I’m lucky to have met Frankie. She’s not one in a million, not with (at last count) one in ten males transitioning to shemales, but she’s still a relatively rare find. We females who are transitioning to hemales, on the other hand, currently number thirty-three percent of the world’s population! Female-to-hemale transsexuality is all the rage that, a few years ago, male-to-shemale transsexuality was: it’s the trend of the day–or, I guess, more accurately, the decade.
Of course, it, too, will decrease as female-to-hemale sex-changes become less popular. Already, some social engineers are predicting that hermaphrodites, currently not-so-trendy, will become the new vogue. Such a trend is hard for me to believe, though. As someone who once owned a cunt and a pair of boobs, I can’t imagine why anyone who doesn’t have them would want them or why anyone who could get rid of them wouldn’t do so. Thank goodness, though, for girly boys like my Frankie. I don’t mind her having a pussy and tits, as long as I can have a cock and balls instead.
When we transitioned, Frankie elected to grow the tightest pussy available and I, rather perversely, perhaps, grew a twelve-inch, circumcised cock with hen’s egg-size testicles. As a result, Frankie and I don’t just fit well emotionally, but we are also a perfect fit sexually, because she likes big cocks and I like tight pussies. Sometimes, even with lube, sex is a little uncomfortable for Frankie, especially when I take her up the ass, but, she says, a little discomfort, or even pain, is worth it to please her male.
Yesterday, Frankie and I visited the new Museum of Technology, where, among other things, we saw what was called a “typewriter.” The damned thing was invented in 1870, and was used to stamp paper, fed through a roller, with letters. As alphanumeric letters on a keyboard were struck, the keys, which bore the corresponding letter or numeral, struck a strip of ink-impregnated ribbon, before striking the paper, thereby transferring the selected alphanumeric character onto the paper. It was, one may imagine, a laborious process at best. A supposed “improvement” to the contraption was electrifying it and substituting a “typeball” for the keys. The apparatus was replaced by the primitive word processors that began to appear in the late 1980′s, which were replaced, in turn, of course, by the advent of today’s voice-scribes.
A lot of other equally ludicrous gizmos and gadgets were on display, including several so-called “sex toys.” One, known as a dildo, was molded from an erect penis and looked pretty much like a dismembered male member. All the ones we saw were circumcised, as it were, and included raised squiggles that were meant to simulate veins. Some were complete with balls made of latex, silicone, or plastic, and, believe it or not, some of these ludicrous implements could even be strapped on, a female employing a sort of girdle or “harness” to keep the phallus in place. Females who wore these absurdities could play the part of males, fucking either sex. When they fucked a male up his ass, the practice was known as “pegging.”
According to our guide, some dildos were even equipped with vibratory appliances that allowed extra stimulation. These artificial penises were available in all sizes and colors, many of the hues of which are unavailable in actual human skin tones, and some were designed for “double penetration” of both the anus and the vagina; some were created specifically to stimulate a female’s G-spot or a male’s prostate gland; and still others, dubbed “butt plugs,” were engineered to be worn, for extended periods of time, inside the rectum. There were inflatable models and jeweled models, and so-called ejaculating models. One was even a doubleheader, for mutual use between homosexual males or lesbians.
Monstrosities known as breast implants were available, too, for enhancing feminine appearance, for assisting male-to-shemale transformations, or for breast “reconstruction” following mastectomies, which were surgical operations in which the breasts were removed, presumably for religious reasons.
In a surgical operation known as “breast augmentation,” a female (or a male-to-shemale patient) would have bags, or “shells,” filled with either silicone or a saline liquid, inserted into her chest. Sometimes, the implants would rupture and leak, causing serious health hazards, and occasionally females (and male-to-shemale transsexuals) abused the procedure by having repeated implants, of increasingly larger dimensions, inserted, often for a period of years. The operation was painful, by all accounts, and recovery lasted a week or more, with scars fading months after the surgery occurred.
“Can you imagine such a thing, Donald?” Frankie asked as we ogled a series of “Before and After photographs” of such “augmentation.”
“I bet you’re glad you can alter the size, shape, and density of your tits at will, honey,” I told him.
“We’ve come a long way, technologically, since those days,” he observed. “It’s unbelievable what people had to go through to feminize themselves back then. To think that it’s all a matter of bioengineering nowadays and we can control, manipulate, and transform our breasts, penises, testicles, vaginas, buttocks, and anuses at will, just by thinking about what size, shape, or sex we want to be. It’s amazing!”
“A scientific miracle,” I agreed, squeezing her firm, but soft, sleek fanny through her latex leotards.
“Honey!” she protested. “Not here!”
“We can do anything but prevent pregnancy, if and when we elect to have penile-vaginal intercourse. I guess Mother Nature has built reproduction into our very genes.”
“Yeah,” Frankie agreed. “I guess it’s a good thing you like anal better than you do vaginal sex, since, whether we like it or not, shemales, like females, have no choice whatsoever as o whether they retain reproductive capability. It’s the last remaining area in which anatomy is still destiny for ladies and ladyboys alike.”
