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Big Tits

Mikey’s Decision: A Feminization Story

By Vera Blake

Part I The Meeting

During the third week of quarantine, I took a jog out into the deserted Carolina night and felt inconceivably light on my feet. For just a moment then, as shameful as it was liberating, I forgot I was a man; I forgot I was anything but a pair of eyes hovering just above the mist. Of course, I was a man. My speed, if nothing else, betrayed me. And with my boots striking like thunder in the empty wood and my broad shoulders pumping—shoulders Maia used to rub and kiss and which I once honored in tang tops and tight t-shirts—I took myself to be a man. It was what I needed anyhow if I were to get off that night. That night, I told myself, I would stay a man.

Such was a dream long past now. That me devoured by its opposite. The mealy caterpillar takes but a night to become everything it was not—and so would I.

Her skin, the picture on my phone promised, an ivory as smooth and sweet as cream; her body an angled ardor as mysterious as a young widow’s vale and just as beautiful as its own mystery. She was my lust for tonight, strapped down like a damsel. Undulating and thrusting, she begs me with her body.

Such was the beauty I sought, the warmth and ease of a helpless woman in a state of overwhelming want. A want to melt the candlewax down into a pool of warmth and puff of smoke. Such a want to strike and vanish like a smith hammers sparks. The sexual equivalent of a hot shower suddenly cool—this is what I needed. And as I ran through the foggy forest path, I experienced a sort of tunnel vision.

The last few weeks in quarantine had worked to emphasize an already tormented life. Never had I realized the extent to which work distracted my lust with its minutia. It did so just enough to keep my life fit like an arch, to keep my relationship composed of those normal pleasures—kisses and little innuendos and certain power dynamics. Even if I felt like a bitch at work, I came home to be a man, grabbed my girl’s waist, took her, the whole nine.

Once quarantine started, I was left with no job, with no money, so like any ravening animal, I clung to what was inborn in me and focused my energy on masturbating for hours in a dark study until Maia called for dinner or bed. Yes, I needed to relax and revivify. To relax, that is, into some anonymous slut’s lordosis, to rut like a dog and nut in her pony tail. Such ease Maia would never allow—nor did she want—a thing like her needed to be coaxed or dominated and I couldn’t muster the stamina for either.

I received the text, a calling, late into the evening while we both lay in bed unaware of each other’s bodies. It relayed the details of the meeting. The old quarry on stream road. Obviously, the message hadn’t come from the female, so I counted on there being others. Perhaps we would go all together. Perhaps one at a time.

Should I imagine there is an orgy waiting for me? 600 beautiful women bronze under fine silk whites with dark eyes and insatiable quivering bodies like motors. That they’d mob me and hold my arms, or, I’d take them each one at a time while the others watch and purr? Maybe not. But the thought sure kept my legs pumping and reminded me of who I was: a man. A strong one. Thirty. A tall robust one like a shirtless Jon Hamm on the cover of a magazine with curves of muscle in his arms. Maybe when I arrived and avoided their eyes I’d just feel flat-footed like always, a boy among the others, too self-conscious to pull off his underwear? But I kept believing, kept imagining because I needed all the motivation I could muster. For, once I passed the treeline, I came quickly upon a chain link gate no less than four feet above my head and decorated with “no trespassing” signs.

Fortunately, I reassured myself, I am strong, thick, vibrant, and savage. A man. This I repeated to myself as I leapt the fence and met the ground in a hard tumble. Lust makes obstacles mere inconveniences, the stronger the lust, the squatter the fence. And with my body and disposition channeled as it was through my lust, I could hardly feel the scrapes on my elbows. I was an albatross lost amid the fantasias of an empty sea, the whole world a hung and dimming blue oriented around a single shimmering isle which from this vantage looked an awful lot like a dripping vulva.

Once I got to my feet, I realized how dust had freckled my skin and felt the tear in my shirt where dark black chest hair poked through. My masculinity was the masculinity of a workman, an earthy and ruddy golem who plows and pulls and chops and drinks and ends fights and corners his purring pussy. The one in that recurring fantasy where he throws open the doors, where he is stronger than his small body lets on, more sinew than muscle like an ape or a helicopter crane, and he throws you down and tells you exactly what he wants while you cling to your sheets with terror, suspense, and delight. That was me. In the door grinning and on the bed gritting. It was a complete fantasy. I was director and every Kartal Yabancı Escort character, script supervisor, dramatist, and gopher. Back then I rationalized it as a sort of masochistic demonstration of my disconnection from the people around me. This only aroused me more. I felt powerful and yet simultaneously cosseting before this ravening beast that was my own lust. Now, I was man. Down there? I shuddered at the thought of what I might end up being, of who.

