Girl

By DX

Copyrighted 7/2015 11/2023

All rights reserved, Story may not be reproduced without written permission.

 When I was a boy, I dreamed of the day that I was twelve and my life would begin.  A twelve year old can climb high trees and build forts in the branches with a sign forbidding girls entry.  When I was twelve, I wanted to be fifteen so I could ride my bike anywhere my legs could peddle.  Libraries and ball fields would be open to me and then my life would begin.  When I was fifteen, I wanted to be twenty-one because then I would be a man.  I would change the oil in the car, curse, drink lite beer and find a wife to settle down with.  When I was twenty-one, my life would begin.

 When I was twenty-four it ended.  My wife, pretty and wild, turned into a psychopath and when our marriage collapsed into screaming fights she proved that she was a true harpy, befouling what she couldn't consume.  To say it was a messy divorce was a gross understatement.

 I had to abandon everything in my life and myself to be rid of her and I found shelter on the couch of my old college buddy.  He was a rampant, unrepentant homosexual who constantly cruised for tail and thought mine was a prize to be bagged, stuffed and mounted on the wall. 

 After my divorce, I sought identity and was willing to try anything.  Though I never thought of myself as gay, and even thought the act repulsive, I found myself watching my roommate parade around the tiny apartment naked, his cock flopping around like a miniature elephant’s trunk.  

 He saw me watching and stuck it in my face and demanded I suck him off.  I think he was more surprised than I was when I leaned forward and took him into my mouth.  I was clumsy, but he gently coached me and with a little work, I accomplished the goal.  

 I became his Boy and he my Man.  I would return to a simpler stage of my life.  I was his to play with.  My sexuality was none of his concern.  I was just his cum puppet, my mouth, my ass, my hands, served to his insatiable sexual habit.  When I wasn’t sucking him I was sucking his friends, both men and women.  

 I was the Boy.

 It was his impetuousness that made him one day to decide to ‘Nut’ me, castrate me, to show that it was all about his cock.

 And I was okay with it.  

 Yeah, divorce messed me up that much, but I was also into my new role as a servant, an object, with no obligations other than making my Man quiver.  I still didn’t consider myself gay and I felt uncomfortable kissing a guy, but I thought nothing of feeling his cock slide back across my tongue and the hot splash of cum flooding my mouth.

 He brought over a woman who I only knew as Helen, and after she milked my manhood for the last time, asked me if I still wanted to be a Boy.

 I said yes.

 She removed my cock and balls and moved my urethra down between my legs to make peeing easier.  I was then less than an eunuch.  I was an androgyny.  A sexless being.  A nullo.  I would be incapable of having an orgasm ever again.

 A Boy.

 And that was where my story ended, where my life began, or so I thought.

 Without the flow of testosterone I lost body hair.  I also lost bone density.  I was calmer, easier going and happy.  However as more testosterone drained from me, I became lethargic, to the point that I didn’t get out of bed for days if I didn’t have too.  I struggled with weight and soon didn’t care.  My Man would come home and I would only roll over and offer him my ass.  It was easier.  I didn’t like anal as it made me sore but getting him off was too much effort.  There had been something in the act of taking my Man in my hands, my mouth, making him squirm, controlling his sex, his orgasm, that gave me a thrill.  It was the paradox of submission.  I was in control.    

 And depression set in.

 I didn’t regret becoming a Boy and I didn’t long for my manhood back, in fact it was just the opposite, but I just had no will to function as a person, as a Boy, as anything.  

 I was nothing.  A blob.

 I finally went to a doctor, mumbling a lie that I had picked up a parasite in South America and there was a botched surgery that took my genitals to explain my current state.  To my surprise he believed it, or didn’t care enough to try to see through it.  He just prescribed the logical cure.

 Testosterone.

 Being off it for so long it hit me like a storm and I suddenly became a wild animal.  I wanted to hump everything, anything.  I became aggressive, even scaring my Man when I tied him down and fisted his ass up to my elbow.

 I hated how I felt.  I was now a bad Boy, a juvenile.  I was angry and grinding my teeth, pacing, argumentative and quick to sparks of anger. 

 Worst of all, I was outrageously horny.

 My Man gave me a prostate toy and I tried using that to get off, but Helen had been thorough, and it only left me hornier and frustrated.  It was an inner torment I had not expected, but it did give me back my energy.  On steak and blow job day, I sat him down with a porterhouse and while he dined I was under the table, licking and going down on his cock, working it until he shuddered, his legs twitching, and I savored the distinct taste of his cum on the back of my tongue, a unique buttery liquorish.  I left him there, twitching, pooling into goo while I took another steak down to our landlord.  He’s a sixty something year old widower, and like me, didn’t think of himself as homosexual, but after forty years of marriage he found himself alone.  He enjoyed the company I brought him.  He also gave us an extension on the rent and sometimes even skipped a month.  I fed him his steak, then lay him out on the couch as he likes.  There, I undress him, cover his eyes with a cloth, then press my hand against his stirring cock, gently sliding my fingers across until he’s hard.  I put on some music, taking my time, just sliding two fingers up and down his shaft until his pre-seminal fluid begins to flow and then use that to get him slick.  When he begins to twitch, I lean forward and suckle him.

