This is a fanfiction sexy parody of Uglies by Scott Westerfeld featuring the character Shay and a sexy brainwashing smutty plot.
Shay ran.
The wind cut across her face as her hoverboard screamed over the rooftops, the city lights of New Pretty Town blurring into streaks of pink and gold below her. Her dark hair whipped behind her in wild tangles, her green eyes narrowed against the rush of air, and her heart hammered against her ribs with the kind of fierce, electric thrill that only came from doing something she absolutely was not supposed to be doing.
She was eighteen now. Eighteen and still an Ugly, by choice, which made her rarer than a honest politician. Every kid she had grown up with had gone under the knife at sixteen, come out the other side with symmetrical faces and bubbly brain lesions and that vapid, glittering look in their eyes that Shay wanted to punch every time she saw it. Not her. Never her.
She banked hard around a spire, her board tilting at an angle that would have made a lesser rider plummet forty stories to the pavement. She laughed, sharp and defiant, the sound swallowed by the wind.
Three months. Three months since she had turned down the operation. Three months since Dr. Cable had first come to her with that cold smile and those dead gray eyes and told her, in a voice like a scalpel scraping glass, that Shay was exactly the kind of girl Special Circumstances could use. Three months since Shay had told her to go to hell.
And now they were chasing her.
She could see the Specials behind her, their black uniforms cutting through the night, their enhanced bodies moving with that horrible predatory grace. Four of them, maybe five, on boards that were faster than hers, sleeker, built for pursuit. Their flash tattoos rippled across their skin like living shadows.
Shay grinned. Let them chase. She knew these rooftops better than any of them. She had been sneaking around up here since she was thirteen, finding the gaps between buildings, the hidden maintenance platforms, the service tunnels that wormed through the city’s guts. She was Skinny, she was Shay-la, she was the girl who had helped build the Smoke from nothing, and she was not going to be caught by a bunch of Cable’s brainwashed muscle.
She dropped. The hoverboard angled straight down, plummeting toward a narrow alley between two residential towers, and at the last possible second she leveled out, the board’s magnetic lift screaming against the metal of the alley floor. Sparks fountained behind her. She shot through the gap and out the other side, banking left, heading for the old industrial district where the buildings were lower and the shadows were deeper.
For a moment, she thought she had made it.
Then the net hit her.
She thrashed. She twisted. She screamed profanity at the dark sky that would have made a Crim blush.
Two Specials landed beside her in perfect synchronization, their boots barely making a sound on the platform. One of them, a tall woman with violet-streaked dark hair and a network of flash tattoos crawling across her exposed arms, looked down at Shay with an expression that might have been pity, or might have been hunger.
“Shay-la,” the woman said. “You have been a very difficult girl to catch.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Shay spat, still struggling against the net. “You can’t do this. I’m eighteen. I refused the operation. That’s my right.”
“Your rights,” the woman said, kneeling beside her, “are about to become a great deal less relevant.”
Shay looked up into the woman’s dark, intense eyes, and for the first time, she felt something cold settle into the pit of her stomach.
—
The room was white.
That was the first thing Shay noticed. Not the sterile white of a hospital, but something softer, warmer, a white that seemed to glow from the walls themselves. The lighting was gentle, diffused, the kind of light that made everything look a little more beautiful than it was. There was a bed, a large and comfortable one, with soft sheets and a pile of pillows. There was a mirror on one wall, full-length, framed in something that looked like brushed silver. There were no visible restraints, no obvious medical equipment, nothing that looked like a prison.
It was, Shay thought, the most terrifying room she had ever been in.
She was clean. They had let her shower, given her fresh clothes, a simple white dress that was shorter than anything she would have chosen for herself, and soft shoes that felt almost like slippers. Her dark hair was still damp, hanging loose around her shoulders. The net was gone. No one had touched her roughly. No one had hurt her.
That scared her more than anything.
Dr. Cable was standing by the mirror when the door opened and Shay was brought in. She looked exactly as Shay remembered, that aquiline nose, those cold gray eyes, that thin, controlled posture that made her look more like a weapon than a person. She was wearing her usual dark uniform, the Special Circumstances insignia gleaming at her collar.
“Shay,” she said. “Please sit down.”
“I’ll stand.”
