My mouth is sore... under my tongue. Whatever she cut, it was a small incision. The bleeding stopped quickly. My speech was somewhat slurred in bidding adieu at the doctor’s offer, but otherwise not much of an alteration.
Certainly a less traumatic result than losing one’s reproductive organs.
***
Two more days of enduring taunts and mocking looks at the office. My supervisor dares not say a word with all the anti discrimination and civil rights laws and regulations, as I am sure my counselor explained ad infinitum. In a way I am viewed as a very sensitive parcel of explosives... something that can blow up at any time. Handle with care.
Tongue somewhat sore, I am grateful to just shuffle away the mounds of paper, entering my own world. When needing to use the rest room, I must use hand signals to obtain the attention of one of the women who serve as lookout. And of course I must squat to pee due to the doctor’s modification. That does not at all bring concern... quite the opposite for some reason.
Meanwhile, outside the office where my former gender is not known, I find some of the looks I receive on the city sidewalks to be oddly gratifying.
‘What a pretty little girl,’ I imagine the reaction, some repressing licentious thoughts as my age is practically indeterminate.
‘Damn this flat chest,’ I find myself thinking on occasion.
For otherwise, with Miss Lalique’s wardrobe, her training, and a goodly supply of makeup, I am ravishing. And am beginning to relish the attention... however subtle.
Friday comes, my tongue healing to loosen. So after work, it’s time for my weekly counseling, soaking up the looks of admiring passersby as I stroll midtown. I am excited, my counselor has not seen me in full regalia, the last visit was with hair colored and coifed, but in dreary men’s clothing and no makeup.
I am beginning to enjoy showing off.
Sitting in the waiting room, the receptionist no longer has much ammunition to taunt. I am girlish and I love it. She can say what she will. I even accept the mocking enunciation of ‘Renee’, my new moniker.
But then the small talk shifts as she compliments my prettiness.
“Yes, is it not amazing the effect that large doses of estrogen have on the neutered male? You’re not only effeminate... but your psyche has so much come to embrace it!”
“Estrogen?” I blurt.
I am speechless as my counselor buzzes to grant entry and begin my session.
I arise from the waiting area befuddled... thinking about the pill I take each and every day... Nurse Sueann’s bi weekly massive injections... estrogen!
The receptionist notes my perplexed look and opens the door to offer access to the counselor’s lair. As I step past her, she laughs most sardonically.
“You’re now one of us. Enjoy.”
***
“You’re smearing your makeup,” my counselor forewarns.
I am sobbing, more confusing reaction. I am so meek and wimpy. In anger I do not shout, threaten, feel a need for physical response... instead I cry like a little girl.
“All the time I thought you were trying to help... you and Nurse Sueann,” my voice quaking.
“I think we’ve helped quite a bit. You look most alluring, Renee. You’re a head turner. Your benefactress is quite pleased with your response to the treatments... physically... psychologically... and emotionally. You’re blubbering like a child. Is it not wonderful? An almost perfect transformation.”
“But I wanted a chance... it’s not fair... I really thought there would be choices...”
“Strip for me this instant, young lady. Stop this. We need to talk.”
In my distress I have not disrobed for my counselor. She likes looking at me. And of course there is the less than subtle power exchange in being with the fully clothed woman while sans one thin thread of covering. She insists. And I have learned when governing women insist, I comply.
I disrobe displaying in full my smooth hairless form. I suspect the past Wednesday’s visit with Nurse Sueann was my last coating of depilation solution. Since I have not needed to shave my face in six days, it is unlikely that any otherwise sparse body hair will flourish.
“Walk about for me... on your toes. Hands on your head. Calm yourself.”
I obey, the counselor fully aware that in focusing on her instructions, there comes distraction from the abhorrence of knowing I am brimming with female hormones. And ironically, I find myself reacting as a little girl... pouting and caterwauling in frustration.
“Yes, prance about. Perhaps we should get you some dance lessons. Would you like that? Such a cute little ballerina you would be.
