2. Jennifer II - (futa/solo, masturbation, pissing)

//

In the mornings, after I kissed my husband and waved goodbye -- smiling as he drove out of sight with the kids -- the house became a domain where I alone was Queen. Spitting the trace amounts of saliva that had passed between our lips to the lawn, I wiped my mouth with a sleeve and entered through the front door, chaining it shut and arming the security.

Like Doctor Killian said, internal erections were extremely uncomfortable. Though the organ wouldn't release itself from the confines of my abdomen without conscious intent, it took nearly all of my willpower to fight the combination of the pressure and the needy insistence of my arousal.

"I'm sorry, Jonathan," I said, "but this is for you as well."

With my back against the door, I squatted down and spread my legs as if taking a shit -- squeezing my eyes shut and groaning as I pushed. There was a now-familiar plopping noise as my cock and balls burst from my cunt, tenting in my skirt and wetting the fabric.

Dripping glops of precum and pussy fluid to the wooden floor with every step, I kicked off my shoes in the foyer and unbuttoned my skirt -- filling the hallway with the pungent scent of my manhood.

My husband hadn't noticed the shape of my erect nipples beneath my blouse, but in truth, I'd been frequently going full-commando for several weeks. In the beginning, I'd only stopped wearing panties because I didn't want to soil them -- but the risk of exposure was in itself somehow a turn-on, and I ended up losing the bra several days in.

Stripping and letting my blouse drop to the stairs as I ascended to the second floor, I studied my nude body in the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the wall of the landing.

I liked to think myself fairly attractive. Blonde and blue-eyed with fair, northern-European features, I'd managed to maintain a slender figure despite two pregnancies, and I had C cups that didn't exhibit noticeable sag. My new penis, however, ran very much the counter to the rest of my appearance. The skin was a dark brown -- approaching midnight black; and the leathery surface was covered in bulging blood vessels. At its thickest part, near the the middle, the diameter was larger than my wrist. I didn't know if what Doctor Killian said about African ancestry was true, but my cock honestly didn't look like an appendage that belonged on somebody fully Caucasian.

"It's like I have a black man's cock transplanted between my legs," I muttered, pressing the tip against the glass and leaving a trail of slime.

There wasn't anything I could do about the scent. Even after washing the organ multiple times with antiseptic soap, the fluids that coated the skin whenever it pushed out of its flesh pocket had a permanent odor of fish, urine, and sweat -- slightly better than the rotting meat that I'd smelled like immediately after 'giving birth.' A month ago, it was almost intolerable, but I'd gradually become desensitized -- accepting it as one of 'my own' scents.

If I had to describe it now, I'd say that the smell was 'delicious.'

This was probably the biggest change that I'd experienced, beyond the physiological stuff. Things that I'd previously disliked were arousing; and noxious scents, for example, now only classified as 'sexy.' Consciously, I still comprehended that I /should/ be disgusted, but whenever I started getting horny, my actual responses would shift dramatically. Padding barefoot into the toilet and pulling a pair of my daughter's panties from the laundry, my only thought upon holding it to my nose was that the smell of Samantha's virgin pussy was absolutely mouth-watering.

I crossed the hall and opened the door to her bedroom. It was a very girlish space, with pinkish-tinted walls and shelves lined with stuffed toys that she hadn't yet grown out of. Sitting naked on her bed amidst cute, plushy animals, I wrapped her panties over the head of my cock and started stroking.

"Mommy's gonna fuck your cunt, Sammy," I said, beating my cock into her underwear. "Mommy's gonna pop your cherry -- knock you up with a little sister. You said you wanted a little sister, right?"

As a normal woman, I'd been multiorgasmic -- and that had apparently carried over when I'd become a shemale. Unloading twice in quick succession, I remained rock-hard even after coating the inside of Samantha's panties with a thick layer of sperm. Beating myself to a third ejaculation, I accidentally pulled the fabric beyond its limit -- tearing through with the tip of my cock as I shot my load. A jet of semen sprayed across the floor.

"Fuck," I said, peeling the soiled underwear from my erection. "I'll have to throw this out."

I lifted the panties to my face and ran my tongue across the cloth, scooping some of the semen into my mouth. I had no idea why, but the texture was different from my husband's cum. Though there was a lot more of it in volume, it was thicker and less watery, with a yellowish tint that made it look as if my piss had mixed into it. Along with cockstink and sour saltiness, it also tasted a bit of urine -- so maybe the guess was correct.