“Please sit down,” Cable repeated, and there was something in her voice, a layer beneath the coldness, that made Shay’s knees feel a little weak. Not a threat. Something else. Something almost warm.
Shay sat on the edge of the bed.
Cable crossed the room and sat beside her, close enough that Shay could smell her, something clean and sharp, like metal and winter air. She did not touch her. She just sat there, looking at her with those gray eyes, and after a moment, she smiled.
It was not a reassuring smile. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what was going to happen next.
Shay said nothing. She stared at the floor.
“I have no intention of hurting you,” Cable continued. “I have no intention of forcing the Pretty operation on you. That is not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
Cable tilted her head slightly, studying her. “Tell me something, Shay. When was the last time you felt truly good? Not proud of yourself. Not righteous. Not angry. I mean good. Warm. Relaxed. Happy. When was the last time you stopped fighting, even for a moment, and just let yourself feel pleasure?”
Shay opened her mouth to answer, then closed it.
“You have been fighting so long,” Cable said, her voice dropping to something almost gentle, “that I do not think you remember what it feels like to stop. That is what this room is for. That is what I am offering you. Not the operation. Not Prettytown. Just the chance to stop fighting, and to discover how good that can feel.”
“That’s not how this works,” Shay said, but her voice came out quieter than she intended. “You can’t just brainwash me into wanting to be part of your system.”
“Brainwash,” Cable repeated, as if tasting the word. “Such an ugly term. I prefer to think of it as education. You have spent your entire adolescence being taught that resistance is noble, that suffering is virtuous, that your body is something to be ashamed of or ignored. I am going to teach you something different. I am going to teach you that your body is a source of pleasure, that giving in can feel better than fighting, and that there is nothing wrong with wanting to feel good.”
She reached out, slowly, giving Shay time to pull away, and when Shay did not, she brushed a strand of damp hair back from her face. Her fingers were cool and precise.
“The first lesson,” Cable said, “begins now.”
—
They did not use drugs. They did not use restraints. They did not use anything that Shay could point to afterward and call torture, and that was what made it so insidious.
They used the room.
The lighting shifted throughout the day, cycling through warm tones that made Shay’s skin tingle, that made the white dress feel softer against her body, that made the bed look more and more inviting. Soft music played, nothing she recognized, nothing with lyrics, just slow, warm tones that seemed to settle into her muscles and ease tension she had not realized she was holding.
And they talked to her.
Not Cable. Other people. A rotation of women, all Pretties, all beautiful in that polished, symmetrical way, who came in and sat with her and talked about nothing in particular. They asked about her childhood. They asked about hoverboarding. They asked about the Rusty Ruins and the Smoke and what the sky looked like from the middle of nowhere. They were warm, friendly, genuinely interested, and every time Shay started to get angry or suspicious, they would change the subject to something pleasant, something that made her smile despite herself.
The first day, she was on guard the entire time. She answered in monosyllables. She refused the food they offered, then ate it anyway because she was hungry and it was delicious, seasoned in ways she had never tasted in the city cafeterias. She sat rigidly on the bed and did not touch the pillows.
The second day, she was less rigid. She caught herself laughing at something one of the women said, a joke about a hoverboard crash, and then immediately felt sick about it. She caught herself leaning back against the pillows and sat up sharply. She caught herself looking at herself in the mirror, at the way the white dress showed off her thin frame, her long legs, the full lips that were the one feature she had always kind of liked, and she looked away.
The third day, Cable came back.
She sat beside Shay on the bed again, and this time, she touched her. Not much. Just a hand on her shoulder, thumb brushing the bare skin above the neckline of the dress. Shay tensed, but she did not pull away.
“You are doing well,” Cable said.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are relaxing. You are letting yourself be comfortable. That is something, for a girl who has spent three months sleeping on the ground and eating cold ration packs.”
“I want to leave.”
Shay stared at her.
“But before you go,” Cable continued, her fingers working into the knots at the base of Shay’s skull, sending waves of warmth down her spine, “I want you to ask yourself honestly. Are you happy? Not proud. Not angry. Happy. When was the last time you were happy, Shay?”
The massage was making it hard to think. Her fingers were strong and precise, finding every point of tension and pressing it into softness, and Shay could feel her body responding, her shoulders dropping, her head tilting forward, her breath slowing.
