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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2013. Please
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Nature's Call to Duty
1994 Dream Weevil (no address provided)
***
A fantasy about transgendering, male breast growth and
breast-feeding. (MF, d/s, tg, breasts, ws)
***
You remember a time when it was all different. When
men and women were considered "equal"; and your
grandparents or great-grandparents tell you of days
when it was quite the opposite. And you wonder, from
time to time, whether or not this is progress, an
accident, or the way Mother Nature had intended it all
along?
Everyone has the fear, from time to time of never
meeting someone special from the opposite sex. You
first questioned yourself when you noticed that others
your age had girlfriends already, some married, some
beginning to build families around themselves. For
you, those were cruel, hormone-driven times, times
when, you would have cried from the loneliness if you
weren't a man.
And then you met her, and you were glad -- so very
glad -- that those times were over and would never
return. Her body so strong and sleek and her hair so
wonderful and a voice that picks you up every time you
hear it, even over the phone.
You slowly untangled yourselves from the anxieties of
that first meeting, and soon could talk with
increasing freedom, and it wasn't long after that
until the first day that she shed out of her clothes
before you, and you could touch her in places you
always hoped you might, and you felt how warm and soft
and wonderful she was.
Soon enough, sex was easy; you had it all the time,
her body familiar to you; and, to your surprise, your
own body more familiar to her than it had ever been to
you; the touch of her fingers able to change your
mood, or to silently persuade you to get her another
glass of water.
You loved the fact that she was becoming so free with
you. She started teaching you of things that only a
woman would know -- letting you know with secret,
special messages that her period was coming, and soon
you knew her cycle as well as she did. She would
discuss, or share anything, nothing embarrassed her;
she'd leave the bathroom door open at all times. When
she was sitting on the toilet you watched her, and she
spread her legs so you could watch her pee, and you
did.
To you, it was no casual interest -- you got down on
your knees, putting your head between hers, to get a
look at the beautiful, golden waterfall that her body
had always hidden from you. And she spread a bit wider
to let you get closer, and before her bladder was even
empty she noticed something you didn't: your erection.
Then she knew who, and what you were, and although it
hadn't quite been her expectation, she was pleased
with it.
She was less available than usual for the following
week; doing some research, bringing home some books
that she wouldn't let you read, at least yet. The
following weekend, she asked you to lie down -- face
up -- on the middle of the bathroom floor, which was
cold because she had removed the rug. You weren't
quite sure why you complied with her, why you didn't
ask; inside, you were hoping, maybe, that she'd do
what she did.
When she walked into the bathroom and put one foot on
either side of you, you knew what was coming, even if
you didn't believe it. You were fascinated by what you
saw; the dark recesses between her legs, the furry
patch just in front, the underside of her breasts,
even the bottom of the foot which lifted over you as
she straddled you.
Then you were awestruck by the shape of her body, as
she lowered herself down, how the curve of her back
was so smooth as it continued to her creamy bottom and
to the underside of those legs. She's not a frail
woman -- those legs, muscles tightened to hold her in
her squatting position -- are so big, so strong!
Although she's fit, you were impressed at how
substantial the female body is -- especially from this
point, where you feel so small. And her pussy! You can
smell it from here, so close, right over your chest.
The thought is so strong -- if only she'd move back a
bit, you'd caress her so gently with your tongue that
she'd explode right away...
Then the fateful realization: she's entirely
motionless, and the room is silent. Something is
happening above you; some of her muscles tightening,
others relaxing, her shape changing ever so slightly
as all of her safeguards are released. The point of no
return; she has the same posture, the same attitude,
the same expression that she has -- when she's
starting to go to the bathroom.
Only she's not sitting on the toilet.
You panic, but can't move -- you don't know what to do
-- and then it's too late: her pussy lips burst open,
and yellow liquid falls and splatters and sprays
towards you, and when it gets there it's hot and
tingly and almost slimy. You open your mouth to say
something -- you're not sure quite what, and she tilts
her hips forwards and sprays it into your mouth and
nose, your hair and eyes and chin, and then the other
way until she gets your cock and your legs, and then
straight down again, direct from her pussy to your
sternum, making her puddle bigger and hotter until,
finally, she is done.
