I wake up slowly, as I always do, the moment dawn breaks.
The light is almost gray beneath the sheets, cold and distant. Either side of me, the legs of my mistress stretch away from me; impossibly long, impossibly big. Slightly bent, from where she’s curled up while sleeping, no doubt with a faint smile on her impossibly-beautiful face.
Like most mornings, I have a moment’s disorientation, a moment when I forget what’s happened to me, and briefly wonder where I am.
For a split second, I even panic that I’ll be late for work. Try to roll over in the bed, to reach out, to check my cell and see what time it is, see if the alarm has failed to go off. Stupidly, I still believe that these human actions are something I’m capable of.
Then the image fades. My memory reasserts itself. And I remember that I will never, ever have to worry about going to work, ever again.
Never have to worry about showing up on time, or wearing a suit, or flirting with Karen, my dark-haired, beautiful secretary. Pinching her bum and asking if she’ll join me for a dirty weekend somewhere.
Since they passed my cruel and awful sentence, I haven’t had to worry about anything at all.
In the half-gloom, high above me, I hear a faint, sleepy giggle. My mistress, laughing in her sleep, almost as if she’s heard me.
She shifts slightly, rolling on her side, and my whole world seems to lurch with her. Her legs draw up, her thighs moving like two vast towers of flesh, pressing up either side of me, squashing me.
Half asleep, she reaches down with one delicate hand and starts playing lazily with my tiny tuft of wiry hair.
It hate it when she does this. It makes me feel so weak, so powerless. I want to angrily reach up and swat her hand away. Or at least close my eyes and go back to sleep.
But I’m incapable of doing either. I no longer have hands or arms. No longer have eyes.
No longer have anything but these two plump lips that hang softly together, making up most of my body-mass. This tight, moist hole that opens and closes within me. This tiny nub of nerves that comes alive when strong men touch it.
Comes alive and makes me shiver, despite myself. Makes me go all wet and sloppy. Makes me reluctantly open my hole and invite them in, while my mistress moans and writhes with pleasure.
Oh God, how I hate those moments!
You, sat so comfortably at your tablet screen, reading my pathetic story from the safety of your own body, you’ve no idea what humiliation is.
You can’t possibly know, until you’ve been debased and abused as I have in my new body, forced to endure things no human being has ever endured, to feel men’s fingers slip inside you. To see their big cocks, thick and bulbous and ready for sex, looming up before you, almost as big as you are.
To feel yourself open up obediently, to let them slip their dicks in and violate you, before finally squirting their seed, letting it mingle with your juices, while the love of your life moans and whimpers and finally giggles with happiness.
That, my friends, is humiliation.
And the worst part is: I enjoy it. On a purely physical level, you understand. Mentally, I scream and pray and beg for this not to happen. But outwardly…
Well, let’s just say that sometimes, even when I feel like crying, I have to stop myself from thinking about how good it all feels.
My new body, you see, was built for pleasure. When God, or evolution, or whatever created it – created me – he did so for three reasons only. For urination. For giving birth…
…and for procreation.
The second, I am pleased to say, hasn’t happened yet. The first. Well. I’d rather not talk too much about that, if you don’t mind.
(Except to say I’m glad it always happens in the near dark. Glad the angle my mistress sits at means I’m lost in the gloom of the toilet bowl, looking down at its impossibly vast porcelain cliffs; even as part of me is forced to relax – the part I think of as my ‘mouth’ – and I feel that hot, warm jet go streaming out, hear it pattering into the water below, while my mistress sighs with happiness at the misery she’s inflicting on me.)
But the third…
Friends, since my transformation, I’ve had more sex than I ever did in a lifetime of affairs.
Now we get to the crux of the matter.
I don’t think it’s boasting to say my affairs were legendary. I know, I know. Surely every man likes to think he’s a modern Casanova, an unrivaled master of seduction.
But I’m not exaggerating when I say I truly was.
Oh, I wasn’t the pinnacle of male beauty or anything. But neither was I Quasimodo. I worked out regularly. I dressed well. I had a well-paying job that sounded exciting and meant I got to travel a lot. I knew how to talk to women without seeming either overeager or overly shy or formal or condescending…
At least, not out loud.
(God. How Karen used to smile at my jokes. Back when I could still tell jokes…)
In my head, in my private thoughts, was another matter. Or, rather, I thought they were private.
I can picture them all even now, over ten years after my awful punishment.
I’m not lying, every single face of every woman I ever seduced I can still recall in my mind’s eye. Every name, the names they swore at my trial I could never remember. Well, guess what? I can list every single one of them.
Doesn’t that show how unfair this stupid system is?
Ah, but I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say it’s not my memory that was at fault, but what I privately called those girls. What I privately thought of the women I was seeing, the women I was chasing.
You’re going to say that I always called the Cunts.
It’s true. I can’t deny it.
That word appeared in all my journals. In that contacts list the prosecutor made a great show of waving around the courtroom, brandishing it before the female jurors with a flourish, like she’d just found the smoking gun.
You probably remember how the list went. Blonde Cunt. Big-Titted Cunt. Cunt from Jackson’s Office. Cunt met at store. Secretary Cunt. And so on, and so on, ad infinitum.
Yes. I wrote those words. But only as a game. Only as a little sop to my male pride.
Don’t you understand irony? Don’t you realize men can say that word as a little private joke, to amuse themselves?
Don’t you realize it’s not always sexist?