“I was happy in the Smoke,” she said, but it came out uncertain.
“Were you? Or were you useful? Were you needed? Those are not the same thing as happy.”
Shay did not answer, because she did not have an answer, and the silence felt like a small defeat.
Cable’s fingers moved down, working the muscles along her spine through the thin fabric of the dress, and Shay let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. It came out shaky, almost like a sigh.
“Stay,” Cable said. “Not forever. Just for tonight. Just to see how it feels.”
Shay stayed.
—
On the fifth day, they changed the mirror.
Shay did not notice at first, because the changes were subtle. The lighting in front of the mirror was slightly different than the lighting in the rest of the room, slightly warmer, slightly softer, and when she looked at her reflection, she looked, well, better. Not different. Not Pretty. Just better. Her skin seemed smoother. Her eyes seemed brighter. The asymmetry she had always liked, the slightly uneven set of her features that she thought gave her face character, seemed less pronounced, and somehow that did not bother her the way it should have.
She spent longer in front of the mirror that day. She turned sideways, looking at her body in the white dress, at the way it clung to her thin frame, at the curve of her hips and the line of her legs. She had never thought much about her body as something to look at. It was a tool. It carried her across rooftops and through ruins and over hoverboard courses at speeds that made grown men nervous. It was not for looking at.
But looking felt nice.
She touched her own hip through the dress, fingers tracing the bone, and a small, warm pulse of something went through her that she did not have a name for. Or rather, she did have a name for it, and she did not want to say it, because saying it would make it real.
She was getting horny.
She pulled her hand away and sat on the bed and stared at the wall and tried to think about the Smoke, about David, about the feel of wind on her face during a hoverboard run, about anything that was not the warm, soft, persistent ache that had settled between her legs.
The music changed. It was slower now, deeper, with a pulse to it that seemed to match her heartbeat. The lights dimmed slightly, and the bed, the stupid, comfortable, impossible bed, seemed to pull at her.
She lay down. Just to rest. Just for a moment.
Her hand drifted to her hip again, then lower, tracing the line of her thigh through the dress. The ache pulsed. She pressed her legs together and felt it intensify, a warm, liquid pressure that made her breath catch.
She thought about stopping. She thought about David, about the Smoke, about who she was and what she believed. She thought about all the reasons she should not do what she was about to do.
Then she slid her hand under the hem of the dress.
Her fingers found the wetness between her legs and she gasped, softly, at how ready she was. She had not touched herself in months, had been too busy running and fighting and surviving to even think about it, and now, in this soft, warm, white room, with the music pulsing gently and the lights glowing and the bed holding her like a lover, her body was ready in a way that shocked her.
She touched herself slowly, experimentally, fingers sliding through the slick heat of her pussy, and the pleasure was immediate and intense and it made her whole body arch off the bed. She bit her lip to keep from making a sound, because some part of her still understood that this was what they wanted, that this was the trap, that she was falling into it, and she could not stop.
She did not stop.
Her fingers found her clit, swollen and sensitive, and she rubbed in slow circles, her hips moving involuntarily, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The pleasure built quickly, too quickly, like something that had been dammed up for months and was now flooding through every crack in her defenses. She thought about David and his hands on her, and then she thought about nothing, just the feeling, just the heat, just the slow, relentless pulse of the music and the soft glow of the lights and the wet, desperate need between her legs.
When she came, she came hard, her whole body clenching, a moan escaping her lips that she could not hold back, and the pleasure crashed through her in waves that left her shaking and gasping on the soft white sheets.
She lay there afterward, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling, and she felt something she had not felt in a very long time.
She felt good.
She also felt something else. Shame. But the shame was distant, muted, as if it were coming from very far away, and the warmth in her body was close and immediate and real, and the shame could not compete with it.
She fell asleep.
—
On the seventh day, Cable brought a man.
He was a Middle Pretty, tall and broad-shouldered, with a face that was symmetrical and handsome in that polished city way. His name was Marcus, and he was introduced as a counselor, someone who could help Shay work through some of the emotional barriers she had built up during her time as a fugitive.