Licking my lips, I tossed the panties to Samantha's bed and made my way over to her dressing mirror -- smiling as my toes squelched in the cum on the floor. In my reflection, there wasn't a trace of chaste smile that I'd grown used to seeing over the years. I actually had a surprisingly lewd expression, and in my eyes, there was a hungry look -- like that of a sexual predator. Catching a bit of semen that I'd missed along the top of my lips, I stuck out my tongue and licked.

"You're a dirty bitch, Jenni," I said, low and sultry.

There was quite a bit of fluid in my gut from the orange juice I'd had during breakfast -- and unlike what I'd heard about men, it wasn't that difficult for me to piss through an erection. Holding my cock and directing the tip at my reflection, I willed myself to urinate.

It took a moment, but after a false start, I was pissing like a race horse -- hosing down the mirror and the side of Samantha's dresser with a continuous stream of yellow. When my bladder finally ran out, I gave my cock a jerk to empty the urethra, and then peeled back my foreskin entirely. I'd only cleaned it several days ago, but a ring of greyish-yellow smegma had gathered again in its usual place.

Sitting down cross-legged in the urine that had pooled on the floor, I bent forward and brought my tongue to my glans -- cleaning the scum along its rim. I'd never actually done this sort of thing with my husband -- in part because he felt that making me perform oral sex was disrespectful and demeaning. Before all this, I'd shared much the same opinion -- but I'd spent a significant part of the past month orally servicing the filthy, black cock before me. It had enslaved me; made me realize that I might have never been the sort of woman that my husband could respect.

Swallowing the smegma on my tongue, I changed my position slightly, pushing my chest forward so that I could give myself a titjob. With my hands, I squeezed my breasts together, enclosing my shaft and rhythmically pushing them along the length. Feeling the gradual approach of another ejaculation, I opened my mouth and swallowed -- forcing the end of my thick member to the entrance of my esophagus. Pumping it into my throat, I sucked as if my life depended on it.

When it came, the orgasm was explosive -- but the first bit of semen unexpectedly entered my windpipe, and I began to choke. Uncontrolled, the shaft escaped my throat and plastered my face and breasts with seed. A third, fourth, and fifth shot of cum emptied my scrotum, coating the mirror and the rest of my body in an arbitrary splatter of yellowish white.

Spent, I coughed and spread my legs, watching as the organ went flaccid, pulling back and retracting into the folds of my pussy. After a minute, the only sign that it had ever been there was the stream of semen leaking from my birth canal to the puddle of piss beneath.

"You look like you've been raped," I said to myself, allowing my torso to fall to the floor.

Several minutes later, when I hoisted myself from the piss and semen to begin cleanup and sterilization, the usual guilt that plagued me in the wake of 'Jenni the Shemale' started to set in.

//

After a long soak in the bath, I dried myself and picked up a plain white bra from the clothes rack. Putting it on, I tried to secure the hook, but found that I couldn't.

I removed the bra, examining my breasts in the mirror.

'Have they gotten bigger?' I wondered.

I turned my torso. It was hard to tell, but it looked as if my breasts had actually grown a bit -- which was odd. They hadn't really changed much in size since my daughter was born, twelve years ago.

There were a few other slight differences that I'd almost missed: A bit of extra volume to my biceps, and the beginnings of what looked to be a six-pack beneath the skin on my stomach -- even though I hadn't been exercising more than usual.

Frowning, I toed the switch on my bathroom scale and stepped on. I'd measured at 121.2 pounds two months ago. Now, my weight was 129.5.

"What?"

//

My appointment was three thirty in the Ob/Gyn wing at Saint Micheal's, a university hospital eight stops from my neighborhood by bus. It was the first time that I'd consulted with Doctor Killian in a location other than her private practice, and she wasn't dressed in her usual style. With wire-rim glasses, a conservative dress beneath her coat, and her hair in girlish braids, she looked every inch the medical professional -- almost virginal.

"I was wondering when you would come and ask about that," she said. "It's been, what, thirty-eight days since your delivery?"

"The weight gain is ... normal, then?" I asked.

"It's a standard characteristic in post-delivery TCVS women," she said. "The weight gain and the onset of muscular growth mean that your body's completed the endocrine adjustments necessary to facilitate adaption to a physiologically masculine role."

"What does even mean?"

Rather than answering, Doctor Killing moved her mouse and started clicking through something.

"Ah, here it is," she said, turning the flat-screen monitor on her desk so that I could see.

