SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

Morgan Grace stood in the drive of a great white colonial, desperate to stop his teeth from chattering. Realizing he’d inadvertently not put on enough fat for the winter, he was now paying the price for it.

It was one of those winters where everyone always says, “This one’s bad, but we’ve had worse.” Morgan couldn’t remember the last time it was ever this bad or he’d ever felt worse.

The lawn, once green and pockmarked with mud was now a thick white blanket, and a howling gust of frigid air moved from the east, down through the naked trees and pines, up the bank of the street, to knock loose a flurry of snow from a branch above him, spilling it sideways. Christmas had come and gone. In its wake, it’d taken out eight power lines, a homeless man tucked away in a freight car, and iced over Lake George.

Morgan thought to himself: I should be happy to be alive. So why am I so unhappy?

Without a second to question this further, his father lumbered past him, indifferent and on a mission. For the better part of twenty minutes, the man in his big boots and blue parka had been heaving luggage from the house to the Chrysler that sat in the drive. All the while, his wife said, “Have you packed the skis; did you bring extra socks in case our feet get wet; what about those little hats your mom gave us last Christmas?”

Mr. Grace groaned, said, “Yes, Lucille,” then slammed the door and hid away inside the car.

Morgan watched her mouth move in his direction now, but his ears couldn’t (or maybe didn’t want to) hear a word. He’d become distracted.

Across the street, one of the power lines the storm knocked over had spilled into Mrs. Jennkins’ yard; its wires dangled loose and dangerous, and its wood had splintered at a seam somewhere near the top, leaving the whole thing limp and broken. A couple of men the electrical company had sent over were atop a crane, working the line, and Morgan couldn’t help but stare at them while they moved in their fluorescent vests and hard hats. He watched at the way they effortlessly wrangled the cables, the strength of their bodies as their forearms twisted and tugged, the grunts and cursing that left their lips, the—

The sedan’s horn punctured the air, and he jumped, suddenly fixing his eyes on the woman standing before him.

“Morgan, are you listening to me?” his mother asked.

“I’m listening,” Morgan lied.

His mother was a pleasant woman to look at: a little shorter than five-ten, slender, with rich brunette hair and a face that didn’t look a day over fifty. He always noticed how all her features were petite, from her nose down to her lips then back up to her ears. Those eyes too, a magnificent shimmering blue, seemed to glow now within the winter light. Morgan was thankful he looked more like her, and less of the burly man behind the steering wheel of the family car, furrowing his brows at him through the windshield.

She let out a long exhale, and said, “We’ll be back on Sunday. Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? There’s still time, and plenty of room in the cabin we rented.” As if appealing to nostalgia, she then mentioned, “You always used to love our trips to the Adirondacks.”

Thirty years of marriage. That’s what this was, a weekend away to celebrate, and sing, or do whatever the hell a married couple does after staying, no, tolerating each other for thirty years.

When Morgan looked at his mother now, he saw her lips curl upwards. It looked to him the same way it did in all those old photos from before they’d had him and his sister; their father wasn’t big and bulky with a receding hairline then. He was more slender, and could be compared to an early summer’s day with an air of youthful optimism about him. Where had it gone? he wondered. Where, in the past thirty years, did he lose that?

Regardless, Morgan knew what his mother’s smile meant, and he knew he’d rather poke his own eyes and stuff his ears with cotton balls than see or hear his parents vows be rekindled, so he simply said, “I’ll pass.”

“I’m just worried about you,” she sighed, gently pawing his face with her mittened hand. “You’re home from winter break, and there’s not much to do around here, especially with the storm and all. You know, I was thinking,” she lit up, saying, “Do you remember my friend from church, Heather Hart? Well she has a lovely daughter, and—”

“Mom,” Morgan stopped her.

“I’m only saying, can’t a mother talk to her children? You used to play with her daughter when you were young, before you grew up to be my big twenty-one year old. Why don’t you give her a call? Her name’s Emily, you saw her at midnight mass.” Then, she scrunched her face and said, “She’s sweet!”

The only thing sweet about Emily was all the cupcakes she consumed, Morgan thought bitterly. And the only ‘mass’ about her was the state of her size! Emily was pudgy, not in a cute way either. He hated himself for thinking any of these thoughts, but it was true. Emily was the type of girl that laughed at all the wrong times, and was about as dull as dripping beige paint. He didn’t deserve that any more than the woman deserved to be with him. And besides, he reasoned now, even if he were to be intimate with her, could he really make it past those huge mounds of an ass with what he had? Unlikely!

No, she wasn’t anything like Caroline; no one was like Caroline. Caroline was Aphrodite with raven bangs, pouty lips, and a tattoo on her backside that said: ‘Kiss me.’