I squeezed her butt again. “Well, as you point out, we don’t have to worry about that little issue, not as long as I have your derriere as an alternative option for intercourse.”
“Honey!” Frankie protested again. “Not here!”
I guess the trip to the museum made Frankie and me horny, because, by the time the DNA scrambler had reassembled our bodies at home, we were both “hot to trot,” as they said in the old days (although why anyone would associate jogging with fucking is beyond me).
However, in just under an hour, we had an engagement we couldn’t postpone. The Council of Extended Existence had ordered us to appear before them to argue our case for another nine-year extension of our lifetime. With everyone everywhere fucking everyone else, the world is in a population crisis. To survive as a species, we have to curtail the amount of time that anyone is allowed to live. Everyone is guaranteed a minimum life expectancy of twenty-one years, but, after that, he or she has to justify any extensions that the Council may award him or her, and, after the first extension, it becomes increasingly difficult to make one’s case. If we’re granted another nine years of life, this will be our third extension. We’re hopeful, but not overly so.
Maybe the chance that we’d lose our case and be euthanized also added to our intense need to breed. In any case, whatever the reason, we were half mad with lust by the time our scrambled bodies were reassembled and we were home again from our trip to the museum.
We could make love, I told Frankie, but we’d have to settle for a “quickie.”
Frankie set her clitoris for a fifteen-minute orgasm, and we proceeded to fuck.
I’m an ass male–or hemale–and Frankie is gracious–or submissive–enough to receive me in this manner. Knowing our time was limited, she assumed the position quickly, kneeling on our float-a-bed and dropping to her elbows so that, her legs spread wide and her beautiful, sleek buttocks high in the air, she presented her anus to me.
I knelt behind her. The mattress of the bed shifted beneath me as I adjusted my position relative to hers, and the float-a-bed rose and dipped, as if it rode a turbulent sea. Seizing my foot-long cock in my fist, I guided its purple glans between Frankie’s smooth buttocks, jabbing the tip of my erection into her anus.
Her sphincter, resolute guardian of her bowels that the ring of muscle is, refused, at first, to grant me entry, but, of course, I persisted. Her asshole continued to deny me entrance. I held my prick in place, against its tendency to ride up, along the cleavage of Frankie’s buttocks, rather than to enter her resistant anus, and, shoving firmly, managed to force a couple of inches of my rigid malehood through the tight portal to her innermost depths.
I shoved half the length of my erection through her snug anal opening, feeling the six inches slide past the circle of her anus, and paused, letting Frankie become accustomed to my penetration of her bottom. Her anus fluttered frantically about my invading organ, flexing and relaxing repeatedly, in quick squeezing motions that sent shivers up my spine and through my cock and balls.
Frankie moaned. “Oh, Donnie!” she gasped. “You are so huge! You’ll split me in half with your thick, hard cock!”
She knew I wouldn’t, of course; I’d fucked her countless times before in her delightful derriere. Her protest was intended merely as a compliment, and, although I’d heard it a thousand times, it still had the planned effect: it made my malehood swell even further.
“Fuck me, honey!”
I drove the remaining half-foot of my prick through her snug anus, watching the rim of her asshole indent before my advance as I crushed her buoyant buttocks flat beneath my pressing pubes. My cock entered her bowels until only my balls remained outside her rectum. I ground my groin firmly against her ass cheeks, as if I had yet more cock to slide between these warm, firm-soft mounds.
Mindful of the time, I programmed myself to last precisely fifteen minutes before I experienced orgasm. Then, I began to pummel Frankie–sexually, not physically–driving my erection deep into her bowels, withdrawing eight to ten inches on each backstroke, and plunging again into her deep tunnel of love, until I was, once more, however momentarily and briefly, lodged completely inside her rectum.
Her buttocks bounced before my repeated onslaughts, now flattening, now rebounding, as I fucked Frankie fast and hard, plowing into her as if my own ass were on fire. In and out, my massive member pumped, as I jerked and thrust, rammed and crammed, lunged and plunged behind her, my pubes crushing her beautiful buttocks with every new advance into the occupied territory of her conquered bowels.
Beneath me, Frankie squirmed, twisting and writhing as I mercilessly drove my cock back and forth inside her clinging asshole. She gasped and moaned, whimpered and groaned, as I fucked her fast and furiously. My prick was a piston inside her hard-ridden ass, and I drove my malehood into her with the smooth, relentless, irresistible motions of a machine of steel rather than a hemale of flesh and blood.
Time flies, as they say, when one is having fun, and, before Frankie and I knew it, the fifteen minutes we’d allowed ourselves to experience the sadomasochistic joys of dominance and submission, as played out through my fucking of her ass, had passed, and we were seized by a pair of the most powerful orgasms we’d ever experienced.
Frankie thrashed and bucked, writhed and rocked, wriggled and squirmed like a marlin on a hook, as intense waves of pleasure flooded her bowels. My cock convulsed inside her ass, as my balls, high inside the drawn pouch of my tightened scrotum, erupted, geyser after geyser of my warm, thick semen, flooding Frankie’s innermost depths.