On screen, there was a young, slender woman with dark hair, standing in nude. Her face looked familiar, but I couldn't place her.

"Alright?" I said. "What am I supposed to be seeing?"

"Don't recognize her?" asked Doctor Killian. "This is Nurse Shannon, just after she was diagnosed with TCVS. Notice her height and the build of her body."

I was reasonably familiar with the muscular nurse by now, but even being told outright that the skinny girl on-screen was her, I had a hard time mentally reconciling the person in the image with the hulking shemale.

"She was about 5'6" and 118 pounds when I took the photo," Doctor Killian continued. "Right now, she's 6'1" and 185 pounds. TCVS is the factor that made the growth possible."

She'd virtually transformed into an amazon, in other words -- and the condition was the cause. But what did that mean for me? Doctor Killian had TCVS as well, and it didn't look like she was becoming 'physiologically masculine.'

"How big is it going to make me grow?" I asked.

The doctor turned her screen back to its original position.

"I think you're misunderstanding," she replied. "TCVS doesn't actually /cause/ the growth. It just facilitates. In plain language, you're potentially at the start of a second growth spurt, and undertaking certain activities /will/ spark it off. It became inevitable the moment your male organs became functional. Have you been doing any exercise recently?"

"No, not really," I said, trying to recall anything relevant. "Just house-cleaning."

"Well, that's apparently enough to give you a bit of muscle definition. Keep at it, and you'll be seeing more obvious changes."

I clenched my jaw and stared at the floor. Jonathan would definitely notice.

"Is there any way I can prevent this?"

Doctor Killian tapped a pen to her table.

"I want to say yes, but it might not be viable for you," she answered. "My personal solution is a weekly injection of hormones for growth inhibition. Problem is, it isn't free, and your husband would definitely notice the bill if he touches your household finances at all."

"How much is it?"

"Seventeen hundred dollars per shot."

So far, my consultations with Doctor Killian hadn't cost much, monetarily. Even today's visit had been folded into insurance coverage for Ob/Gyn. Seventeen hundred dollars, though -- that wasn't an amount that I could casually pay without Jonathan asking uncomfortable questions.

This was a death knell.

The charade that my marriage had become was beginning to draw to a close. I thought that I could protect Jonathan and the kids by hiding my changes -- but someday soon, that wouldn't be an option anymore.

"Look," said Doctor Killian, taking off her glasses. "You really need to stop thinking about this in terms of what's right or proper for Jennifer Hyde, the woman. She pretty much stopped existing the moment you were afflicted with TCVS. Jennifer Hyde the hermaphrodite is your present and future, and to deal with it, the first step you need to take is acceptance."

"I don't /want/ to accept," I said evenly. "The moment I release my cock, I lose all of my morals and inhibitions. I hate that. You know what I thought about this morning? I thought about raping my own daughter. How can you even talk about acceptance?"

Doctor Killian sighed.

"I'm not trained to offer psychiatric counseling," she said, "but it sounds like you're having trouble with this mostly out of guilt and sexual repression. You aren't dealing with your urges in a healthy way, and you haven't accepted that the consequences of an illness aren't anything that you should personally be feeling guilty about. Being a hermaphrodite isn't an ugly thing."

"Then what do you recommend?"

The doctor put on her glasses again.

"Are you free this afternoon?"

"As long as I get home before seven," I answered. "Why?"

"Once we finish up here, wait for me in the lobby," she said. "I'll be there in about five or ten minutes. Wanna take you somewhere."

//

Our destination was in the suburbs, about twenty minutes beyond city limits. Doctor Killian parked her red minivan outside a building that looked like a country club, and we disembarked.

"Where are we?" I asked, following her into the lobby.

"A gym, spa, and athletics club for women with special needs," she said, nodding at a muscular girl at the front desk. "It's a charity that I helped to found with a couple of friends."

The receptionist nodded back, and Doctor Killian touched the card-key hanging from her neck to a reader. There was a click from the translucent glass door beside it, and she pushed it open, gesturing for me to follow.

Inside, there was a second lobby, and several women were seated in the sofas about the room -- making out with each other, or in various states of undress.

Every single one of them had the telltale bulge of a male organ between their legs -- and even in the air conditioning, I could pick up the distinct scent of semen.

"Wh- what is this place?" I asked again, feeling my cock begin to harden inside me.

"Club Sapphos," replied the doctor. "A place where women afflicted with TCVS can just be themselves." She paused. "For the next stage of your treatment, I've decided to provide you with a free lifetime membership."