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“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.
