PerfectMatch

by: Scipio Africanus



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It'd been sixteen months since Jessica broke up with me, and I was drunk. She'd been everything to me. Blindingly clever; a great cook; my best friend. She'd been a lab assistant with me under Professor Kingston while we both studied graduate chemistry at university. She wasn't the prettiest girl on campus, but she was cute, and funny, and as professor Kingston loved to point out with a chortle, we had great "chemistry." And then, after a year of dating, she left me. For her career, she'd said; working on materials research at a university in Spain... with professor Kingston. I wasn't invited. It was such a great opportunity, she'd explained. It was nothing to do with me, she'd insisted. Certainly nothing to do with professor Kingston! Tonight, they'd posted their engagement status. That was about four hours and fifth of tequila ago. Four hours since the love of my life got engaged to our old boss. Yeah. Tonight, I was proudly drunk. So, when I was accosted by an obnoxious, flashing ad boasting about "hot singles in my area," I did something I'd never have done sober. I clicked it. It turned out to be a cheesy porn site, but the fake ad had piqued my interest nonetheless. Abandoning the porn page, I went back and started looking for real dating sites. With all the liquor my research skills weren't exactly in top form, but I was a proud young academic; and if there was one skill I'd mastered in my years of university, it was slogging through data drunk, hung-over or both. Almost on auto-pilot I compiled info, scratching my most promising results onto the back cover of what I think was a lab journal. Or maybe it was a take-out menu. Whatever. Somehow, in this state, I stumbled across a site that seemed... well, perfect. PerfectMatch. I'd never heard of it before, but it had an amazing success ratio--the highest of any site I'd seen--and well over half the active profiles were women, which made it a definite rarity. Most importantly, it was free. Well, mostly free. You had to have some kind of "Premium membership" to actually post a public profile of your own, but the free "basic membership" was enough to browse and respond to the existing profiles, which is all I was looking to do at the moment anyway. The sign-up procedure was a minor hurdle in my drunken state, but eventually I managed to slog my way through the terms-of-service agreements and account creation process and begin searching. I grinned and took another swig of tequila. I was on the virtual prowl. Apart from the relatively small user-base, the site was incredible. Instead of making you suffer through lengthy "personality quizzes" or what have you to find matches, they let you simply search by whatever factors you wanted. At first, I thought about trying to find a replacement for Jessica. But that hurt too much, and besides, she'd turned out to be a mistake anyway. So, instead, I went in the opposite direction. I thought about Jessica, how her profile would look, and set my filters for the exact opposite. Appearance? I hadn't been shallow then, and look where I'd ended up. This time, I filtered by hotties--9/10 community ratings and up. And hobbies? Forget cooking, forget reading, forget art--I was done with the domestic thing. Partying. Drinking. Dancing. I was ready for someone wild. And so I went, down the list, searching the profiles for the perfect antithesis of Jessica. My antidote. And I found her. A profile from southern California, pretty much the exact opposite of Jessica. NAME: Mimi (GlitterBlonde69) AGE: 22 HAIR: Blonde EYES: Blue BODY TYPE: Topheavy APPEARANCE: 9.41/10 (214 reviews) SMOKES: Frequently DRINKS: Frequently EDUCATION: Some High School OCCUPATION: Waitress LIBIDO: Extremely high INTELLIGENCE: Significantly below average HOBBIES: Clubbing, Drinking, Partying, Music, Sex The lackluster education and 'intelligence' (however that was assessed) weren't my usual type, but they were definitely the opposite of Jessica, and least with Mimi the dropout waitress, I wouldn't have to worry about her leaving me for career opportunities abroad. It was settled. I clicked the "Select Profile" button. And then, still reeking of tequila, I went to sleep in my clothes. ---------- Partially thanks to the alcohol, I actually forgot about the website for a couple of days, until I received an email from the administrators saying that, congratulations, my request had been accepted. In my sober state, I was much more cautious (and, frankly, embarrassed) about the whole thing, but they gave me an address for their local office that checked out and a time to meet that didn't interfere with my research, so, ultimately, I decided to go meet Mimi. The building they sent me to was small, but very slick and located in the trendiest part of town. As I entered, the receptionist greeted me warmly. "Hi!" she said, "Welcome to PerfectMatch! How can we help you today?" "I'm here to meet Mimi," I said, trying not to sound nervous. The receptionist raised an eyebrow. "That's certainly an interesting way to put it! You must be Daniel, then. If you could just sign these and come with me, they'll see you right away." How else would I put it, I wondered? But I signed and followed as directed, down a short hallway dotted with ferns. "If you don't mind me asking," asked the receptionist as we walked, "What brought you to PerfectMatch? You're actually kind of handsome; I bet you could find a partner anywhere. I mean, it's wonderful, of course, I just..." She blushed furiously. