Mangina
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

I remember the last time I made love to my wife. She let me go on top. It had been that way more often than not, in the last few months. She lay beneath me and I took the full length of her strap-on deep into my vagina. I bounced around on her so that I could imagine that I was thrusting into her, as I had done when I had a penis. Before she took it away.

I came quite easily. Only the first few months after she did her work was there any pain. After that her construction only brought me pleasure. She was exhausted but seemed happy that I had enjoyed her. She used to come too, with the other half of the tool inside her. But the cancer had taken hold and nothing could distract the body from the battle.

I suppose that I should have been joyful when she died. After all, this was the woman who had permanently mutilated her own husband for an meaningless indiscretion. To be truthful, it had been more than one. Many in fact, but all meaningless. I would never have left her. She was the mother of my children. Not to mention that I was financially dependent on her.

She was one of the premier gynecological surgeons in the country, and sex confirmation surgery is always in demand. She was good enough to be able to do the job on me single handed, after hours. And by her own account, it was some of her best work. Certainly, she was able to preserve feeling. She was happy that I should take joy from sex, provided it was with her. As long as I had a penis, she had no guarantee that would be the case.

As a man with a vagina, I had no chance of sex with another woman. Even a lesbian would be unattracted to me, as I was clearly a masculine man. At least I appeared to be on the outside.

I even hired a lesbian for sex once, just to spite her. She was a prostitute who had both male and female clients. She was pretty, and I thought that I had found some satisfaction in having her dildo inside me, but she could not hide her disgust. Men were her trade, and I was no longer one of them. And I was not a woman either.

My wife had found the complete punishment. A man who thought only of penetrating women, was now just a receptacle for sex toys.

I could present myself to the world as male, with the assistance of a prosthetic penis and balls in my pants. The only problem was using the men’s toilets. I could only use the cubicles, but if I sat down to pee it did not sound right. I had to resort to using a "SheWee" catheter thing and standing. It was messy. Going out in the evening became awkward.

It had been a major assault on me. She could have gone to prison, and most certainly would have lost her licence to practice medicine. But I could not go to the police. That would have meant me being alone with nothing. All that we had was in trusts, and my income was pathetic. There was a succession of failed businesses, and the current one was doing poorly, resulting in a negative salary – paying with money from her to keep it going. And I had other debts that she was paying.

The boys knew nothing of what she had done to me. I appeared to be their father. Just as inadequate I had always been. When they were younger they thought that I was a god – charming and good looking, with a ready wit. But now that they were living their own lives they could see me for what I was.

If they knew that between my legs lay my real shame, they might not have been surprised. Their dickless father – how appropriate. Their strong and capable mother was a much better example. She would be a great loss to them. She was.

And a loss to me too. It had been long enough for me to forgive her, sort of. She had done a terrible thing to me, but it was my infidelity at the root of it. I should have been faithful to her. I was a kept man who lived in style and had an adoring wife. I threw it away for a few empty thrills.

She asked for that forgiveness before she died. She told me that when she did what she did, she never contemplated leaving me alone. She wanted me to stay with her, and so she needed to put an end to my philandering. But she wanted sex and she knew that her patients could function so well after surgery, many of them as lesbians. She had never thought about how I would find love after she was gone.

My story – this story - is about how I did.

Of course, the surgery meant that I had lost my testicles too. My wife kept them in a jar of alcohol. She told me that she had considered how they could be kept within my body, beside the passage that she had made, and which was held open by stents and regular dilation by the tools she wore. It turned out that it was too complicated. After all, she performed the criminal surgery in a plastic tent in our garage, so although her resources were limited she told me it was high quality surgery. Some comfort. Without the testicles I needed to take daily male hormones to keep looking male.

After my wife died, the tablets ran out. There was no new prescription – she supplied them. I would need to go to somebody else to explain my predicament, and that would be embarrassing.

Certainly, I could not go to her practice, which continued to run after her death. The remaining surgeons paid the “non-working partner” return to me as her beneficiary and would do so until they bought out her share, at a price I thought fair. It would be substantial because of the business she had built up as the face of the clinic. And she had insurance and a superannuation package. I was well looked after. I did not need to work so I closed my business down.

But I was short on emotional support. My sons both came to stay with me for a few weeks after she died. They were broken-hearted. I was just broken. I guess they thought that I had taken the loss as hard as they had, but for me it was more complicated. It was brought back by some of my old mistresses who turned up at the funeral. Some flirted with me, discretely. But none knew that I had been unmanned years before and had nothing to offer. I could not find comfort there.

