Raw Deal for DJ RAWFEED The Remote of Transformation chapter 7 by ThePanswapticon

Jerry’s attention pivoted to the booth perched above the floor. LED strips pulsed violet around smoked plexi while the DJ practically humped his own soundboard. Tall, tan, sleeveless hoodie hacked off at the ribs to show gym abs, backward cap, mirrored shades even indoors—walking red flag. The name splashed on the screen behind him: DJ RAWFEED. Of course it was.

He ran the mic hot between tracks.

“Ladies—front rail—lemme see those bodies.”

He dragged the last word, eyes glued to cleavage like it paid rent.

When two women (wrist stamps glowing 21+) leaned up to request a song, RAWFEED slid both hands around one girl’s waist and hauled her half into the booth without waiting. She twisted away, laughing in that tight, uncomfortable way women used when bail‑out options were limited.

“C’mon, give uncle Raw a kiss, I’ll play anything.” He leaned toward her neck.

Her friend yanked her back. He smacked her butt with the mic. Laughter from a pack of bros below. The girl flipped him off and vanished into the crowd. RAWFEED locked onto the next target.

Jerry’s grip tightened on the remote. Punishing a creep felt better than free drinks. He thumbed open the quick menu: TARGET MODE ➝ DIRECTED TRANSFORM. A silhouette of RAWFEED spun on the screen. Under it: sliders Jerry had barely noticed before—AGGRESSION REBOUND, EMPTHY MAP, GENDER FLIP, OBJECTIFY MIRROR. He almost giggled. Someone at the sketchy vendor site had a petty streak.

He toggled GENDER FLIP: F and dragged the OBJECTIFY MIRROR slider to max. If RAWFEED liked oversized implants, spray‑tan cleavage, low‑rise micro‑shorts, fake lashes—fine. He could live inside his fantasy. Add AGGRO REBOUND: ON so whatever wandering hands he dished out tonight reflected back at him as phantom gropes. Lastly, because he was still thinking about Steph’s rant, he ticked CYCLE SIM: ACTIVE. Enjoy the cramps, champ.

He angled the remote toward the booth. Crosshair pinged green: SUBJECT LOCKED (Age 28, Male, Elevated HR 132).

Bass built under the current track, a rising sawtooth build. Jerry waited for the drop. Timing mattered. Punishment worked best with pyrotechnics.

The drop hit. Jerry fired.

RAWFEED jerked, hand splaying across his mixer. His shoulders collapsed inward as muscle mass redistributed. Hoodie cinched at the ribs, then ballooned outward in two violent pulses—whump, whump—as breasts surged under the fabric, the seams stretching white before ripping. The crowd roared thinking it was part of the show.

He ripped off his sunglasses. His face was changing under the strobes—jaw narrowing, cheekbones leaping high, lips swelling glossy. Blond highlights streaked through suddenly longer hair that tumbled past his shoulders. His cap popped free and skidded across turntables.

“Whoa—what—yo hold up—” His voice cracked, pitched up, then rolled into a breathy contralto dripping through the PA because he still had the mic open. The club lost it.

The hoodie flickered—pixels? Light?—then shimmered into a rhinestone crop that pinned new cleavage together like it had a job to do. His joggers shrank to hot pink spandex shorts that barely covered anything. A thong string climbed above the waistband. His legs smoothed, calves narrowing into glossy, tanned columns balanced in platform boots that locked him to the riser.

Rawfeed clawed at his chest. “Get this off! What the hell did you—” He gasped, bent forward, hand clutching his lower abdomen like a cramp stabbed through him. Mic squeal. “Ohhh what is that?”

Women who’d brushed him off minutes ago now cheered from the rail. One cupped her own boobs and bounced. Another yelled, “Hands to yourself now, sweetie?”

Rawfeed staggered, hips wider than he remembered, balance wrecked by the platforms and new front‑loaded weight. He leaned over the booth to beg security. A guy on the rail reached up to steady him and, because karma never misses a cue, “accidentally” grabbed a handful of his new rear.

Rawfeed shrieked through the mic. At the exact same instant, Jerry’s AGGRO REBOUND setting triggered: three phantom squeezes rippled across Rawfeed’s chest and ass, invisible hands kneading. His eyes bulged.

“Quit touching! Don’t touch me!” He swatted at air, boobs shaking under the crop top in slow‑motion strobe. Phones everywhere.

Jerry almost fell laughing. He thumbed the remote again, just to calibrate sensitivity. A slider labeled AUDIENCE RESPONSE -> SENSORY AMPLIFIER pulsed. He nudged it. Rawfeed’s nipples visibly peaked under the rhinestones. He squealed, clutching his mixer like a life raft.

“Okay, okay, look—ladies—I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—I get it—stop!” He tried to kill the music; instead he hit a sampler pad that fired a loop of recorded female moans—his own stage gimmick—now playing under his apology. The crowd howled.

Sweat rolled down his newly bare midriff. He bent again, one hand under his belly like the cramps came in waves. “Why does my stomach feel like it’s eating itself?”

Jerry murmured into his drink. “Day one of middle‑school gym with cramps, champion.”

Security finally hustled toward the booth, but not fast; they were laughing too hard. While they climbed, Rawfeed’s track transitioned on auto‑mix, lights bathing him in pink glitter while he tried to shield his chest with the mic towel. Every motion bounced him. Every bounce fed the AGGRO loop. He whimpered into the PA.

“Please stop looking.”

No chance. The whole floor looked.

Jerry toyed with the remote again. He could lock Rawfeed this way all night. He could hand him back his deck control but freeze his wardrobe. He could go further—make the cramps intensify every time someone catcalled, or flip the sexual polarity so Rawfeed’s body flushed with arousal whenever he looked at a guy too long. Educational programming.

He tapped a bookmark icon: SAVE PRESET: RAWFEED_COMEUPPANCE.

Up at the booth, security finally reached him. One guard tried to drape a hoodie over his shoulders. Rawfeed clung to him like a life preserver. The guard grinned at the crowd and gave a theatrical shrug.

Jerry licked salt from the rim of his glass and watched, pleased. Power never tasted this good when he’d been a short car salesman waiting in line.