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean..." I laughed, but smiled at the compliment. "I admit, online dating wasn't my first thought. But I had kind of a trying breakup, and I decided to try something new. And, I mean, Mimi's quite a looker herself, isn't she?" "Oh, yes!" she said quickly. "Of course, she's gorgeous. An excellent choice. Though I was surprised you chose her. I mean, with your education and everything, a profile like Mimi's..." Her surprise was kind of charming at first, but I was starting to get annoyed. "Are you trying to talk me out of this or something?" I asked. "I read the profile, I know what it says, but maybe that's just what I need right now. People aren't defined by their education, you know. Some of the vilest people I've ever met have been Ph.Ds. Mimi seems like a fun person, and I chose her. Now can we get on with this or what?" "No, I wasn't, I just..." she blushed and stared at the floor. "Of course, I shouldn't have said anything. It's right in there," she said, gesturing to a large white door. No sooner had I touched the handle than she was scurrying away back to the front, clearly embarrassed. But when I got inside, it wasn't Mimi that greeted me, it was two men: some kind of scientist or doctor on the left and a tall, skeletal man in an expensive but gaudy suit on the right. "You must be Daniel," said the doctor. "Please, have a seat in the chair." He gestured to a padded, reclining seat, not unlike a dentist's chair. Some kind of physical? STD check? Whatever; I was clean. I sat in the chair. "So, when do I meet Mimi?" I asked. "That's an interesting phrasing," laughed the doctor. "But the process should take about three hours, give or take." I sighed. "Three hours? How much could you possibly have to do that could take so long?" The doctor blinked. "Quite a lot, actually. These things take time, and for the kind of results we get, three hours is actually extraordinarily--" "Let's just get started, shall we?" said the rich man with a thin smile. "The man is obviously in a hurry." I nodded my thanks. "I...Very well," said the doctor. "We'll begin right away." No sooner had he said that, then some kind of plastic restraint sprung from the sides of the chair, pinning me in place. "Hey!" I demanded. "What is the meaning of this? Let me go!" "It's for your safety," insisted the doctor. "The procedure isn't painful, but thrashing about can be." "I don't want any procedure," I said, "I just want to meet Mimi! What is wrong with you people?" "Just meet Mimi?" Asked the doctor. "But... the procedure is how we--" "Please just continue," said the rich man. "He is clearly impatient, and frankly so am I. I have waited too long for this day already." Suddenly the man's concern for haste no longer seemed so endearing. Just then, the receptionist came barging back in. "Wait!" she shouted. "I figured it out! I know what's wrong! Stop the procedure!" The rich man glared daggers at her. "He didn't read the contract!" she continued. "Or the banners! Or the terms of service. Or--oh, he thinks he's actually going to MEET Mimi! Like, literally! He thinks he's going to go on a date with her!" "What do you mean I 'think' that?" I demanded. "Why the hell am I here if you're not going to let me date Mimi?" The doctor looked puzzled. "You...you are going to be Mimi, of course." He said, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world and not insane at all. "That's what PerfectMatch is all about. Helping people find a new life by matching them with the people who are willing to pay to facilitate it." "That would be me," said the tall man. "And pay I have. So if you would please continue, doctor..." "No way!" I shouted. "Let me out of this thing! I never agreed to any of--mmmphhh!" The rich man flicked some button on the doctor's console, and an additional restraint sprung from the headrest and blocked my mouth. The receptionist looked taken aback. "What are you doing?" she demanded, turning to the doctor. "He clearly didn't understand what this was! You can't--" "You can, and you will, doctor," snapped the rich man. "He signed his documents, and I signed mine. You are contractually obligated to continue." "But..." stammered the doctor. "Given the circumstances... this is obviously a misunderstanding... surely we could simply wait for another respondent... " The tall man shook his head firmly. "No," he said. "I've already waited three years for someone to respond to my posting. I will not wait any longer. Wisely or not, this man agreed to this. And you said it would work, did you not? Even though he is a man for the moment?" "Well, yes," admitted the doctor, "The procedure should work on anyone. And I suppose that he did sign..." "You can't be serious!" shouted the receptionist. "This is insane! You can't do that to him! God, you read the profile! How can you do that to someone against their will?" "It is