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Celia had been blissfully unaware the whole time the throne had been completing its transformation. She had screamed in exaltation, bucking and grinding even as her ass was reshaped to bursting point, and moaned through her freshly inflated lips as the robotic arms continued their work. And then she was gone – wheeled away like the rest of them, onward to their new lives as whores and playthings. Only Angela remained, still strapped to her throne, silent but for the metal piercings thrumming away on her newly exaggerated tits and between her legs.
“The cameras are off now.” One of the latex clad members of Femnonymous announced without emotion. “We are done here.” No 'congratulations', Angela noted. No 'you are the winner' or 'thank you for helping set all this up and then foiling the escape attempt' – just 'we are done here'. Other amazons were gathering now too, yet none of them made any movement towards freeing her.
“So, that's it?” Angela stammered, her eyes flitting from one rubber suited figure to the next. “I can go home?” That was the least they could do, she thought. They should be rewarding her.
“Not quite...” The first woman said coolly. “You've been very useful, Angela. You were useful before the island. You were useful while you were here. And now...you will be useful after the island. We have a new assignment for you. One we think you will be very good at. Once a mole, always a mole, right?” The woman began to circle her. “We expect you to fill this role perfectly, and if you don't, there's always the chip to push you in the right direction.” Angela's blood ran cold. She had assumed she had been spared the compliance device given to the rest of the producers. “Of course, to complete this new task, we need to make sure you won't be recognised. You need to be perfect. Fortunately, we have just the thing...” Angela screamed and thrashed as countless robotic arms flowed out from beneath the throne to do Femnonymous's bidding...
Ten years had passed since her final transformation, and Angela was perched on the arm of a leather couch awaiting her husband's return from work. She knew it was a big day for him and he would be expecting a celebratory fuck and so she was dressed appropriately. The finale of the Apprentits Lost Tapes had been watched by millions and the Network had been resurrected. Bryce Murphy would be coming home a happy man – a happy, horny man who wanted nothing more than to pound his kinky young wife.
Bryce was predictable by now – they had been married nine years after all. But maybe he was predictable all along, and that was why Femnonymous had so easily crafted Angela into his future wife. But then again, he was a spoiled rich guy who made his fortune, and got off on, transforming gameshow contestants into glorified sex objects. Maybe the transformation of Angela into the ultimate sex object had been enough... The throne had crafted her into a walking wet dream and the compliance chip had done the rest, pushing her towards Bryce in a busy strip club – her enormous tits already out and the metal piercing thrumming busily. She had blown him and professed her love for him with the same collagen pumped lips that night, and after a whirlwind two months of 'romance' and debauchery, they had married.
The mole was in position and to make sure she stayed in position, the chip dictated that she be the perfect wife to Bryce. For ten years, she had been everything for him. Not only had she cooked and cleaned and kept their house, but she had been his own personal whore. Even a man of Bryce's sexual appetite was constantly amazed by what Angela was willing to do to keep him. She was almost permanently dressed in fetish wear such as the latex lingerie she now wore and would attend events with him wearing visible buttplugs or the occasional ballgag.
Their physical relationship was a nonstop zoetrope of new positions and sex acts that eventually involved Bryce bringing home other women to help fulfil his fantasies. One weekend he brought home Angela's former colleague and friend, Mandy, now a senior executive at the Network. She hadn't recognised Angela, of course, who now looked like a completely different person – her slim build now a curvy caricature, her small face now pouting and wild, and her formerly brown hair now long blonde and wavy – all thanks to the throne. Angela had joined Mandy on their knees as they sucked off Bryce in unison and Angela couldn't help but think this could have all been avoided if she had just got on her knees at a long ago Christmas party.
Bryce also got into the habit of taking her back to the strip club where they had first met and having her perform with the girls there. His favourite was a guy who had been a contestant on the Network's own Apprentits and had been transformed into one of the strippers when he was eliminated. Bryce loved watching him fuck his wife. It was as if his ultimate fantasy was seeing the man whose life his gameshow had ruined by turning him into a bimbo cuckold him with his own bimbo wife.
Ten years, thought Angela, ten fucking years. Ten years of degrading herself for Bryce fucking Murphy. Ten years of her clit vibrating. Ten years of threesomes with her best friend turned mortal enemy. Ten years of hell courtesy of Femnonymous's grand fucking plan of which she still had no knowledge. The chip was the only thing keeping her on their side now. Without it she would turn on them in a second. She wasn't with Femnonymous, nor the Network, nor Bryce, nor Mandy, nor the other producers, wherever they were... It was just her, and it was nearly her time...
“Angela!” A voice soothed in her head, and she realised it must be the chip. Femnonymous were using it to communicate with her. “It's time! The next phase starts now!”
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