Shay, who was sitting on the bed in a new dress they had given her, this one even shorter, a pale blue that matched, she noticed, the color of her eyes in the mirror, looked at him with suspicion.
“I am not talking to some Pretty shrink.”
“He is not here to talk,” Cable said. “He is here to help you relax.”
Marcus sat beside her on the bed, closer than Cable ever had, and he was warm, his body radiating heat that Shay could feel through the thin fabric of her dress. He did not touch her. He just sat there, and after a moment, he began to talk, in a low, soothing voice, about nothing in particular. The weather. The city. A hoverboard race he had seen. His voice was like the music, warm and rhythmic and somehow resonant, and Shay found herself listening despite herself.
His hand settled on her knee. Light. Casual. She should have pushed it away. She did not.
His thumb traced a small circle on her skin, and the warm pulse between her legs came back, immediate and insistent, and she shifted slightly, pressing her thighs together.
“You are very tense,” Marcus said, his voice low and close. “I can feel it. You have been carrying so much tension for so long.”
His hand moved up, slowly, to the outside of her thigh, and Shay’s breath quickened. She looked at the door. It was still unlocked. She could still leave. She could still run.
She did not run.
His hand reached the hem of her dress, fingers brushing the bare skin of her upper thigh, and she let out a shaky breath. He turned to face her, his other hand coming up to her chin, tilting her face toward his, and he kissed her.
It was a soft kiss, gentle, almost tentative, and Shay kissed him back before she could think about it, before she could remember who she was and what she believed and why this was wrong. His lips were warm and his hand was on her thigh and the music was playing and the lights were soft and she was so tired of fighting.
The kiss deepened. His tongue found hers, and she moaned into his mouth, a sound that surprised both of them. His hand slid under her dress, fingers tracing the line of her hip, and she could feel how wet she was, could feel the heat radiating from between her legs, and she wanted, she wanted, she wanted.
“Tell me what you want,” Marcus said against her lips.
“I want,” she said, and her voice was breathy and strange and not her own. “I want you to touch me.”
His hand moved between her legs, fingers sliding over the wet silk of her pussy, and she gasped and her head fell back and her hips pushed forward into his hand. He rubbed her slowly through the wetness, fingers circling her clit with the same patient precision that Cable had used on her neck, and the pleasure was enormous, overwhelming, filling her whole body with heat and light.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he said, and it was not a question.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it feels good.”
“Good girl.”
The words went through her like an electric shock, and she came, suddenly and violently, her body clenching around his fingers, her hands gripping the sheets, a cry tearing from her throat that she did not try to hold back.
He held her afterward, his arms around her, her face pressed against his chest, and she could feel his cock, hard and warm, through his clothes, pressing against her hip, and she did not pull away. She pressed closer.
“Good girl,” he said again, and she shivered.
—
On the tenth day, they brought three men.
Shay was sitting in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, which they had been styling differently each day, today with subtle highlights that caught the light, when the door opened and Marcus walked in with two others. Both were Pretties, both were handsome, both were looking at her with open, appreciative desire, and Shay felt a flush of heat go through her that she did not try to fight.
She had stopped fighting.
That was the thing she understood now, in some distant part of her mind that was still capable of understanding. The room had done what Cable said it would. It had taught her that fighting felt bad and giving in felt good, that resistance was cold and surrender was warm, that her body was not a tool or a weapon but a source of pleasure, and pleasure was not something to be ashamed of.
She looked at herself in the mirror, at the girl in the short blue dress with the highlighted hair and the full lips and the bright eyes, and she thought, for the first time, that she looked pretty.
Not Pretty. Pretty.
“Hello, Shay,” Marcus said.
“Hello, Marcus.”
He introduced the other two. Their names did not matter. What mattered was the way they looked at her, the hunger in their eyes, the way their gazes traveled over her body, and the way that hunger made her feel. It made her feel warm. It made her feel powerful. It made her feel wet.
They sat beside her on the bed, one on each side, Marcus in front of her, and they touched her. Hands on her shoulders, her arms, her thighs, her waist. Slow, patient, warm. She closed her eyes and let the feeling wash over her, the multiple points of contact, the different textures of skin, the different rhythms of breath.
