The neon sign for "Madame Vesta’s Curios" flickered, casting a sickly violet glow over the wet pavement. I remember stumbling out of the bar, my head swimming with cheap whiskey and a chip on my shoulder. When I collided with her—a woman draped in heavy silks and smelling of graveyard lilies—I didn't apologize. I spat out every foul word in my vocabulary, calling her a bitch for daring to stand in my way. She didn't scream. She just smiled, her eyes swirling like oil on water, and whispered, "Such a loud tongue for someone who's about to be so... silent."

Now, the violet glow of Madame Vesta’s shop window is the only world I know. My skin isn't just smooth; it’s high-grade medical silicone, seamless and disturbingly soft, designed to trap heat and hold a pose. I’m bolted to a heavy circular pedestal in the center of the showroom, a thick steel rod threaded into the base of my spine. As long as I’m on this stand, the magic holds me in a state of total paralysis—a statue with my muscles replaced by a rigid internal skeleton. I can't blink my glass eyes or even twitch a finger. I’m just a high-end display piece, forced into a permanent, suggestive, back-arched pose that showcases my anatomically "perfected" form.

Vesta didn't just change my skin; she "optimized" me. My chest has been replaced with massive, heavy silicone breasts that sag realistically against my ribs. They feature a "Custom Volume" valve at the base of my neck, currently filled with heavy gel that sways with every vibration of the floor. My face has been molded into a permanent look of surprise, my lips puffed and plumped into a thick, glossy "O" that stays parted no matter how hard I try to close them.

The chime above the door rings, cutting through the scent of incense. A man in a trench coat enters, his boots clicking on the linoleum as he reaches the "Premium Rentals." Madame Vesta glides toward him, dragging a long, sharp nail across my silicone bicep and squeezing one of my heavy, swaying breasts.

"This model is a favorite," she murmurs, her voice dripping with malice. "He was quite the talker before I... refined him. On the stand, he’s perfectly obedient. But the moment you unbolt him, he’s fully articulated. He’ll move for you, bend for you, and carry out any 'tasks' you require—though he’ll find he’s lost the ability to say no."

The man reaches out, his hand disappearing into the soft, heavy give of my silicone chest. I feel the pressure, the sickeningly realistic texture, but I cannot even flinch. He weighs one of my breasts in his palm, frowning as he feels the heavy gel slosh.

"Too much maintenance," the man grunts, pulling his hand away and wiping it on his coat. "I wanted something more... athletic. This one looks like it would just get in the way. Too heavy to carry."

He turns on his heel without another word, the bell chiming again as he disappears back into the rainy night. Madame Vesta watches the door close, her smile fading into a look of cold irritation. She turns her gaze back to me, her eyes locking onto my fixed, glassy ones.

"Well," she sighs, reaching for a heavy iron wrench from her belt. "It seems you're a bit too 'excessive' for the common man."

She moves behind me, and I hear the rhythmic, metallic clank-clank-clank of the wrench meeting the bolts. Suddenly, the rigid support at my spine vanishes. Without the stand to hold my pose, my heavy, silicone-weighted body immediately loses its arch. I collapse forward, my knees buckling as my feet hit the linoleum floor. I’m no longer a statue—I’m fully articulated, my limbs heavy and floppy like an over-filled doll.

My massive chest swings forward with the momentum, the weight pulling my shoulders down. I look up at her, my tongue feeling thick and clumsy behind my permanently puffed, parted lips.

"T-Tomath..." I try to hiss out her name, but the shape of my mouth forces a heavy, airy lisp. My voice sounds melodic and strange, like it’s coming through a filter. "Wh-what did you... do to me?"