From the rim of the quarry I espied a dancing tail of smoke. I pulled out my phone again as it vibrated. Another picture. A girl with a bare back shrouded in darkness, she looks over her shoulder, her lips are plump and amorous.

Barreling down the hill, I sped ahead of second thoughts. The rocks and dirt were loose and spun out below my boots. I am going to take her, I thought. And the fantasies rolled in darker and darker and hotter and boiling until, in my head, I was on my hands and knees screaming as she thrusted behind me, scorching me black with scalding skin. I bit down on my lip. I was everything, grey sky and air, breeze and nightness, the impelling inevitability of bodies fusing and rolling as if in a quilt over the world that needed to be felt to be seen.

There it was. I sighed and steadied my breath, but my heart wouldn’t quit. Its rhythms drove me like a carriage. In the dark danced a campfire– or more a bonfire as it heaped twinkling smoke into the air. Two dark figures stood beside it facing away from me, one swayed drunkenly on its feet and tossed a cigarette into the fire. A pot of coffee sizzled on the fire.

From behind I asked the one smoking “Is this the place?”

A voice answered from behind me, a very deep one. “it is.”

I turned and a man with piercings in his nose and cheeks and ears and eyes smiled and greeted me with a thud on the head via some heavy vulgar thing in his hand. I crumpled immediatedly into a paralyzed shock.

When I came to, hands and arms and bodies were dragging me through the dirt by my legs and the fire was receding into the distance. It must’ve been two people for I moved uncommonly fast. Looking around, I realized where they were taking me. Some sort of cave in the quarry wall buttressed by crooked girders and rusted iron sheets. Surrounding me were the crumpled, sneering faces of manifold more creeps, most of them shirtless, all of them men with pierced faces.

I felt a pull on my pants. Someone had started unbuckling my belt. I tried to kick but they were too strong. My struggle sent dust into the air. Of a sudden and to my relief, a woman’s voice rung out in the cave. Just like that they dropped my legs and the dust settled about us. At once the shifting and clanging of my captors ceased and showed them to be at a strict military-style attention. “Enough!” she barked. “Leave him there.” Whoever she was, she spoke with a liquid confidence cold and cruel and trenchant as the arctic sea.

My assailants scurried away grunting and whimpering and absorbed into the crowd. Behind me I heard her footsteps.

She was backlit by fire and her silhouette framed by the cave mouth. She walked instep with a magnetic arrogance, her lips curling up such as an executioner waltzing to her lever. The entire cave was silent but for her black leather thigh-high heels tapping out on the rock a commanding march. Needless to say, I was hard as a fucking rock and watched, salivating, her bare chest move to the rhythm of her hips. At the center of her breasts were sparkling black tassels connecting to a piercing in her belly button via a silver chain. A tattoo right above her pelvis read “LAST CHANCE” in a fanciful red font.

As she made her way closer to me the light from the bonfire faded out behind her until it reappeared framed between her legs. I looked straight up at her, mesmerized as a prisoner introduced to their warden, all at once realizing the terrifying enchantment of her power.

“Squirm already.” She said, condescendingly and showed me a crop in her hand. I just stared. She looked around the cave, frowned and then planted one of her heels by my right ear—click—then the other by my left—click. I closed my eyes. I readied myself for whatever. What was I supposed to do? Move? I was too excited. Too traumatized. I rubbed at my hard-on through my jeans. With the point of her heel, she struck me in the temple. When I opened my eyes what I saw would have shocked anyone. This figment of my past haunts me to this day: it was my own face in the mirror glaze of her chastity. There was I, full-faced, beaten down, not by her men, not even by quarantine, but by my own banality; I saw a fat, wrinkled, tired man—just some half-formed kink in a thrumming uncritical system.

All around me muffled laughter volleyed through the dark. I felt my cock deflate. My head was throbbing. My body too, and my elbows stung and were warm with blood. All I could think of was the figure over me taking me into their bed, lifting me out of this entire situation as if I weighed only an ounce and placing me Kartal Yeni Escort in the middle of a soft, tender wave of airy feather down. Tears gathered in my eyes making the image above me blur.