Someone’s hand, she was not sure whose, slid under her dress and between her legs, and she gasped and spread her thighs without being asked. Fingers pushed into her pussy, two of them, thick and deep, and she moaned and her head fell back against someone’s shoulder.
“Good girl,” a voice said, and she shuddered with pleasure.
Someone pulled the dress over her head, and then she was naked, her thin body exposed, her small breasts and her hard nipples and the wet, swollen lips of her cunt, and they looked at her and she felt beautiful. Hands found her breasts, mouths found her nipples, and she cried out at the sensation, the wet heat of a tongue on her sensitive skin, the firm grip of fingers on her flesh.
Marcus unzipped his pants and took out his cock, hard and thick and long, and he guided her hand to it, and she wrapped her fingers around it and stroked, feeling the heat and the hardness of him, the pulse of blood under the skin. She stroked him the way she had learned to touch herself, slow and rhythmic, and he groaned with pleasure, and his groan made her pussy clench around the fingers still inside her.
She wanted more. She wanted everything.
“Please,” she said, and the word came out breathy and desperate and she did not care. “Please, I want it.”
“Tell me what you want,” Marcus said.
“I want your cock inside me.”
He pushed inside her, slowly, inch by inch, and she moaned, long and loud, her body stretching to accommodate him, the fullness overwhelming, the pleasure so intense it was almost pain. The other two men held her, hands on her breasts, mouths on her neck, and she was surrounded by warmth and touch and sensation and she never wanted it to end.
He fucked her slowly at first, deep, measured strokes that made her whole body shake, and then faster, harder, his hips slamming against hers, his cock driving into her wet, tight cunt, and she matched his rhythm, her hips rising to meet him, her nails digging into his shoulders.
“Good girl,” he said, breathless now. “Good girl, Shay.”
She came twice before he finished, both orgasms crashing through her like waves, and when he finally pulled out and came across her stomach, the hot splash of his cum on her skin felt like a reward, like proof that she had been good, that she had done well, that she was exactly what she was supposed to be.
The other two men took turns with her, and she welcomed each of them, opened her body to each of them, and each time someone said “good girl,” she felt a pulse of pleasure that was almost as intense as the orgasms themselves.
Afterward, they held her, all of them, a warm tangle of bodies on the soft white bed, and she lay in the center of them, sticky with cum and sweat, her pussy sore and satisfied, and she felt something she had never felt in her entire life.
She felt completely, utterly, blissfully happy.
—
On the fourteenth day, Cable came to see her.
Shay was in front of the mirror, applying lipstick, a soft pink that made her lips look even fuller. She was wearing a new outfit, a short skirt and a top that showed her midriff, and she had spent the morning learning how to walk in heels. She was getting good at it. She liked the way her legs looked in heels, the way they made her hips sway, the way they made her feel sexy.
“Hello, Shay,” Cable said.
Shay turned, and smiled at her, a bright, genuine, bubbly smile that would have horrified the girl she had been two weeks ago.
“Hi, Dr. Cable!” she said, and her voice was higher, lighter, full of a warmth that had been engineered into it through fourteen days of careful, patient conditioning. “What do you think?”
She did a little turn, showing off the outfit, and Cable’s gray eyes tracked her with something that looked like satisfaction.
“You look beautiful, Shay.”
“Thank you!” Shay beamed. “Marcus helped me pick it out. He said the pink brings out my lips. Do you think so? I think so. I think it really brings them out.”
“It does,” Cable said. “I have someone I would like you to meet. He is a very important man, Shay. A city councilman. He has heard about you, and he is very interested.”
Shay’s eyes widened, and she clapped her hands together, bouncing slightly on her heels. “Oh my gosh, really? That is so exciting! What should I wear? Do you think this is okay, or should I change? I have that blue dress, the one with the, you know, the low back? Do you think he would like that better?”
Cable watched her, and for a moment, something flickered across her face, something that might have been regret, or might have been pride. Then it was gone.
“The blue dress,” she said. “He will love it.”
—
The councilman was tall, silver-haired, and handsome in the distinguished way of Middle Pretties who had been beautiful for decades. His name was Councilman Harren, and he looked at Shay the way all the men looked at her now, with hunger and appreciation, and she loved it.
