Bride Exchange Part 2

They’d been married for two weeks.

Blake—now only referred to as "Jessie" in public and private—had endured every waking moment as Logan’s trophy bride. No matter how much he protested internally, his body, altered and packaged to resemble Logan’s ideal of femininity, obeyed. The glued-on phrostecs held up beautifully: the lips, the lashes, the hourglass figure. Every day began with Logan inspecting him like a car owner checking the polish on a luxury vehicle.

“Still perfect,” he’d mutter, slapping Jessie’s synthetic ass. “But I want you... tighter.”

The words chilled Blake more than anything else. “Tighter?” he had asked cautiously.

Logan smiled. “Time for a little maintenance. My baby needs a top-up.”

The clinic was private—high-end, off the grid. Logan had booked it all in advance. Jessie was dressed in a short pink hoodie, no pants, heels clacking loudly as Logan led him in with a hand firm on his plasticized waist. Everyone at the clinic treated him like he wasn’t a person—just another spoiled trophy wife here for her regular tune-up.

“Here’s what we’re doing,” Logan said, handing the specialist a digital file. “I want her ass lifted, tongue pierced, nipples too. Some ink around her little play areas. Oh—and make those pouty lips permanent. Botox, heavy. I want that mouth open, glossy, and kissable 24/7.”

Jessie felt the blood drain from his face.

“Let’s start,” the specialist said without asking Jessie a thing.

The process took hours.

First came the tattoos.

Around his groin, they inked delicate, humiliating hearts, spirals, and Logan’s name in cursive just above the mound the phrostec vagina covered. On his ass, symmetrical tattoos—one cheek marked Owned, the other marked Plaything. The buzzing of the needle never hurt, but the psychological sting bit deep. He was being branded, marked permanently for someone else's pleasure.

Next, the butt lift. Suction devices and quick-injection dermal fillers gave his cheeks a hyper-round shape—perky, exaggerated, almost cartoonish. When he looked in the mirror afterward, he barely recognized his backside. It wobbled and bounced as he walked, drawing stares even from the clinic staff.

Then came the piercings.

His nipples—fake, rubbery protrusions atop the glued-on phrostec breasts—were clamped and pierced with delicate hoops. Then a stud in his navel, matching the sparkly jewelry Logan picked himself. Finally, a barbell through his tongue—a gag gift, Logan had said. “You’ll be more fun with this.”

Talking afterward became slurred, awkward. His tongue now felt constantly weighted, his words more submissive by nature.

The final touch was the Botox.

Jessie’s face was already a mask—but now it became frozen in a permanent pout. The lips, filled with extra collagen, swelled slightly, and the Botox locked his facial muscles in a slack, slightly open expression. Like he was constantly surprised… or begging.

“I love it,” Logan murmured, pulling him in for a kiss. “You look like you’re always ready to be kissed—or used.”

But that wasn’t the end.

The final step Logan insisted on was a hidden one.

Permanent vibrators.

Two units—one internal, one embedded against the faux clitoris. They were controlled remotely by an app on Logan’s phone.

“Just in case I want to see you squirm at dinner,” he joked.

Blake had no say. No chance to protest. By the time he was redressed and wheeled out to the car, his face fixed in its humiliating pout, his ass lifted and twitching with every step, and a tiny buzz between his legs set on a low, constant hum… he was fully Jessie. A walking, squirming, gagged-up caricature of femininity.

In the car ride back, Logan pulled him into his lap once again.

Jessie—Blake—felt the vibration increase slightly.

His cheeks flushed.

His eyes watered.

Logan just smirked and held him tighter. “You’re everything I ever wanted in a wife.”

The word wife used to mean something.

Now it meant: ornament. Toy. Property.

And Blake had no way to object.

His mouth was frozen half-open. His tongue ring clicked against his teeth with every shallow, embarrassed breath.

The worst part?

People smiled when they saw them.

No one questioned it.