not against his will," said the rich man. "And these signed documents are ample proof of that." "But--" He glared at the receptionist. "You are obligated to fulfill my contract today. You can nullify his if you wish, but mine is airtight, I assure you. One way or another, I will leave here with Mimi. Are you volunteering, dear? Will you become Mimi in his place? Because I assure you, that is what I will require if you release him. My lawyers will make that happen. You know they can." There was a long silence. Mimi stared at the clipboard in her hand. After an eternity, she spoke, her voice breaking. "N...no..." she said softly. "I... I can't. Not... that. Not her." She looked at me with tears welling in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered. The rich man smiled. "Excellent. In that case, please continue, doctor. How are you going to make Mimi out of... this?" "We..." stammered the doctor. "We, uh, start with the body. Nano- surgery. Genetic flush. Until he, uh, looks like you wanted." The rich man nodded coolly. "And the rest of my specifications?" he demanded. "I was promised a great deal more than a cosmetic change, doctor." "We'll use PT-141 for the, uh, libido increases," he said. "Permanent capsules embedded near the spine will, uh, release the compound on a regular schedule." "Very good," said the rich man. "What of the rest? The intellect? The education?" "We'll use, ah, neural inhibitors," said the doctors, "Implants to slow down cognition. They, uh, prevent complex tasks. They should also prevent access to most second-level knowledge less than five or six years old. That, uh, should include most of his higher education." The rich man nodded. The doctor gulped and continued. "After that we'll, uh, flood the brain with the, um, ethanol-linked angiotensin II analogues." The rich man frowned. "This is for the lifestyle change?" he asked. "Uh, yes," said the doctor. "For the drinking. Angiotensin II regulates thirst, but, ah, the analogues, they'll only react in the presence of ethanol." "So she will need to drink?" The doctor nodded. "Other fluids will still, ah, sustain her metabolically, but she'll become increasingly thirsty unless she's drinking something with, ah, more kick." The rich man nodded. "And the rest of it? The aesthetics? I will not have her dressing like a tomboy." The doctor shook his head quickly. "No, no, we accounted for that." He said quickly. "We'll induce a mild allergy to most fabrics on the lower abdomen, legs, and upper breasts. Anything more conservative than a low-cut tank top or a mini-skirt will be, ah, highly uncomfortable." "What else?" asked the rich man. "Permanent makeup," said the doctor. "Heavy, as per your specifications. And subcutaneous deposits of bismuth oxychoride. That should flake up naturally with the skin. In effect, she'll , ah, produce her own body glitter." "Smudge it." Said the rich man. "Ex..excuse me?" said the doctor. "The artificial makeup. Apply it such that it appears smudged. She is young, wild, and reckless; her makeup should reflect that lifestyle. Make her look--what is the word my son uses? Ah, yes... 'trashy.'" "We...ah, we can do that," said the doctor, gulping. "But this makeup is permanent. If she ever needs to look respectable, for a job or--" "She will not," said the rich man. "Do it." The doctor nodded, and added a note to his console. "And the motivational conditions I specified?" asked the rich man. The doctor nodded, wincing. "Yes, ah, we did figure something out for that," he said nervously. "We were able to design the neural inhibitors such that the, uh, presence of semen in the body will temporarily disable some of the receptors." The rich man frowned. "Disable them?" "Only temporarily," said the doctor quickly. "And only proportional to the amount of semen present. In effect, ah, she will gradually become stupider the longer she goes without sex. Given the subject's profile, it seemed that a, ah, degree of returned intellect would be the most powerful motivator to encourage the sexual behavior." The rich man looked me up and down, considering. I tried to spit curses at him, but only managed to mumble some more through the gag. "Very well," he nodded. "I suspect you are correct. Please begin the procedure." The doctor nodded, the receptionist looked at the floor, and I passed out as some kind of needle slid into my arm. ------- When I awoke, it was to the face of the receptionist, staring at me with sad eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered, before she was pushed aside by the rich man. "And there she is!" said the rich man. "A mirror, doctor, if you please." The doctor nodded deferentially, and slid a large, wheeled mirror in front of my chair. I tried not to look. Maybe this was all a nightmare. Maybe this was all an elaborate, terrifying prank. It wasn't. The face staring back at me in the mirror was gorgeous, female, and definitely not my own. Instead of my thin-but well-toned masculine physique, I saw a thin blonde girl with an enormous rack, gagged and strapped to a chair, eyes wide with terror. Her face was covered with her whorish, overdone makeup--or permanent coloration that appeared to be makeup--slightly smudged and flecked with glitter. Her