She didn't get up right away. She looked down upon
you, but it wasn't the same look; something about the
relationship was different. She smiled, though,
feeling a tingle in her loins she had never felt
before. She let you soak in her piss as the last few
drops fell away from her. Her pussy looked down upon
you, too; and it was proud of what it had done--
reduced a strong, full-grown man to a puddle of girl-
piss.
She let you wash up -- yourself and the bathroom floor
-- yourself. Her scent didn't seem to come off. And
though you didn't speak of it, things weren't the
same. Her chemistry was inside you; the bond between
you as strong -- if not stronger -- than ever. But you
weren't equals; you served her, you served that pussy
that pissed all over you.
She did it again -- in the bathtub, underneath her in
the shower, before she started making you drink from
her. And you did, placing your mouth right up against
that all-so-smug pussy, taking cues from the touch of
her fingertips as to when to approach and when to
swallow and when to lick her dry.
And you both thought it was great fun, even when she
teased you. You didn't even really need that touch;
you knew what her body needed, and were always there
to please it. When you were at that huge, outdoor
concert and you teased her about how you had
remembered to use the bathroom before leaving the
house, and how long that line was for the women's
portapotties was, she took you aside and touched you
on the back of the neck, and then her skirt surrounded
your head, and then her bladder was empty while yours
was suddenly full, and you were in more of a panic
than she had been; and she only laughed -- harmlessly
-- when you had your accident with pee that was
originally hers.
You finally overheard what she knew you to be, as she
talked with her friends: "my pussy slave." Although
she could have easily sunk you into deep, permanent
humiliation -- you would have done anything for her--
she didn't. Her friends had their own pussy slaves. It
was the new way; it was progress.
Finally, she took your sperm, and conceived a child
she was more a part of you than you knew -- her piss,
her hormones, her desire flowing through your
arteries, changing you.
You tested her control only once, over something
stupid. There was no contest. The force of her thought
could drop you to the floor, and when she pissed into
you this time it was stronger than ever, stinging,
flowing right to your brain as she washed the
resistance from you. And then you could not ever
imagine disagreeing with her again.
As her belly swelled, her chemistry changed, and her
pussy ensured that yours did, too. When you pointed
out how her breasts were growing, she pointed to
yours; immature organs just now freeing themselves
from your chest hair and any masculinity you might
have had. Your nipples were clearly swollen. You
nearly freaked out.
"Pregnancy hormones," she said. "That's what supposed
to happen. Otherwise, how would you feed our baby?"
You stared in the mirror at yourself, brushing your
fingers over your chest, noticing how more of the hair
fell away. She could not possibly be serious. You
wondered, however, if it made sense; if this is what
she meant when she told you how the old stereotypes
were no more. You even stared at yourself, in profile,
trying to determine if any of these changes were
showing.
You tried to will the swelling away; to ignore it. It
was too late. Freed from their testosterone-induced
dormancy, awakened by the hormonal messengers given
you by your pregnant mate, the breasts fed on your
energy, swelling, stretching outwards, preparing.
With only two weeks to go, she brought home a
"surprise" for you. It was a bra. You resigned
yourself to never go outside again; you had already
found it near-impossible to hide these breasts, the
size of a teenage girl's.
In another week they had swollen to the size of an
adult woman's, and then, as your milk glands prepared
to function, they grew to the size and weight that
only a nursing mother would have. She is pleased at
that; pleased that you'll be able to stay home and
care for the baby while she pursues her career and
gets ready for the next pregnancy.
And here you are: holding her hand as she bears down
for the second stage of labor, feeling her effort. She
tells you that many of the changes will be temporary;
that your bosom will 'probably' diminish after the
baby is weaned, that your dormant sex organs will
reappear, someday, when she needs them. And the pussy,
the one that enslaves you to this existence, waits to
bring another master into your world.
END
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
any way, shape or form. Anyone tempted to act out any
of the scenarios in this story should seriously
consider seeking professional help.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 78