“I like what the doctor did with that useless penis, by the way. No longer showing itself. The piercings were my suggestion after Miss Lalique reported your little thing tented your panties.”
My counselor makes a point of dramatically showing me the key to the tiny lock, that which forces me to squat to pee.
So on my toes I prance indeed, feeling the newly acquired layers of thick gelatinous flesh gently quiver and flop about my thighs and buttocks.
Several trips about her good sized sanctum and she finally deems me calmed.
“Ok, on the couch, Renee. Let’s talk, shall we. I have a dildo for you to play with... the perfect size for you to relish orally. The doctor very nicely loosened that tongue for you and I think a little lady like you is eager to use it.
“Next week you’ll report to me here, but after counseling there’s someone I want you to meet. He’ll be kind and gentle... and you will be kind and gentle with him.”
***
We sit in a seedy Greenwich Village bistro. Though Friday evening, it is early and therefore nearly empty. Yet one can ascertain by the intense odor of spilled beer that within hours sloppy revelers will be enhancing the sour smell with more spillage.
I am dressed and coifed to the hilt as my counselor insisted. After orally ‘satisfying’ her dildo, she took me to her closet, opened the door to reveal the large mirror and had me once again survey my femininity. By rote I began to prink and preen and this brought a knowing smile... the ingrained need to look pretty. Lying on her couch, first kneading and massaging the dildo, then engulfing to emulate fellatio with tongue and lips, somewhat mussed my hair.
‘So, a big date for you. Remember to be kind and gentle... and he will be kind and gentle with you,’ her parting words as she offered a slip of paper with the Greenwich Village address.
Obedience instilled, I took a cab. Stepping inside the battered graffiti laden door, the man easily recognized me... a cute but flat chested blonde. When the waitress asked for identification, I somewhat panicked. But then calmed myself with the realization that my cohorts at work are more than aware of my transformation and my gender obfuscation, why not others?
The waitress smirked in noting my given name... Robert... and with it the disclosure of my gender at birth. In thereafter carefully observing the middle aged woman, I came to the conclusion it was a guy in drag. I felt an odd prideful glow in knowing I was much prettier and more alluring than him.
My date took my hand and we moved to a booth, seating me in the inner seat. He sits next to me, the bench opposite to remain unoccupied... least I hope so.
“Your counselor is a very generous woman,” the man sedately offers in making small talk. “She’s been helping me with certain... ‘issues’.”
I nod. The waitress returns. The man orders a brew for himself... water for me. Lots of water, he insists.
He/she departs.
“You may not like my taste,” he explains.
I gulp with concern. I note the relative seclusion of the booth, the paucity of patrons. I know what to say, my counselor was very specific. I decide to move onward with the demanded protocol. I am not the man’s counselor and do not care to hear of his issues. So in my high pitched girlish voice, abundance of estrogen finally explaining the drastic change, I meekly inquire.
“May I suck your penis, Sir?”
The words si
cken yet strangely excite. The man is initially taken aback by the brazen offer. Then he smiles. His hand extends to entwine in the hair at the back of my head. As he pulls I am chagrined to see the waitress return with the brew and two large glasses of water... to be offered should I not enjoy the man’s taste. She... he? smiles wickedly and says nothing, watching smugly as my head is drawn below the level of the table to the man’s lap. In his/her mind a young transvestite trollop is about to receive his comeuppance. With the silence, I must assume our comportment is well within the establishment’s rules of conduct.
After all, it is Greenwich Village.
His free hand opens his zipper.
“Nice and slow while I enjoy a good beer,” his tone of voice becoming demanding and authoritative. “I trust you know to swallow.”
Yes, I know what to do. My counselor explained that the best fellatio to be ever offered is by the male... one time male. I know where he wants my tongue. I know the proper pressure of my lips. I know to withhold the exhilarating swirling motion until... well until the command is given.
