Whatever Happened to Raphael? (Shipshape)

 This is a continuation of my LoanRanger series, which is available on my index page. This particular caption is a flashback of Shipshape, which you can read here

The car idled in the carpark behind the hotel, its seclusion shielding the two figures inside from the paparazzi flashes battering the street st the front, where the promotional gala for LoanRanger glittered with neon signs.

Raphael shifted in his seat, the latex dress squeaking as it clung obscenely to every surgically sculpted curve. The neckline plunged low, displaying the implants Alice had insisted upon. His legs, shaved smooth and glossed with lotion, gleamed. The investor, seated opposite him, watched with an expression that hovered between amusement and appraisal. To Raphael, it was like being on the yacht all over again.

“You wear it well,” the investor said at last. His voice was low, indulgent, the tone of a man already in possession.

Raphael forced a smile, lashes fluttering as Alice had taught him. “I wear what I’m told.” Raphael’s heart thumped. He hated it. The dress, the body, the humiliating role of ornament. But he had learned one thing in these months of forced femininity: survival depended on performance. So he leaned forward, breasts pressing against the latex, voice pitched sweet and high. “I like…being valuable,” he whispered.

The investor’s smile widened. “Good answer.” He leaned closer, conspiratorial now. “Tell me, Raphael. Do you want to stay valuable? Or do you want to spend the rest of your life as LoanRangee’s plaything—paraded, mocked, disposable?”

Raphael’s nails dug into the seat. He thought of Alice smirking as she’d unveiled him on the yacht, a cold hand guiding his waist like property. He thought of his body—no longer his. “I want…more,” he admitted.

The investor reached into his briefcase and produced a slim folder. He slid it across the seat. “Then give me what I need, and I’ll give you what you want. A future. Freedom from Alice's leash. Protection.”

Raphael hesitated before opening the folder. Inside were photographs: offshore accounts, internal memos, emails with Alice’s signature, ledgers showing the hidden trail of transformations. Evidence. Enough to sink LoanRanger and everyone steering it. “You already have this,” Raphael whispered.

“Pieces,” the investor corrected. “What I need is the whole picture. . The contracts. The clauses. You have access. And you have motivation. Bring them to me, and your new body will be an asset, not a punishment.”

Raphael’s throat tightened. He could almost see it: no more humiliating orders, no more being paraded as a joke. Instead, a penthouse, a wardrobe of his choosing, adoration without ridicule. His new body—his curse—turned into currency. He closed the folder, his manicured hands trembling. He looked at the investor, then at his reflection in rearview mirror: blonde hair, painted lips, breasts gleaming under latex. Not a man. Not even himself. Slowly, he nodded. “I’ll get you what you want.”

The investor raised his glass in a toast. “Good girl.”