 I was back to being a Boy again, but I had to struggle with my dark half, my juvenile delinquent part.  The testosterone made me snippy and confrontational and I partially blame it for the next change in my life.

 My Man and I had a spat.

 “Fuck you, you fucking faggot!”  He shouted at me.  He frequently said that but this time he was really pissed.  “You are not going to tell me who I can fuck!”

 That was the argument.  We’re were not monogamous, I didn’t expect him to be, but we still had to be careful in a world full of dangers, and with his impetuousness it was quickly becoming a concern.

 “I’m not telling you who to fuck.”  I said gently through terse lips.  “I’m just asking,”  I stressed the word, ‘asking’.  “for you not to fuck two people out of everyone on the planet.  George and Hilderbrand.”  

 George was an addict and sucked people in the subway bathrooms for crack.  I was sure he was carrying some disease.  Hilderbrand was a married man who came down to the island a few nights out of the year and lets out his gay side.  He has herpes but claims he would never have sex during a breakout.  I know that he would never pass up the chance to have sex, break out or not.

 My Man was furious.  “Fuck you, Boy.  I’m not calling you to get your permission when I want to fuck.  I tell you who to fuck!”

 “I’m just asking you to be considerate.”  I was getting heated, raising my voice.  “It’s just a suggestion.  I don’t want you to bring home something they can’t cure.”

 “Fuck your suggestion!  You ain’t telling me shit.”  He screamed, grabbing his jacket.  “I’m the Man!  I do what I want!” 

 I saw the event spiraling out of control.  I was pissed, he was pissed, so I did the Boy thing and relented.  “Okay, I’m sorry, I was wrong.  Please, don’t go out mad.  Stay home and fuck my ass, okay?”  But he was beyond listening and heading for the door.  “At least don’t go and suck off George because you’re pissed at me!”  

 He slammed the door rattling the china.  

 I slumped to the floor and cried like a little boy.  Tears and snot rolled down my chin as I whinned and sobbed, the whole deal.  I knew he was going to find George and I was furious.  It was his nature, but it was not only self-destructive, it would destroy me too.  

 As my tears dried, I decided that if he didn’t care enough about me then he could go fuck himself.  I packed up my few possessions and brought them to the basement for storage.  Then armed with my suit-bag and knap sack I headed out.  My landlord knew of a room for rent not far from where I worked and he called over there for me to set up a same day interview.

 It was a beautiful Victorian house and the room in question had its own entrance.  It was a quaint apartment with its own kitchen and bathroom and a spiral stair that lead up to a bedroom.  Excited, I headed over and met with the owner in the driveway.  

 She was a handsome woman with tits that I thought were party balloons under her sweatshirt and my testosterone driven system would not let me look elsewhere.  She had beguiling eyes that twinkled with mirth at my lapdog attention to her endowment.  She turned to point something out, inadvertently brushing herself against me as she did.  “Pardon, me.”  She purred and I swear I nearly had a spontaneous nose bleed.

 As she was showing me around, I detected the distinct odor of latex each time she came close, which she saw to it was often.  I mentioned it and she played it off that it was the clinic she ran out of the basement of the house.  She called it the wellness center and asked if I had a latex allergy.  I told her not at all.  She then nodded, smiled and pulled off her sweatshirt.  

 I could not take my eyes off of her amazing breasts, giggling to one another beneath white latex.  She wore a rubber corset that clenched her flat stomach and gave lift to her wonderful boobs.  It was then I gasped, “I’ll take the room.”  We didn’t even haggle over the rent.

 She led me downstairs to her clinic and I marveled at the equipment.  It was a state certified colonic irrigation center with automatic cleansing machines.  She had just finished an appointment when I came over.  “Some of my customers like a little, costume play.”  She giggled.  “As do I.” She said draping a white sheet across the exam table.  “Have you heard about the benefits of a colonic?”  She turned and handed me a brochure.  “We have some homeopathic recipes that are quite rejuvenating.”

 As I took note of the brochure, she was turning equipment on.  She then patted the table.  “You can get undressed behind the curtain and put on a bathrobe.”  She read my sudden apprehension and gave a sly smile.  “If you’re going to live here, you should know what goes on here.  The first cleansing is on the house.”

 I stammered, never having to explain my situation before.  “You should know that I made a, uh, life choice.”

 “It’s just an enema.”  She winked, “It’s good for you.”

 “I know, it’s just that, well, you’ll see.”  I disrobed right there.  “You see, I’m, well, it’s complicated, but let’s say, I’m a Boy.”

 Her brows rose in surprise.  “Wow,”  She whispered softly.  “That is interesting.”  She patted the table.  “Tell me all about it.”

 I told her my story as my bowels flooded with her special brew.  After my irrigation I felt amazingly good.  She took me upstairs for a bit of tea and I returned her kindness.  She preferred being fingered while her massive teats were suckled.  She screamed like a banshee as she came.

 I didn’t know it then, but she was to be my Aunt, and my life was to begin again.

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