Once again I am both sickened and excited. My lips greet the male appendage. It is engorging rapidly.
As I orally gratify, I divert my thoughts back to the earlier counseling session. Some last words offered which made my heart leap... ‘by the way, your benefactress is planning to visit New York and so very much wants to meet you. She likes your pictures...’
I am to meet the mysterious yet generous woman who has transformed my life!
“More with the tongue,” the command returning me to the present.
The man’s appendage is enviously stiff, the tip abrading the back of my throat. I somewhat withdraw, vigorously swish my tongue about the underside of the tip, and feel the shaft spasmodically pulsate. My mouth is deluged with gobs of thick saltiness. I somewhat gag and hear the annoying waitress snicker from a distance. And I find the man is correct... I do not like his taste. But I will not insult... I dutifully ingest all.
***
I arise late on Saturday morning. The mental/emotional trauma for some reason inducing the need for much sleep. In awakening to reality, the prior evening’s ‘date’ instantly comes to mind... fellating some guy in a raunchy Greenwich Village bar.
I tell myself I should be sick... disgusted... such a revolting act.
Yet, there is curious satisfaction... that I obeyed my counselor’s commands... that I was found to be alluring... that I can arouse and stimulate, physically cultivating an erection... that I can please and offer the ultimate male pleasure which has been plucked from me?
Which brings this sense of gratification? Perhaps all.
Yet, there is more. I was empowered. For the first time during my transformation I controlled something. I aroused... I brought him to erection... I decided when to bring him off.
The next time I will tease more... deny longer... empower myself more... I tell myself.
What am I thinking!
Many contrary thoughts. And when I step to the bathroom and am reminded that I must sit to urinate, the emotional roller coaster descends. At age 24 so much has been taken from me. All that remains from my pre orchiectomy existence is my job... and that hangs by a thread... the slightest infraction to be used as an excuse for termination.
But I can attract!
So what’s a girl to do... a guy to do?
The park beckons. The weather is cooling but the sun brightly shines. By the time I prink and preen it will be near noon, the temperature rising to a level of warmth at which a girl can show off.
I survey the many garments purchased by Miss Lalique. A very short flowery skirt is tempting. A diaphanous white blouse of some special nylon offers naughty appeal. I sit naked applying makeup. A deep gaudy shade of red lipstick, incongruous with the time of day and setting, false eye lashes... the works.
Then comes a defining decision. I skip the pink panties and make the effort to don the ‘fuck me’ high heels.
And that is all my covering... blouse, heels with straps just below the knees... skirt so short that had I balls such would be hanging below the hem.
My heart pounds in standing before the mirror. I look like a young hooker, my appearance emulating the way I feel. Something tells me not to so expose myself. Yet something else within brings a devilish smile, imagining the reaction of park dwellers. With the slightest gust of wind, my finally shaped derriere will be revealed to all. The image oddly gladdens.
But then I realize that my state of alteration will be unveiled as well. As I gently lift the front of the skirt, my empty scrotum and down turned penis shaft pop into view. Goose bumps form, my newly sensitized nipples crinkle, and I shiver with the thought. It frightens... but it thrills. A frisson of dread... a frisson of joy.
Still, I take my pill, now known to be estrogen, and step out the apartment door, my hands at my sides modestly holding down the short hem to deter exposure... until I reach the park.
Part Two
Compound of Ramona Cortez
Bogota, Colombia
“Escobar will be in New York next week. Alert the pilots. Have the Falcon serviced and fully fueled. We’ll leave late tomorrow.”
Maria Sanchez nods. She is a good soldier, will obey orders, but there is not blind subservience. She needs to understand.
“Why there? We can engage him anywhere.”
“My latest little strumpet,” Ramona Cortez replies.
She lays before her ravishing yet vigorous compatriot the latest photos. Maria picks them up and examines, smiling evilly.
“Well there’s a penis... barely... but otherwise...”
Ramona smiles.
