The Feminization Condition: Bonus Chapter

The first night in the new house didn’t feel real.

Boxes were stacked in the hallway, half-open, spilling clothes and dishes and books that didn’t belong to me. Sunlight had poured through the windows earlier, warm and golden, but now it was gone. The place felt too big, too quiet. It was weirdly dark, even with the lamps on. But somehow it felt like… home. Maybe because she was there with me.

Now, she was upstairs, shower running. I sat on the edge of the bed with a beer in hand, staring at the wall, trying to process the last few weeks. The mansion. The disguises. The lies. The lawyer. The cousin waking up from her coma before changing my life forever. 

It should have ended in disaster, but somehow, it hadn’t.

Instead, I was here. In a house it didn’t feel like we had earned, but had been given. We had money in the bank. 

I had her.

I told myself it was luck. I told myself it was chance. But deep down, I knew better. None of it would have happened if I hadn’t said yes that night. If I hadn’t let her paint my face, zip me into a dress, and push me in front of the mirror. It was a big risk. Big risks sometimes mean big rewards. Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was fate. 

And now, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

The shower cut off. I heard the faint squeak of the faucet, then silence. My chest tightened. I took another swig from the beer, but it didn’t help.

A few minutes later, the door opened.

She stepped inside, wrapped in a towel, hair damp, skin still flushed from the steam. She gave me a small smile. “You’re still awake.” I could see her cleavage. New cleavage. She had her operations six weeks earlier. I had mine booked; it was coming up soon. She went big with hers. I was going to go small with mine. 

I tried not to stare. Yes, she was my girlfriend now, but I still didn’t want her thinking that I was just some horny creep. I kept my eyes up.

“Yeah,” I said. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She crossed the room, rifled through one of the boxes until she pulled out a nightdress. Something lacy. Dark. She hesitated, glanced at me, then disappeared into the bathroom again to change.

My pulse thudded in my ears.

When she came back, the towel was gone, the nightdress clinging in all the ways it wasn’t fair for it to. She moved across the room as if nothing was different, slipping into the vanity chair to brush her hair, same as she always did. The nightdress was see-through. Now, it was impossible to keep my eyes up. Her big pink nipple were still glistening with moisture from the shower, demanding my attention. I couldn’t believe how real they looked; big, perfect tear-drop shaped masterpieces that wobbled just slightly whenever she shifted. 

Now, everything was different.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. The curve of her shoulders. The way the straps sat against her skin. The faint line of her collarbone, catching the light.

She caught me staring in the mirror. “What?” she asked, teasing.

“Nothing,” I muttered.

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

I laughed nervously, scratching the back of my neck. “Just… you look good.”

Her eyes softened, but she didn’t say anything. She set the brush down and stood, walking over to the bed. My throat went dry.

She sat beside me, close enough that her thigh brushed mine. The warmth of her skin bled through the lace. My heart started racing.

We sat in silence. I wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. We had been together for almost two months now, but I still felt like a nervous teenager around her. She’d pinned me down and dominated me so many times. I’d felt her spilling cum deep in my ass more times than I could count. Yet still, she made me shy. She made me blush. She made me stutter. 

“You’re going to look so cute with your little titties,” she smiled.

“I’m nervous,” I said. 

“Why?” She stared at me.

“I don’t know. It seems like such a big step.”

“You don’t have to do it,” she said. “I like your flat titties now.” She giggled, letting her eyes move down to the exposed part of my chest that was showing in my dainty satin top. 

“I want to do it. I’m just… nervous. It’s still surgery.”

She blinked. Her eyelashes fluttered. She stared into my eyes with a smile, and then she said, “I’m not going to lie. It would be more fun to suck them with a bit of… squishiness there.” 

I felt my face turn hot. 

Her hand brushed against mine. Not by accident. Slowly. Deliberately. I turned my palm up, and her fingers slipped into mine. My chest tightened, but I didn’t let go.

The silence stretched. My whole body felt wired, alive. 

“Are you scared that the boobs will make this official? You won’t be a guy anymore?” 

“Maybe a little,” I admitted.

She ran her fingers through my hair and then let one finger graze my pouty bottom lip. “You’re already a girl, either way. You’re not just pretending.”

I wanted to reply, but it was hard. I was jealous of how naturally this all was for her. She seemed to slip into girliness so easily. And I loved being a girl. I loved looking cute. I loved girly clothes and feeling dainty, and I definitely loved being dominated. But I’d always been nervous about commitment—and this was a big commitment. 