Then she started to sit. My face grew closer and larger and then my breath fogged the metal and she was on me, wiggling and gyrating and the whole cave erupted in a filmy laughter, my captors tapping their weaponry against the stone, applauding. Her scalding hot ass smothered my sobs.

Part II The Confrontation

When I awoke it was to darkness. Feeling exposed, I hugged my arms and realized the state of things: I was not only naked, but skinny, as though I had been underfed for some time. My ribs felt like shutters. The unfamiliar state of my body scared me and, for a while, I sat with my eyes closed, wondering if I might not open them to an empty cave and a cold night, no trace of my captors save for some smoldering embers and the acrid stench of spilt coffee. What would I tell Maia when I came through the door and into a kitchen awake to the cold light of morning?

My poor Maia sound asleep in our bed, how I missed her. Or perhaps she’d awoken to no one beside her? I had no idea. Unless, perhaps, I thought, this was the dream. This was just another manifestation of my loneliness, just another fantasy, only this time I am only me, this time I’ve forgone control such that I’m locked in a singular feeling, a singular passion and instead of being freeing It’s terrible. Instead of being a man pounding my feet, I was a still mote of dust in some airless chasm. Surely the shackles of the life domestic were softer than these? Surely my fantasies more fulfilling?—but then again I had yet to be penetrated, to feel the glow of being fucked rather than fucking, of holding all the power and simultaneously none; this time not in my fantasies but in reality. Something deep in me was salivating and whispering of how, regardless of the situation, I’d wondered into the right place. Is there a right spider’s web to fly into? Or are there just spiders and flies?

Somewhere in the back of the throat of the room I heard a feint tapping. Gathering to my feet, I pressed my hand to my temple and limped toward the sound only to be met with a wooden wall off which I bounced and slipped painfully to the floor. The sound of our meeting must have alerted whatever it was on the other side of the wall to my presence because the tapping stopped for a moment. Then, to my surprise, it started again louder, and I could hear two male voices. Their voices joyfully slurring.

“Here kitty kitty.” Said one, “Stuck in the wall little miss kitty.”

“We’ll help you out little one,” Said the other, “You’ll just have to help us out, tit for tat just like that.” Then, he slammed on the wall and again and shouted with some anger “Ruff ruff ruff!” Just then they burst into laughter.

I saw them clearly in my mind, the drunk johns on the other side of the wall. The outline of their heard cocks in their pants. And to them, I was just some weak thing, just some skinny boy to toy with. I ceased being myself when I was taken from the cave. I was tempted to experience what this new person was, who I was. I might even have purred had she not interrupted our game. I’d later learn that every pierced man got their piece and that their games were provisional things. They had something important they needed to give me before I could be freed a proper graduate.


“Yes Mother Slut”—”Yes Mother Slut”


“Yes Mother Slut” they said in unison.

“Good boys.”

The door opened a crack and a pale stream of light limned her face. I sat back meekly. Her dark eyes, her red-lipped grin, she seemed knowing, even wise like some courtesans do. She purred and let her hand drag along the side of the door. “Good morning.” She said.

It was at this point that I noticed a change in the smell and texture of the air. My breathing was becoming more labored. I made the sounds of a dog. I thought, for a moment, that I was having a panic attack. My throat and chest swelled and I clutched at them, scraping my skin. Mother Slut looked at me, took a long deep breath from the room, smiled an ominous smile, and then pressed shut the door.

Now I was drowning in darkness. It filled my ears and eyes and mouth and nostrils, it clutched at my hands, pressed me to the floor heavy on my back, it caressed and scalded and scratched and breathed hot heaving breaths I felt pool between my shoulder blades. My skin was burning as if it were berated by countless miniscule shards of glass. The air I breathed was glass and at the end of every coughing fit I inhaled it like water, coughing all the more. Like my skin, my scalp burned, and my lips, and my nipples did as well. My dick felt as though it were dipped in freezing acid and tried pitifully to escape into the warmth and safety of my body. All of this at once forced me to consider, as a hunted animal would, my limited options: fight or submit, crawl or die. So I crawled. Kartal Masaj Salonu Forearm to the carpet below, dragging my body through what felt like ceaselessly spooling thickets of razor grass, all the while my eyes squeezed shut to prevent the air from blinding me. Then I was at the door, then, to my surprise, I felt my hand smooth and hairless against the metal of the door knob. For a moment I hesitated and then grasped and squeezed and twisted with the last strength I had.