Of course, those women, and others I had dallied with, had tried to lure me out before she died, but after she had emasculated me. I told them all that I had returned to my wife and that I was not that kind of man anymore. In fact, I was not a man at all, but I could never say that. It worked just as she had thought it would.

After she died, my male friends turned out to be few in number. Failing in business loses friends. All that remained were old school friends – really good guys. Not long after the funeral some talked of me “moving on” with the comforting words: “You’ll find somebody else in time.” They could not know it - a man with a vagina has little chance of forming a relationship.

So, without her, I could try to rebuild my life. My options seemed to be major corrective surgery, or learning how to live with what I had.

I took advice on surgery from a surgeon well away from my wife’s sphere of contacts. Such surgery would involve making a false penis from abdominal flesh, as there was nothing left to work with from what had once been. It would be a long and painful procedure, and sex would involve a tool to stiffen the fleshy appendage and stimulate my well-constructed clitoris. The surgeon actually said: “This is beautiful work, this vagina of yours. The best I’ve seen.” It made me feel proud, of her, I guess.

He gave me a scrip for male hormones but I never took it to a drugstore. I told myself that I was too embarrassed, but the problem was really that I needed to face the fact that I was no longer truly male.

I came back to the idea of finding a woman who could accept me as I was, whatever that was. I was still youngish, and I thought of myself as physically attractive. That was just before I began to feel the effects of withdrawing from androgen therapy. There was no beard growth, muscles were wasting away, and I was become soft and round. When I looked at myself in the mirror I appeared to be a lot less manly.

I thought about how female to male transmen have female partners. I even found transgendered dating sites to search for “a chick with a dick” who might be the ideal kind of partner. My bad luck was that the two or three people like this that I contacted were either only interested in a complete man, or only interested in sex rather than a relationship.

In the end I went to see a shemale prostitute. Her name was Bella and she was able to get big and hard enough to have sex with me, allowing me to be on top and pretend that I was fucking her. We got familiar enough to be able to go without protection. As she put it she was certified clean of diseases and neither of us was going to get pregnant.

She told me that she had a boyfriend who was bi-sexual and that while he enjoyed his girl with a penis, he was very interested in having sex with a man with a vagina.

“I don’t have sex with men,” I told her. But for the first time in my life I started to wonder what it would be like to have a man’s penis inside my vagina.

I do not know enough to suggest that it might have been the lack of male hormones that made me seriously consider this idea. Or it may have been just looking at myself and wondering if I might not be more attractive to men than to women, looking as I did. Without the male hormones I had lost muscle mass and body hair, and I had come to look quite soft and slight.

Bella’s boyfriend was gay enough to take me as a man, but she suggested that maybe I should put on a little lipstick when I met him. Honestly, I had never thought about dressing as a woman before. But the fact is that I had not thrown out any of my wife’s clothes. My sons wanted to do that, but I told them to leave everything. I had not done that so that I might put anything on, just because I was not ready to get rid of her stuff.

But I did try some of her things on, alone in the house. I even put on the wig that she bought after chemotherapy. It was not a serious attempt at cross dressing, just a look at myself as somebody else. Maybe more than one look. Several, in fact.

What I did notice was how convenient it is to go to the toilet wearing a skirt. You just slip down your panties, sit down and piss away.

I wore her clothes around the house, and they were ideal for that. My wife had a full figure after giving birth to two sons, and her clothes were loose and comfortable on me now. Even sleeves fitted me as my muscles faded away. Those clothes were hopelessly big for her as cancer ate into her, but they fitted me beautifully.

I did not go out wearing any women’s clothes, but I did stop stuffing my pants with the rubber prosthesis. I put it in the drawer of my dresser. I went out as if to dare people to look at my crotch and notice. Nobody did. Men don’t and somehow women had become less interested in me. Were the changes obvious to them? Nobody said anything. Except that I did receive comments about appearing “more youthful looking”.

I let my hair grow a bit too. I had the advantage of having a good head of hair, and the lack of male hormones probably helped. When we were married my hair was longer, but my wife always insisted on me having regular haircuts. Now I was released from her rules.

My oldest friends understood my situation better. Most of them never liked my wife. She kept me from rowdy nights on the booze with them. Their advice to me was to “go for it”. Of course, they had no idea that I had an empty groin. Go for what? I guess they thought that I was going to be chasing girls.

I decided that I could do what I liked. Apart from what she wanted the only restraints on me were the expectations of those who respected her not me. I did not care about them anymore. As for our mutual friends, they seemed to have evaporated in her absence. As I have explained, my work colleagues no longer existed, and sadly my sons seemed distant with her passing.

