: perfectly matched makeup. Your makeup will no longer wear off. Always flawless.

2 - City Map — A mental map of Los-Parks is added to your memory. No street names. Landmarks only.

3 - Level 1 Purse — A small trendy purse. Inside: lip gloss, a handkerchief, your boyfriend’s number (boyfriend comes as a bonus).

4 - Accelerated Adaptation to the Female Body (movement, posture, gracefulness)

5 - Outfit Pack — You’ll receive a new set of women’s clothes. Style: club fashionista."

6 - Model Hair — Shampoo-commercial hair. Only now — it’s yours. Always. Even if you don’t fucking want it.