blonde hair, streaked with pink, was tussled and messy, sticking to her face in places as if she'd just stepped off the dance floor--or been vigorously railed in a nightclub bathroom. Her soft bosom, like the rest of her skin, was covered in a thin layer of sweat and glitter. They'd apparently changed my clothes too while I was unconscious, and I now wore a tiny, sequined tube-top and sparkling black mini-skirt. My breasts were, as promised, huge--at least double D's--and pressed up together by a push-up bra to create a deep valley of glittery cleavage. The rich man smiled at me. "Perfect," he said. "Just perfect. A pleasure to finally meet you, Mimi." I struggled against the restraints, but to no avail. He shook his head sadly. "Ungag her please, doctor." Suddenly, my mouth was free. I screamed. The doctor and receptionist winced, but the rich man simply waited until I was out of breath, then continued. "Are you quite finished?" he asked coolly. "You can't do this to me!" I gasped. "You can't turn me into--" I stopped. My voice was all wrong. Soft, breathy, slightly musical--I sounded almost like a pop singer. "Do you like your new voice?" asked the rich man. "I picked it out carefully, you know." "Fuck you," I spat. "Stop that," he said sharply. "Your life does not have to be hard, Mimi. But it can be. I can provide you with a job, a home, and everything you need to start your new life. A life of parties, of fun. A life without responsibility. I can do that for you. But I do not have to. I have fulfilled my contract. I could leave you penniless, without any form of identity or education, to fend for yourself on the streets. I think we both know how that story goes for a girl like you, Mimi." "I'll sue you!" I shouted. "I'll sue you for every penny you're worth, you monster!" He laughed. "Oh, will you? Everything is quite in order, legally speaking. Whether you now regret it or not, you agreed to this. I have done nothing wrong. Even if you did somehow manage to put together a case against me, my attorneys could drag this battle out for years. Do you really think you can outlast me? Could you even support yourself? Think about it, Mimi. Be clever. I am your only option now." I tried. I tried to think about it. Surely there was a way. Something that could ... but it was so hard. My brain felt like it was slowly filling up with cotton candy. I racked my slowing brain, and I remembered I'd taken a medical and research ethics class. But I couldn't remember anything we'd learned, and thinking too hard about it actually hurt. "I... I don't know," I muttered. "This is wrong. You can't just... can you?" "I can, Mimi." He said. "And I have." The man reached to pat me I the shoulder. I flinched. "There, there," he said, his voice sickly sweet. "There, there." ------ I thought about running, about just taking off down the street when we stepped outside... but he was right. Where could I go? There was probably somewhere, but my head was so foggy. So I followed. I entered the rich man's car, which turned out to be a limo, waiting outside. "Your apartment is fully furnished," he explained as we drove. "And the rent is reasonable. You have a job at Donny's Tavern, which should be sufficient to cover your expenses if you can manage to collect respectable tips. Without identification you will not easily find employment elsewhere, so I would advise you not to miss work. Any questions?" "Water," I asked. "Do you have some water?" He laughed. "There is a tap to your left, but it won't help you. You will need one of these, I expect." He poured me a double-shot of vodka from the limo bar. I went for the water, but as he predicted, it did nothing to slake my thirst. Reluctantly, I downed the vodka. I coughed at the sharp kick, and dribbled a little down my new cleavage, but my thirst subsided a little. "How could you do this to me?" I demanded. "And why? If you're so rich, there have to be plenty of real gold-diggers who'd gladly join your harem. Why do all this to me?" "My harem?" said the rich man. "Oh, no, you misunderstand completely. I'm happily married." "But... then, why?" I demanded. He poured another drink, and handed it to me. I drank it. "My son," he explained. "The boy is...unruly. Undisciplined. Unchecked, his dalliances will be his ruin. I will not allow him to destroy my legacy with his tomfoolery." He nodded at me, this time with a slight note of disgust. "You, Mimi, represent the kind of girl my son enjoys. Unlike the other bimbos he so admires, however, you shall not be a problem, because you and I have an understanding." He stared at me meaningfully. "You and I understand that what is in my son's best interests is also in yours. You and I understand that it will be best for everyone if Xavier has a... controlled outlet for his proclivities. An outlet that knows when to encourage him to listen to his father. A girl who realizes that her only shot at a decent life is to ensure both my son and I are very happy with her." He held out another drink, unblinking. "We do understand that, Mimi, do we not?" "I... yes," I muttered, eyes downcast. "We understand." "Excellent!" he said. "Now drink up! Your new life is about to begin!"

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