I decided that I would try dressing as a woman in public. I had never had any fetish of this kind, or any fantasies about cross dressing. I only wore the dresses at home for comfort, and the panties because they fitted me so perfectly without the prosthesis. This decision was a major move for me, away from maleness.

I had to do it right, so I booked in to a feminization boutique. I am sure that you can find at least one in most major cities. They allow those who have those fantasies to pretend to be women. After a makeover they can choose to go out for a “ladies night” with their mentors and perhaps a few other customers. The thought appealed to me, not for titillation, but to test whether I could present myself in keeping with my genitals.

It was much more thorough than I expected. Not only was there a makeover and advice on what to wear, but there was also considerable instruction on feminine deportment and even some training on how to lift the voice to a feminine tone.

I decided that before I went back I would need to work on the voice and the deportment in my own time, and to try to understand more about the makeup they put on my face, and the coordination of the clothes. I had little else to do at home, so I made it my study exercise. I ordered some special cosmetics on line.

The only glitch I had was when a courier called at home and I was wearing a dress and the wig, with a little makeup and mascara. If it had been somebody I knew visible through the CCTV I would just not have answered the door, but it was just a courier. When he said: “Sign here please Ma’am”, I found myself signing not as myself, but some loopy girly signature. And when he said: “Could I have a name please, Ma’am?” I found myself saying: “Gloria”. I have no idea where that came from.

It was only after I felt that I was comfortable that I re-booked at the boutique. As a second-time customer I felt that I was well advanced, and they thought so too. I remember smiling wryly when one of the ladies remarked: “Great job tucking down there”. I asked for a look that was less femme, and more professional. The wig did not have curls.

We went out with two ladies from the boutique and two other customers. We went to a cocktail bar. I tried to be elegant. The two other guys were excited and way over the top. I offered to buy a round of drinks and I went up to the bar.

“Are you working at the boutique now,” said the bartender as he poured out the wine. “They come here with the wannabe trannies all the time, but I haven’t seen you before.”

I smiled at him and I said: “Now don’t you talk about my girlfriends that way.” As I walked back to the table I was thrilled beyond understanding. Even knowing that I was with the group from the feminization boutique, this guy thought I was one of the the women working there - not one of the clients. My life almost changed at that moment. I now knew that I could pass as a woman

But in fact, the real change occurred when I went to see Bella, and this time I was ready for her boyfriend to have sex with me. He seemed like a nice guy, which surprised me a little. She told me later that he said that I looked pretty, which was strange because I was not in drag at all that evening. Bella suggested that we have intercourse without protection. She said that if I really wanted to experience sex with a man “you want to feel the meat, not plastic or rubber.”

Bella told me that while she was in the sex trade, she was his only partner, so there was no risk of disease, but that it was my call.

I must confess that I could not look at him when he first started. He lay me down on my back and he gently massaged my thighs. I was looking at the ceiling. I remember that his hands were strong and slightly rough. I had never been felt up that way with hands like these. It made me feel weak and fragile, but somehow safe. He applied a little lubrication to my opening in a gentle and lingering way, and then he entered me.

I knew the feeling of plastic from so many times. But Bella was right. This was something completely different. He was as rigid as a man can get, but somehow that soft cap seemed to make the entry friendly. And I could feel the strength in his hips so different from my wife or even Bella. His thrusting was powerful without being violent, yet his body moved me up the bed with every stroke.

I knew orgasm. As I have explained, my wife did good work. She wanted me to retain the joy of sex so the orgasm was no surprise. It was the second one that surprised me. Both my wife and Bella would stop after I climaxed - my wife because she would orgasm at the same time, and Bella because the job was done. But this man would not stop until he was done.

Then it came. He stopped. He groaned. And I felt his hot penis inside me convulse and his seed enter me. That was the moment. That was when I knew who I was. And as if to confirm it, I looked up at him and he was smiling at me. It was a smile of total satisfaction. He never said a word. In fact, I don’t think that I ever heard him speak. I smiled back.

I never saw him again, my first man. I saw Bella, but only to seek advice on being a woman. She was helpful, but it seemed to me that both she and the feminization boutique were about pretending to be women. I would need to find my own way.

I bought a dress on line. Not one like my wife’s dresses. This was a fitted one. It hugged the figure I had, with only the lack of a bust to contend with. From the back I swear you could see that my tight manly buns seemed to have changed into a rounded butt, and my legs looked terrific.

Once I had tried it on I knew I had to do something about my chest. Some simple padding would do the job, but that is not what I did. I went to see a plastic surgeon.

Because my wife was so well known in medical circles connected with transgender issues, a connection could have been made. But as it happened, I had to go across country to settle some of my wife’s affairs and I found an advertisement in the airline magazine. It turned out that the normally busy surgeon had a sudden opening that fitted my schedule.