“One of my better transformation efforts, wouldn’t you agree? Lives in New York. Name’s Warren. It was Robert Warren... Renee Warren. And the psychological counseling is beginning to surpass the results of his physical alteration. We now have a very meek and obedient little girl. Quite receptive to performing fellatio.”
“You spend a lot of money, Ramona.”
“No... I invest a lot of money,” the shapely woman of some thirty five years responds.
She stands, extending her arms, inviting the embrace of Sapphos which begins... and ends... every evening in bed. Buxom, the muscular chest of Maria Sanchez seems to perfectly fit. She steps forth, the two forms osculating in a lover’s embrace.
“Escobar... he’s dangerous,” Maria forewarns.
“He has cash,” Ramona counters.
“He’ll be wary.”
“He has needs.”
“As do you,” a smiling Maria feeling Ramona’s hand gently squeezing her buttocks in their private signal for intimacy.
“Mr. Feeldoe?”
“The only man I’ll ever love.”
Maria knows to bend, unraveling the straps of her boots. Not stylish, such are remnants from the many years serving in Special Forces. Meanwhile the buxom Ramona stoops to remove her own boots... knee high... chic... shining black leather.
“Will it be worth it?”
“Feeling your deep penetrating thrusts?”
“No. Toying with Escobar,” Maria giggling with the unintentional double entente.
“We won’t toy. We may in fact accomplish what many government authorities have been unable to do.”
Clothing is shed. The women prefer each other without a shred of covering. Within moments they embrace again, the nipples of the finely shaped breasts of Ramona firmly pressing the rock hard muscled chest of her lover. They kiss. Tongues entwine. Maria pushes. Ramona topples to the bed. Maria follows landing atop.
These are the few moments when Maria takes charge, working to bring Ramona to a lather, her muscular right thigh firmly pressing between the more soft gams of Ramona, turning her warming sex to a cauldron. When she feels abundant wetness she knows it is time for the welcomed tease.
“Mr. Feeldoe is watching and is begging for a threesome,” Maria humorously suggests in withholding further efforts.
Such tantalizat
ion.
“So let’s make it a threesome.”
From a nearby drawer the notorious double dildo is urgently withdrawn. Maria presents it and a now submissive Ramona passionately licks to moisten. Then hands accept it to work the female end into her lovers nest. As Maria absorbs the initial wave of pleasure, the clever mass of rubber filling her vagina, Ramona assures it is encased firmly enough to offer the deep penetration which so thrills her. Then Ramona’s parts her thighs in invitation. Knees rise to greet the fabulous mammary glands, invitingly spreading open her folds of pinkness.
Fingers of Maria’s left hand splay the entrance to Ramona’s portal, the male tip is aligned then glides inward to earn a guttural moan of ecstasy. A long late afternoon of copulation begins.
“When will we have enough?” Maria inquires.
Ramona gasps while replying, “I suppose we can find a larger size.”
Maria slightly withdraws and jiggles her hips to bring forth more gasps as Mr. Feeldoe kneads the vaginal walls.
“No... enough money.”
Both women laugh with another double entente. The question goes unanswered as Maria begins to rhythmically thrust in earnest, her powerful hips offering the force of the most virile male lover.
***
For a person of Ramona Cortez’s avocation, many of the skills of Maria Sanchez are quite necessary. For a person with Ramona Cortez’s preferences many of her other skills are exquisite.
Maria Sanchez, mature beyond her twenty eight years, has led a life of turmoil and conflict. Born in the mountains of Colombia, her family was constantly intimidated by the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (Farc). Cousins were kidnapped and executed, family members forced to pledge their allegiance. A strong willed Maria would not offer her submission.
Instead, at age sixteen she ran off, lying about her age to join the government’s counter revolutionary forces. Military training, weapons training, even a few months of top secret training with the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency, learning how to intimidate and interrogate drug dealers. With Maria’s good looks yet rugged physicality she brought terror to the terrorists, easily coaxing close contact with her prey.
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