Mirror Talk
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

As I was about to sit down. I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my balls. A searing pain in both, at the same time. My hand went immediately to my groin. But no, there was nothing there. Just the slit below my trimmed bush, with the nubbin poking out between the folds. No balls. Long gone.

I understand that all amputees have feelings like this – a sore thumb on an arm removed, a calf cramp where there is no leg. I am told that male to female transsexuals do not feel the same thing. Maybe for them the genitals never belonged, so they are never missed. But I am not a transsexual. I am a feminized man, surgically altered against my will.

I check my forehead. I have always had plenty of hair, but before all this it was receding in the front. They pulled my scalp forward when my brow was modified, so that I now have a feminine hairline. But at the same time my eyebrows are higher and I sometimes think that gives me a vacuous look. Like I am always a little surprised. On inspection there is not a single blemish on my face. The daily routine I must carry out has given me soft and flawless skin.

I brush my hair. I do it by habit now. 100 strokes per day was the compulsory minimum.

I hear a noise and he enters the room. My jailer. My tormentor. My husband.

He rummages in his sock drawer, and then he sidles over. I deliberately avoid looking at him in the mirror. He pushes hair away from my neck and kisses me there. I lean my head away to give him more to kiss. What can I do? He owns my neck. He owns me.

“You'd better not leave a mark,” I say. It is about as close to a command as I can give.

“Can I brush your hair?” He likes to do it. I seldom say no. I hand him the brush. I have washed it and let it dry naturally.

After a few strokes, he puts his head beside mine looking into the mirror together. His face is strong and masculine, like mine once was, I think. The contrast is so clear.

“You really are the most beautiful thing,” he says. “I am so proud of you. You are going to look so good tonight. The most beautiful creature in the room.”

A creature. His creation. He is proud of having turned me into this.

But he is right. I stroke an eyebrow. Perfect.

“How would you like me to do my hair tonight?” I ask him. “Up or down?”

“Up, if you are wearing a long gown tonight,” he says. “And I will love taking your hair down, when we get home later.” I know what he likes. I will use fewer pins, well placed.

“You might be too drunk later. And I will definitely be too tired.” I tell him. What could be worse that being half asleep and having a drunk fumble with your body?

“Now then,” he whispers. Is he that excited? It looks like he might be.

“I have just had a bath and washed my hair,” I complain.

“I like you best shaven down, and smelling of perfumed soap.” He was nuzzling my neck again. He was not about to be put off. I have shaven my legs and used herbal lotion. I know I smell good. I choose my scents carefully. Something with spice. Exotic rather than floral and overly feminine. I am not really a woman, after all.

As he kisses my neck again, I give a little mock gasp to signal my agreement. He gets what he wants, that is just the way it is for me now.

“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.” Why did he say that? When he says things like that, he knows that I want to believe it. He knows that I want to believe that he loves me. Could it be true? Could the man who has mutilated another to make this, have fallen in love with his creation?

I look at him in the mirror and say: “You’ll say anything to get me on my back.”

He is smiling at me. He thinks I am joking. Maybe I am. He has a winning smile. I have to smile back. It just happens when he grins at me like that.

He reaches down my robe to cup my free hanging breast. My breasts are large but not overly so – in good proportion. Initially they were hard to become used to, jiggling about all the time, but now I take pleasure in how I cup them and present them.

He touches a nipple. This time the gasp is no pretence.

“I need to get ready for you,” I say. He is going to get what he wants. But is it because he controls me or because I want it as much as he does?

I glide swiftly to the bathroom. I pull out my stent and put it in the case in the vanity unit. I sit and let my bladder empty. I feel the warm urine part the flaps below where my penis had once been. This is how I do it now - sitting. A tissue to clean – front to back to keep things clean.

Strawberry flavoured lubricant. Just in case he wants to lick me down there. If he does he likes it to be sweet. He told me once that the joy in having a woman who was once a man, is that her pussy always smells better than any born woman. I would not know about always, but it does now, that is for sure.

I let the robe fall in the doorway. He can see me, and I can see myself full length now in the dressing table mirror. How changed I am. Soft and full, shapely and smooth, where once I was angular and hard. I have always liked a woman’s body, so how could I not enjoy the sight of this? I told myself this to get over the initial self-loathing, and it has worked. I now genuinely like what I see.

I cannot resist turning slightly to check to see that my bottom is still firm. It may droop one day. Will he still want me when it does? Well he does at the moment, that is clear. He is naked and his desire is evident, and hard as steel.

I walk slowly to the bed. It is my catwalk strut. I like to make him sweat. I slide on the bed on my stomach, so that he will turn me over. Kissing my breasts, nuzzling my navel. He can smell the strawberry now. I spread my hair over the pillow.

Yes. A little tongue where it counts. God, why do I have to like this so much? Why was the surgeon so skilled that such feeling remains? Even better than anything as a man, I think. Now that my G-spot is that little nubbin, hooded by old scrotum tissue and snugly secured in my panties most of the time, its sensitivity is preserved for moments like this.

His lips are on mine now. A trace of strawberry from the lubricant. He smells of aftershave. Something musky and masculine. It fills my nostrils as I breathe in in anticipation of what will happen next.

His penis is now at my front door, pushing. Entry, and the sound of the lubricant slurping. He is all the way in. He is inside me now. I look up at his face. His eyes are closed and he is softly exhaling. He is happy.

I once knew what he is feeling now. I once had a penis. I once penetrated women. I fucked women, and it made me happy, regardless of how they felt. That was before. Now I could feel him moving in and out of me. I could hear the sound of my wetness, and his hips slapping my inner thighs.

I am asking again: Why does it have to feel this good? Why does it feel so good to have him inside me like this, his penis hot and hard? My pussy, moist and yielding? Oh, so good.

The first wave is coming. Why does it happen so quickly? How can I feel it twice, even 3 or 4 times every time we do this? I hear a little squeak escape from my lips. Ever since the operation on my larynx all I can do is speak in high tones. It was not always this way, but after the first time he brought me to a female orgasm, the manly bellow was not what he wanted to hear. Another change was made to eliminate all trace of maleness from the act.

Now my squeak was the perfect sound. It encourages him. The heat is rising. I can feel the strength of his body concentrated on my point of pleasure. He has a strong body, like mine was. But now I am soft, exactly the way he wants me to be. And now as I admire his strength and the hair on his chest and arms … what am I?

Rising, rising, rising. Oh God. Here it comes. His spurt, filling me. My ecstasy. Our voices in harmony: “Oh fuuuuck”. Is there anything better than simultaneous orgasm? When you are the woman?

I open my eyes and he is looking down at me. There is that look in his eyes. Could it be? He drops his head to kiss me tenderly on the lips.

“Use a Kleenex,” I chide him. “I think you have shot at least a pint into me, and I need to tidy up and get dressed. We need to be out of the house in 30 minutes.”

“I love you,” he says.

Why am I crying? Am I crying for my lost manhood? Am I crying because I am the victim of mutilation? Or of sexual assault? Why am I crying?

“I love you too,” I find myself saying to him. I know it is so. These are tears of joy

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2018

Here is something I wrote a while ago. I usually avoid forced feminization, but is it?