I was dressed as a man, of course, but he immediately picked me as transgender. He told me: “We do a complete service including facial feminization, rhinoplasty, tracheal shaves, breast implants, and we could move your scalp forward so that you would have a perfect feminine hairline. But we do not do Gender Confirmation Surgery. That is more complicated, and requires psychological certification.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I said. “I am not interested in surgery down there. I just want to know what I might look like, as a woman.”

He had a sort of photoshop program which could show the effect of his work, and also projected the effect of female hormones. He looked at me and said: “I assume that you are already on hormones, or at least androgen blockers.” He seemed to know his stuff. He showed me an image of a possible future me. I was gorgeous. He gave me a print out to take home.

I have to say it rattled me. I made my excuses. I felt as if things had gone too far, and that I was losing control. I did not go through with any surgery. I simply did the job that I came for and I went home.

When I got home I did not change into her clothes. I wore my old jeans. I even thought about stuffing the prosthesis in there, but when I looked at it in the drawer I realized that this was no longer me. It looked so pathetic sitting there. That was the masquerade, not the dresses.

I bought the shaping garment and wore my new fitted dress over it. For the first time I noticed that even with no female hormones my chest had become flabby and that the garment could push up enough flesh to give me a presentable cleavage. I wanted to test this look.

I decided that I would go to a bar and try to get laid. The fact is that I had not had sex since that first time with Bella’s friend. It was then that I had discovered that I liked sex as a woman. In fact, I enjoyed it more than sex as a man. Even though as a man I regarded myself as potent, I did not always perform well. But a vagina, with a bit of lube, is always ready. And you can lie back and concentrate on the pleasure, if you have a man who can give it to you, that is.

His name was Jason. He was a simple guy, around my age. In some ways he reminded me of me, at least when I was less experienced. He was a travelling marketing executive and I met him in the bar of the Excelsior Hotel, which was popular with those guys and women around my age looking for men like him, without strings. I knew that well. It did not take much small talk to be invited to his room.

He tried to kiss me on the lips, but somehow, I could not bring myself to allow that. I let him kiss every other part of my body, except I kept my bra on as I had no breasts in it. I knew what a guy should do to turn a girl on, and to me he was still short on the level of experience I had as a man. But in truth it did not take much to get me going.

“I hope you have a condom?” I asked. He produced one in a flash. I hankered for what I felt the first time, but this was casual sex, so I needed to be careful. I helped him to put it on. It was the first time that I have ever touched another man’s penis.

He had no idea that I was not a woman, except maybe when I cried out at that moment of climax. It might have been a male sound. It made me decide later to have work done on my voice-box as well. But he was polite enough not to mention it.

He offered to pay for a cab fare. Maybe he was sounding out whether he owed me more. But I told him not to bother. I got what I wanted out of that encounter. In truth, I would have paid him for what I had experienced. It was not quite as good as the first time, but it was close enough. It convinced me that I needed to be regularly serviced by a man.

So, it was settled. I told my plans to my sons and I told my old friends. They were the only people that I cared about, or who cared about me. Nobody could believe it. I was a man’s man, after all. I was a well-known rake and philanderer. How could I think of giving up my penis? Nobody knew that I did not have one and that I had not had one for years.

I went back across to the clinic and I stayed out there for a month for the surgery and recuperation. My new surgeon was surprised to discover that I already had female genitals. He noted: “Extremely high-quality surgery down there.”

With bottom surgery already done, there was no question of my being approved for surgery with a formal diagnosis of gender dysphoria. It was only the face, throat and chest. I was assured that his work was just as good as my vagina. When it was all done I looked and sounded like a woman.

I returned home, and I started life again as Gloria. I woke up every day trying to be a better woman. I learned new skills and took on new hobbies. I built a circle of new women friends, including three others who called us together “The Cougar Pack”. We were looking for sex, but sometimes love can come along when you least expect it.

He is an engineer. My sons think he is great, and so do their wives. Even my old friends approve.

He does not know everything about me, but he knows that I was once a man and that I am now a complete woman. I cannot have kids of course, but he has kids and so do I, so that is just fine for both of us.

He has always said that he likes his women to be feminine and sexy, and to care about how they look and behave. I know exactly what he means. I used to feel the same way. I guess that is why we get along so well. Anyway, he makes me want to be a better woman everyday.

Even before we got married I promised him that I would do everything to be the best wife a man could wish for, but I also had a warning. I told him that if he was ever unfaithful to me he could wave his cock and balls goodbye. He laughed. But it made me think that I was glad that I had said goodbye to mine, all those years before.

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2020