I jerked my spewing cock from her bowels and watched as the enormous prick continued to spray my molten seed, the white streamers unfurling over Frankie’s back; splattering against her bottom; running down the cleavage between her spread buttocks and into the raw, red, gaping wound of her ravaged anus; trickling down her perineum and the lips of her disregarded cunt; and along her inner thighs. More and more fountains of semen spewed forth from my lurching, straining cock, arcing over and across Frankie’s sleek bottom, branding her, as it were, with the essence of my malehood. In decorating her ass and asshole with my sperm, I claimed them as my territory, just as I claimed Frankie herself as my thrall.
Yes, we have certainly come a long way since the days of typewriters and breast implants and dildos. Thanks to the technologies of recombinant DNA, genetic engineering, biofeedback, and psycho-cybernetics, we have assumed almost full and total control over the anatomies that were once our destinies. By thought alone, we are able to add or subtract breasts (or increase or decrease their size and shape); multiply nipples, vaginas, penises, or testicles; increase or decrease penis size; loosen or tighten vaginas or anuses; and, of course, change our very sex. Science allows us to perform miracles, to be as gods and goddesses.
There is, however, a limit to what we can do just because we wish to do so. Under the law, what is effected through surgery is final and cannot be reversed. This is the primary reason that females and shemales seldom subject themselves to such archaic and dangerous procedures as breast augmentation or other forms of plastic surgery and why hemales rarely have penile implants installed or resort to mastectomies to rid themselves of their unwanted female breasts. Such procedures are no longer necessary, for one thing. We can accomplish all of these outcomes simply by willing them to occur. Our bodies obey our mental commands in these matters just as they do the orders of our will to lift an arm, grasp a breast or penis, or empty our bowels or bladders.
Except for preventing pregnancy, we have almost total control over our bodies, even to the point that we can will our hair to be blonde, brown, black, or red while willing our pubic hair either not to grow at all or to turn a color different than the rest of our bodies’ hair. We can, if we wish, also will that pubic hair conform to any shape and length we want. We can decide to have three breasts or six; two penises or a dozen; or both sets of genitals, creating ourselves, for however long we wish, both male and female.
In addition, transsexual sex changes result in fully functioning reproductive systems, making pregnancy and childbearing possible for male-to-shemale members of society and fatherhood a potential reality for not only males but hemales as well. For the first time in human history, ladyboys like Frankie have the option of becoming mothers.
We don’t need to resort to surgery to accomplish our hearts’ desires, but we also usually forego such procedures because we are bound by law from reversing any such transformations that result from surgical operations.
Indeed this prohibition is the reason that we succeeded, when we turned up at the Council’s mandatory interview, to argue our case for a nine-year extension of our respective licenses to live, while so many other petitioners failed in their attempts to be granted this same privilege.
A third extension is almost unheard of, so extreme is the planet’s overpopulation crisis. Despite the legalization of homosexuality, abortion, euthanasia, and, in some cases, even homicide, there are still too many people on the planet, and it is rare, indeed, that anyone is granted three extensions of his or her license to live.
When Frankie showed the Council members her vagina, though, they agreed that the desperate measure she’d taken (and to which, as her Significant Other, I had agreed) warranted such an extension. The procedure is known, among medical practitioners, as infibulation. Essentially, it involves a permanent suturing shut of the labia, so that sexual penetration is impossible, although urination is still allowed. Since they were installed by surgeons, the steel fibers that the doctors used to sew shut Frankie’s smooth-shaved pussy lips cannot be removed; they must remain in place until death do they part, making penile-vaginal intercourse with Frankie impossible, even if I should develop an interest in such sex, in lieu of anal intercourse. It is impossible for us to become parents, even through an adulterous union, unless we ourselves should be willing to risk death, for adultery is a capitol offense, and the execution of the death sentence is swift and certain.
One might imagine that females and shemales everywhere would subject themselves to the drastic extreme of vaginal infibulation in order to secure a possible extension on their licenses to live, but many prefer to die rather than to be “mutilated” by undergoing such a surgical procedure. Indeed, despite the worldwide ban on unsanctioned pregnancy, some females and shemales persist, secretly, in bringing forth more of our kind. When they are caught–and almost all are caught, sooner or later–both their bastards (the birth of any unsanctioned child is considered illegitimate, regardless of the parents’ marital status) and the criminal-mothers themselves are summarily and publicly executed. Therefore, when someone makes the extreme form of sexual self-sacrifice that Frankie made, she tends to stand out as a true patriot who deserves an extension of her license to live.
We were overjoyed at the Council’s unbelievably generous decree, of course, and, having been granted an additional nine years of life, Frankie and I returned home, after a brief stop at a merchandise market for chocolates and flowers–a bouquet of ten red roses, one for each of the years that, collectively, our two lives have been extended–and, setting the onset of our respective orgasms for a solid hour, so as to synchronize our ecstasy, we stripped naked, and I gave Frankie’s delightful derriere the pounding of our not-so-young lives.