Back when I still had my body, I was as feminist as they come. Look it up. You’ll find those hashtags I retweeted, those petitions I signed. Hey, I even voted for Hillary all those years ago, despite the questions then surrounding her candidacy.
But I guess you bitches were never interested in evidence, were you?
No, you’d already decided. Up on your moral high horses. You were going to break me, like you want to break all men.
How else can you justify the cruelty of my punishment?
It sounds so funny, doesn’t it? So like a joke. The judge even laughed as she announced my sentence, pointed that staff at me; the one that made my body start to warp and change.
Made my arms bunch up against my sides… made my legs fold up into nothing… made my head vanish – cutting off my screams – and my body shrink, as a big slit opened down the front of me…
What was it she said again?
Ha. Like I could ever forget, even if I wanted too.
“Let the punishment fit the crime!”
Let it fit the crime indeed.
It’s getting lighter now. The gloom beneath the sheets is giving way to a warmer, softer light.
Soon, my mistress will wake up. I can already feel the gentle flow of blood into my plump lips. Already, I can feel the faint, warm tingle as my sleeping form comes to life, slowly aroused by dreams I can’t see; dreams my mistress is having about hunky men and depraved sex and endless copulation.
Any minute now, I’ll feel her stir to life. She might lazily reach a finger down, slip it inside me, wake herself up with an orgasm.
Or she might just start rubbing me against her bunched-up sheets, half asleep as she forces me to drip and shiver and oh-so-faintly pleasure her.
I only hope I get to say my piece first.
It was cruel what you did, you know? Placing me here, between the legs of a common whore.
I know I’m forbidden to think ill of her, I know you’ve altered my brain chemistry to make me feel unconditional love for my mistress, I know she’s a good and beautiful woman, I know I worship her…
But, all the same, couldn’t you have picked someone a little more… chaste?
The female you… That’s what you called her. A girl with supermodel looks and a good job, who travels around the world, screwing for fun. Who barely spends a night alone without a man by her side and, when she does, likes to play around with a dildo to help her relax.
I didn’t know then that you’d make it someone I knew.
And I didn’t know you’d alter her mind to make her into this… this monster.
How can any woman have this much sex? I’ve been rubbed and fondled and penetrated more times than I can remember.
I’ve had fingers slipped inside me. I’ve had tongues flicked across my surface, plunged deep into my hole. I’ve had cocks squirt inside me, onto me; their fluid getting stuck in my tiny patch of pubic hair.
I’ve looked up in horror as my mistress’s legs spread wide, and a muscular black man loomed up over me, his eyes fixed on my dripping mound, a cocky grin on his face.
I’ve peeked out from beneath cocktail dresses in nightclub toilets as my mistress slips her panties off and heads back out onto the dance floor, her high-heeled feet wobbling away so, so far below as she looks for a man who might be willing to slip his hand up here.
I’ve watched in faint disgust from an upside-down position as my mistress gets down on all fours, moaning softly, while another woman fastens a big, pink dildo around her waist, an evil little look in her eyes.
All of this horror, this misery has been mine to suffer. All the shavings and pluckings and waxings that have left me feeling ashamed and emasculated and miserable. All the times I’ve been tucked away inside a lacy pair of panties on a hot day, left to wallow in my own stink and sweat – that miserable, musty smell of pussy.
And, please, don’t even get me started on the periods.
Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough? Don’t you think ten years is beyond what’s reasonable for my crimes?
I only called them cunts, for Chrissakes!
I get it. I am a cunt now; you turned me into one. I will never forget it, I will never use that word for women again. Please… please, just…
…let me have my body back.
I know what I did was wrong. I know now that the Sisterhood are watching us men at all times; noting our misogynist thoughts, our little cruelties.
Know that when the balance is tipped too far, they intervene and put us on trial. Punish us with transformation, then leave an automaton walking around in our place, so no-one ever knows we’re even missing.
Now I know that, I’ll never, ever be bad again. I promise. I’ll be the nicest man you’ve ever met. The kindest, most-gentlemanly male in all the world.
Only please don’t leave me trapped here another ten years. Please don’t make me spend another decade between my mistress’s legs. My mistress who used to be my secretary.
Please don’t leave me as Karen’s pussy.
The light is stronger now. Above me – around me, part of me – I feel my mistress awake. Feel her stretch, hear her distant yawn.
She sits up. The sheets suddenly move beneath me. My whole body jiggles as my mistress rearranges herself. Spreads her legs.
I lie here, whimpering, as I hear something being picked up off the table. Let out an internal moan as my mistress’s long-nailed hand reappears, clutching the big, thick dildo she likes to use sometimes; the one that makes her gasp and scream with pleasure.
The one that makes me feel like I’m dying with desire and humiliation all at once.
As I cry to myself, a finger – as long as my entire body – curls down. Starts gently teasing at my lips, rubbing lazily at my clit, making it tingle and my body become warm and wet against my will.
“Morning, Mr. Stone,” Karen whispers, mockingly; still using the form of address she had to as my employee, all those years ago. Her voice is both noise to me and vibration, traveling through her belly to echo faintly inside me.
“Now, how about we start the day off with a bang, huh?”
Then she leans back, spreads her legs so wide I can no longer see them at the edges of my vision, angles the dildo…
…and then my exquisite daily life of torture and misery begins all over again.
Like what you’ve read? Check out my novel-length tale of kinky body part transformation: Turned Into His Sister’s Pussy. Or try my twisted erotic novel of gender-swap revenge and workplace servitude Becoming Christine.
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