She met him in a different room, a suite actually, with a large bed and soft lighting and a view of the city skyline that glittered behind floor-to-ceiling windows. She wore the blue dress, the one with the low back, and nothing underneath it, because Marcus had told her that was how the councilman would want her.
She sat beside him on the bed, and he put his hand on her bare thigh, and she leaned into him, pressing her body against his, her lips brushing his ear.
“Hi,” she whispered. “I am Shay. I am going to make you feel so good.”
He smiled, and his hand slid higher, and she giggled, and the giggle was real, because she meant it, because making men feel good was what she was for now, and she had never been happier.
—
Three weeks later, Astrix and Sussy found her.
They had been searching since Shay had disappeared, tracking rumors, following leads, hacking city surveillance feeds, and finally, after weeks of dead ends, they had found the facility. It was not heavily guarded, because it did not need to be. The people inside were not prisoners.
They came in through a service entrance, moving fast and quiet, two Ugly girls with determination in their eyes and stolen keycards in their hands. They found the white room, the room where Shay had been held, the room that was not a prison but was worse than one.
Shay was there.
She was sitting in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, which now had subtle copper highlights. She was wearing a pink top that barely covered her breasts and a skirt so short it showed the bottoms of her ass cheeks. Her lips were glossy and pink, her eyes were bright and vacant, and she was humming a tune that she had heard in the room, the slow, warm music that had played while she was being unmade.
“Shay!” Astrix ran to her, dropping to her knees, grabbing her hands. “Shay, oh my god, we found you. We found you. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
“Astrix?” she said, and then her face cleared, and she smiled, that bright, bubbly, horrible smile. “Oh my gosh, Astrix! Hi! What are you doing here? Oh my god, your hair looks so weird. You should totally let them do the highlights, it would look so cute on you.”
Astrix stared at her. “Shay. Shay, it is me. It is Astrix. We are here to rescue you. We are getting you out.”
“Rescue me?” Shay laughed, a light, tinkling sound that had no edge to it, no defiance, no fire. “From what? I am not a prisoner, silly. This is my room. Do you like it? It is so pretty, right? The lighting is, like, perfect. I look so good in this lighting.”
Sussy came up beside Astrix, and they looked at each other, and the look on their faces was the look of people watching something they loved die.
“Shay,” Sussy said, carefully, gently. “Do you remember the Smoke? Do you remember David? Do you remember what we were fighting for?”
Shay tilted her head, and for a moment, just a moment, something flickered in her eyes, something dark and distant and almost like pain. Then it was gone, smoothed away like a wrinkle from a sheet, and she smiled again.
“David? Oh, is he that guy from the, like, the wilderness thing? That was so long ago. I do not really think about that stuff anymore. It was kind of boring, honestly. There was nothing to do out there. No pretty clothes, no good food, no boys.” She giggled. “There are way more boys here. And they are so nice to me. They tell me I am pretty and they touch me and it feels, like, really, really good. Do you guys want to stay? There is this one guy, Marcus, he is so hot, and I bet he has friends for you. You would love it here. It is so much fun.”
Astrix’s hands were shaking. She looked at Sussy, and Sussy’s face was white.
“Shay,” Astrix said, and her voice broke. “Shay, what did they do to you?”
Shay frowned, just for a second, confused, and then she brightened again. “They made me pretty! Well, not Pretty pretty, not like the operation, but, like, they taught me how to be pretty. And how to feel good. And how to stop worrying about all that boring rebel stuff. It is so much better, Astrix. You should try it. You would be so much happier if you just stopped fighting and let yourself feel good.”
She turned back to the mirror, adjusting her top, pouting her lips, and the girl who had taught Tally Youngblood to ride a hoverboard, who had built the Smoke, who had laughed in the face of Special Circumstances and told Dr. Cable to go to hell, was gone.
In her place was a girl with copper highlights and glossy pink lips and empty, sparkling eyes, who thought about boys and clothes and how good it felt to be told she was a good girl, and who could not remember why she had ever wanted anything else.
Shay went with them, chattering about how cold it was and how her heels were not made for this kind of ground and did they have any lip balm because the wind was making her lips dry, and the night swallowed them, and the city lights faded behind them, and somewhere in the dark, a girl who had once been a rebel walked toward a future she could no longer imagine, smiling because she could not remember why she should
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