“I just worry that I am pretending,” I said.

“Can I tell you something?” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“If you’re pretending… I don’t want you to stop pretending.”

My throat closed up, but I squeezed her hand. 

Her lips curved faintly, nervous but certain. Then she leaned closer.

When her lips touched mine, the world seemed to fade away around us. Soft, tentative at first, then deeper, hungrier. Her hand slid to my chest, resting there, feeling the pound of my heart.

I kissed her back, harder than I meant to, years of confusion and fear and want still crashing through me, even though we’d done this dozens of times already. This was still new, still exciting. 

She shifted, swinging one leg over, settling into my lap. The lace of the nightdress brushed my skin, delicate and electric. My hands trembled where they gripped her waist, but I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t. She grabbed the hem of her skirt and lifted it up, showing me her cock, already erect. “All I have to do is look at you,” she said. 

I stared at her shaft as it throbbed, her balls resting on my pelvis. 

I grabbed her shaft and began to pump it. She moaned. Thirty seconds later, she was spilling her load onto my stomach. I loved the way her cock sputtered, the way her cum splattered in all different directions. It was uniquely her.

That was a little nuance of our intimacy. We always started with me jerking her off quickly. That’s how we dealt with her premature ejaculation issue: a quick jerking, and then she was good to go after a few minutes. Then, she would be able to last at least five minutes. 

She blushed and giggled. Then, she did something she hadn’t done before. She leaned down and started to lick her cum off of my skin.

I gasped, feeling her warm tongue grazing my skin, giving me goosebumps. “It’s sweet,” she giggled. She licked all of it up, and then she came to me for a kiss, to let me taste. She was right—it was sweet.

Her lips trailed down my neck, slow and deliberate. I tilted my head back, breath ragged.

“Tell me you want this,” she whispered.

“I do,” I said, my voice raw. “I want you.”

Her smile against my skin was wicked, but sweet. She pressed her forehead to mine, eyes shining. “Then we’ll figure it out. Together.”

I kissed her again, desperate now, my hands sliding over the silk of her nightdress, memorizing every line, every curve.

The world outside the room didn’t matter. Not the cousin. Not the money. Not the scheme we’d barely survived.

Only her.

Her weight in my lap. Her lips on mine. Her body pressed tighter to mine. Somehow, her throbbing tip, still with a bead of cum, found my hole—and she pushed into me.

I gasped.

She began thrusting. I felt every inch. I could even feel the swollen veins rubbing the walls of my anus. It felt good. It always felt good. “Don’t stop,” I moaned, digging my nails into her bum cheeks. One of my fingers ended up finding her asshole, so I pushed it into her, making her groan. 

“You’re going to make me cum again,” she said.

“I like it when you cum,” I moaned.

“Don’t you want me to last more than a minute?” 

“I like it when you cum,” I said again. Because it was true. The way she couldn’t control herself with me. I made her so aroused. She made me feel so sexy. Suddenly, I felt her gushing in me: more cum—lots of it. I felt the warm wetness filling me up. When she pulled out, it gushed loudly out of me. We both giggled. I blushed, embarrassed. “Sorry,” I said.

“It’s cute,” she admitted. Then, she did something she’d never done before. She stuck her cock back into my stretched, cum-filled hole. I gasped.

“Aren’t you done?” I asked.

“I’m so turned on. I can keep going,” she said.

And just like that, she was thrusting hard into me again, making cum gush out with each deep penetration. It was loud and sloppy: sounds of gushing and farting and moaning and gasping. It felt so good. So naughty. So primal. 

“You’re cumming,” she said—and I strained to look down to see my own cock sputtering warm cum all over my glistening tummy. 

“Fuck,” I said, voice cracking. 

She wiped the cum all over me with the palm of her hand, giggling as she did it like she was making a finger painting on my body. “It’s so sticky,” she said. 

And it was only a minute later when she was finishing again—this time outside of my body, cock in her fist, tip inches from my lips. I tasted her cum again, this time with a slight bitter tinge of asshole—especially when I pressed my lips around her shaft and sucked out that last drop. She moaned loudly. 

Then, she brushed the hair off of my face. “If that’s pretending… then we need to get you nominated for an Oscar,” she giggled.

I blushed. I knew she was right. I knew that this wasn’t pretending. It felt too good to be pretending. 

It felt too right.