All at once, whatever was clogging the air dispersed with several heaving aspirations. When finally I looked up I was dashed in warm light, squinting through my pain and surprise as Mother Slut dragged me to my feet and pushed me into the corner of the room, her bare legs digging knee-first into my own, her sharp nails at my throat. “Hands, slut.” I stuck them out. She felt them fingers to wrists then smacked them hard. “Not what you expected huh?” Then, with an insurmountable strength she shoved my hands between her thighs and clamped down with her legs.

Before I could react her hands were all over my face rubbing my cheeks and nose with some sort of toxic-tasting ointment which felt as if she’d rubbed gunpowder on me and stuck my face into a furnace. “What have you done?” Is all I could manage to say. But, the pain faded fast, and truth be told, I could have wrenched my hands from her at any time; I didn’t wish to stifle the cruelty which seemed so necessary a part to her pleasure.

“Feet!” She demanded.


Then she hit me again with the ointment only this time she smothered my mouth with one hand and pressed it into my chest with the other.


Mother Slut stepped back letting me slump to the floor. Naked, I cried into my hands.

“Now,” she said calmly, smiling, “when I say feet, you give me your feet.” She bent down on her knees and beckoned. I gave in quickly. It burned just the same there only now I could see what was happening. Before my eyes my newly hairless legs and feet were being rubbed free of wrinkles and age. “That is a good girl.” Said Mother Slut.

“I’m not a girl!” I said quickly.

“Uh uh.” Said she “You say: I’m not a girl, Mother Slut. Now your turn.” I sobbed into my hands, not sure of what to say.

She stamped on the floor, her high heel making a heinous click and her thighs and breasts jiggling from the force. Something about her looked almost childlike, like she was trapped in her own body. Her tattoos, her dress, the color of her nails, the spikes on her collar, all seemed incongruous with the sweet and youthful innocence of her face as she held back a tantrum. When she wasn’t speaking, that is, when she lost that confidence hand-dyed in a cool, sexy streak of cruelty, she was almost more pretty than threatening. But it was only a memory of innocence and soon faded like all memories do. “Well?”

“I’m not a girl, mother slut.” She saw that I was hard and gave a condescending laugh, cutting the tension immediately.

“Yes you are. You’re my girl. And this is for you.” Mother Slut pulled something out from behind her back, placed it on the ground and kicked it toward me. Then she turned and left, her ass guiding my eyes out the door.

Part III The Decision

I knew before I reached to pick up the object Mother Slut had left that it was a hand mirror. Even so, I felt it and twirled it around like it was some new discovery. I dared not look into the mirror quite yet, so I held it pointed away from me, so I could surprise myself with the discovery. The mirror was wood inlaid with painted roses and mother of pearl and carvings of a man playing guitar while above him a woman in a barred window swooned.

I studied the rim some more until finally, letting the handle twist in my hand, I allowed myself to regard the looking glass. Pink just like the walls of my room. And then the narcissus moment. It was as though the mirror were suddenly glued to my face, for I could not believe its lies though I knew them to be at least as real as the headiest most perfect moment of a dream.

My skin formerly a Pollock of colors and splotches, of cracks and crevices, formerly the face of an alabaster statue given wholesale to an angry master time and mistress mold, once corroded and hard, was returned to me. I laughed, feeling how soft were my cheeks, ripe for blush, how plump my lips ready for a kiss of crimson. I was giddy as a girl, and I forward rolled into my femininity, crossing my legs and kissing at the mirror. Who was that kissing at me? But, oh, a man still with dirty black droplets of whisker scraping through on the upper lip and a craven hairline fleeing any critical eye. I was still very much me. Soon I would need to leave the room. They wouldn’t keep me. I’d go crazy before ever I “broke” for them. Being broken is a state of mind not of function. There’s broken and then there’s broken. I knew, I’d read the stories. They’d let me out soon. And, to make things all the easier, the minute Mother Slut stepped through that doorway I’d play in worship at her feet like a Homeric supplicant. Even if she was giving me everything I had ever wanted, I’d have her believe she was breaking my will like I’m sure she’d done to so many other men. Yes. At least, this is what I resolved to do before sleep sent my body to the floor, naked and smiling.

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