Simple tasks - Episode 1

"A-a-a-a-and let's start our show!" — the loud voice of the announcer rang in Martin's head, making him jerk as if he'd been electrocuted.

His eyes snapped open, but the world around him was nothing like he expected. He wasn’t in his room, not at the office, and not even at some bar where his friends might’ve dragged him after a good—or not-so-good—evening. No.

The scent of dampness, metal, and old concrete filled his nostrils. Wooden pallets, dirty cardboard boxes, and rusted pipes were scattered around. Light seeped through broken windows, casting long beams across the floor.

An abandoned warehouse.

— Wh-what the… — he tried to speak but coughed instead.

And then he felt it.

The weight on his chest, the tight fabric pressing against his skin, and something… swaying with every breath he took. He snapped his gaze downward.

— No…

His chest—or what was now his chest—huge, heavy mounds, squeezed by a sheer dark fabric. They weren’t just there—they had a life of their own, bouncing even with the rise and fall of his breathing.

Slowly, he lowered his hands. Hips. Massive. A waist so unrealistically slim that it barely seemed to exist, and then… an ass. A huge, impossibly round ass, squeezed into a pair of ripped denim shorts so tiny that—Jesus Christ.

Fishnet tights. A choker around his neck.

His hands trembled as they ran over his stomach. Smooth skin. Belly button… pierced?!

— What the fuck… — his voice was still his, deep and masculine.

As he slowly got to his feet, Martin couldn't ignore how his new hips swayed slightly, and how the weight on his chest bounced downward as if trying to escape the tight, semi-transparent fabric. He pressed a hand to his chest, but that only made everything feel more real—the softness, the warmth, the sheer weight of something he'd never dealt with in his life.

"What the actual fuck is this?!"

His fingers shook as they slid across the perfectly smooth skin of his stomach. Where was the hair? Where was his abs and the familiar feel of his lean muscles? But before panic could fully take hold, the announcer's voice boomed in his head again—loud, cheerful, as if this nightmare was nothing but a fun attraction.

"A-a-and here we go! First task—make a stranger smile! Time starts now!"

Martin froze. A task? What the hell is this bullshit?

— Hey, what the fuck? Where am I? What did you do to me?! — he shouted, but his words only bounced off the concrete walls of the abandoned building, left unanswered.

Finally, he took a full look at himself, afraid to even move. Fishnet tights, ripped shorts—so short that there was probably way too much showing in the back—black top with a wild neckline, squeezing his new breasts and leaving his stomach exposed. A pierced belly button. A choker.

He looked like… a whore.

— No-no-no, fuck, no!

He grabbed his head—it was still his. This was definitely some sick joke. A dream. Yeah, that had to be it. Any second now, he’d wake up in his apartment, in his body, in his normal clothes—not in… this. But the cold of the warehouse, the damp scent of rust, and the shivers running down his skin told him otherwise. This was real.

Taking a deep breath, he looked around. First thing—find a way out. If this was a game, then there had to be a reason for the task.

Stumbling on what felt like ridiculously narrow legs, tottering on high heels, he moved toward the broken window. Every step was wrong—his chest jiggled with every movement, his hips swayed too much, and from behind… God, these shorts felt like he was wearing nothing at all.

Climbing outside, he found himself in an alleyway. Dusk. Streetlights cut through the evening haze, and somewhere in the distance, car horns blared. The city was alive.

— Hey, babe, you busy or what, ‘cause I—

The voice cut off sharply. Martin turned to see a man—cap, leather jacket, stubble—the type who clearly intended to chat up a "girl." But his cocky smirk twisted into confusion. The guy snapped his mouth shut and just… stared at him, like he’d seen a ghost.

His eyes ran down Martin’s body, lingered on his bare stomach and belly button piercing, then traveled up—to the barely contained swell of his chest.

— Wha… — the guy exhaled slowly.

Martin clenched his jaw. He felt exposed, as if he’d been stripped naked right in the middle of the street. In a way, he had.

— Listen… — He forced the words out, feeling how utterly wrong his own voice sounded against everything else. Deep, rough—coming from a body that practically screamed femininity. — Can you tell me where the hell I am?

— Huh? — The guy blinked, shook his head like he was trying to snap out of it. — What, are you high or… wait, are you actually a dude?

A wide grin stretched across his face—too wide, too unnatural.

DING!

"Task complete! Make a stranger smile!"

The announcer’s voice exploded in Martin’s head like fireworks. He blinked, realizing that the guy in the cap was, in fact, grinning.

"Choose your reward!"

Right in front of Martin, floating in midair, pale-blue glowing text appeared:

1. Voice Adjustment – Your voice will become feminine.

2. Bonus Item – A mini purse with makeup.

3. Vocabulary Reduction – Your speech will be simplified.

— What the… — Martin didn’t even get to finish.

A sharp, piercing screech erupted in his ears, like someone driving red-hot needles straight into his skull. He hissed, clutching his head, but the sound only grew louder—deafening.

New options flashed before his eyes:

4. Sensitivity Boost – Your body will become even more sensitive to touch.

5. Posture Correction – Your walk and movements will become more feminine.

— WHAT…?! — The words got stuck in his throat. The ringing became unbearable, as if his eardrums were about to burst. His vision blurred, letters flickering in and out of focus, words twisting like someone was shoving them directly into his brain.

He had to choose.

— Ah, fine, fine! Voice, I’ll take the voice!

Martin squeezed his eyes shut, but there was no relief. Instead, it felt like someone shoved a hand down his throat and started rearranging the very essence of his speech. A burning wave surged through his vocal cords, his chest clenched from the inside, and he sucked in a ragged breath.

— F-fuck, what is this… — he stopped, hearing his own voice.

Soft. High-pitched. A little husky, but unmistakably… female.

His eyes flew open as the unfamiliar sound escaped his lips. He tried again.

— Hey! — Trembling, melodic, it slid through the air, a bit too bright, a bit too soft to bear.

— So you’re a chick after all, huh? What’s with the face, though? A killer body like that and such an ugly mug, — the guy in the cap smirked, eyeing Martin like he was some circus freak.

Martin swallowed hard. Looked like this was just the beginning.