Oh, Caroline, Morgan thought.

“So you’ll call her?” his mother asked.

“Maybe,” he said absently.

“Think about it. I left her mother’s number on a card in the kitchen. And don’t forget to water the ferns.”

“Come on!” his father yelled suddenly. The sedan’s horn honked once more. The sound spooked a flock of birds into flight from a nearby tree. “We’re gonna be stuck in traffic all day if we don’t move,” he said.

Morgan’s mother leaned in, kissed her son on the cheek, then hopped into the car with her husband.

Morgan watched as they drove down the street, and only when it disappeared from view did he turn back towards the house. But before he returned to the warmth and comfort of his family home, he looked at Mrs. Jennkins’ yard once more… and the electrical workers too. One of the men glanced down at him from high up and above in the crane, and stupidly, for a reason he couldn’t say, Morgan waved.

He hurried into the colonial and shut the door behind him, feeling the wood press hard against his back.

“Why did I do that?” he whispered to himself.

He had no answer, despite the fact all his thoughts were more pronounced now, because the home felt larger than ever. With his parents gone and his sister having moved to California with her boyfriend a few months prior, the quietness almost seemed oppressive. Morgan sighed and padded into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, noticed the little light inside didn’t click on, surmised the power must still be out, took nothing, closed the door, then saw the card on the countertop.

‘Her name is Emily,’ the note reminded him in his mother’s neat handwriting. She’d planned for this, Morgan realized, noticing the preemptive nature of the note.

‘Here is the number. Give her a call. She’s home from college too. Have fun! Love, Mom.’

Morgan threw it into the trash.

How could Emily, or any other woman for that matter ever replace Caroline? he wondered. Though the relationship only lasted six months (it sprouted in the spring and withered in the winter) he knew it would be forever branded into his memory until the day he died. Knew it the way you’d hear a song and could hum its entire melody from memory alone.

He traced her name with his fingertip into the terrazzo countertop.

‘Caroline.’

Morgan wanted to hear her voice, see her face, read her words one last time. So he pulled out his phone and looked over the last two messages he’d received from her, sent two weeks ago before winter break.

‘It’s over, Morgan,’ she’d written. ‘I deserve better, and you deserve…’

She never finished the sentence. It was as though she’d vanished mid-thought. Caroline gave no explanation as to why it was over, because one wasn’t necessary.

The last time they tried to be intimate he’d lasted a grand total of forty-seven seconds; he bucked and spilled before she could do more than breathe warm air against his neck. Before she could even say: “Harder,” or “softer,” or “don’t stop.” Later, she’d kissed his temple like he was a child who’d skinned his knee. It was humiliating. Pathetic, he thought.

That was with the lidocaine spray put on beforehand too! With its cold, numbing chemical sheening his skin. A time before that, he’d applied too little and came against her thigh, and after, he’d overcompensated, applied so much that he felt nothing at all. It rendered his hard four inches into a useless nub.

It was no surprise he thought, that she never touched him again.

The thought hurt. He tried to run away from it, ashamed at his body, so he moved past the Christmas tree that once was a symbol of joy and youthfulness in the living room, and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

This feeling he thought: was it sadness, depression? He didn’t know, and maybe didn’t want to know.

Across the floor of his room sat the duffel bag, brought home from college. Inside, apart from his own clothes and that bottle of lidocaine were the things she’d left behind in his dorm. Why he’d taken them, he couldn’t say. She hadn’t called for them, so assumed they weren’t important enough for her to care.

There was a black lace thong, a pair of sheer thigh-highs with little satin bows at the tops, a cropped charcoal hoodie that still smelled faintly of her vanilla body spray, one burgundy satin bra too, and a pleated leather mini-skirt.

He laid them out on his bed, and for a moment, when he stood back it appeared almost as if Caroline had been raptured atop his comforter, leaving only her clothing and undergarments behind.

There was something else in the duffel too. Morgan looked at it. A box. About seven inches by six, sat there in a solid white cardboard container. He never got confirmation that Caroline was the person who’d left it at the door of his dorm that one night, but it must’ve been her, because who else could it have been? Who else could prank and tease him in such a pointed way other than Caroline?

Morgan pried it open and peered inside. There was a note on top that read: ‘This is what it’s supposed to look like;’ and inside was six inches of cream, flesh-like silicon, in the shape of a hard erect penis.

Had Caroline known something about him he didn’t know, the whole world too, he wondered, staring at the toy. Is that why he hated his own name so much? Morgan—his father said it was an old English or Welsh name meant to represent strength, or something like that. But to him, it sounded more like a woman’s name. It didn’t help matters that in high school one of the girls everyone ogled in senior year was also called Morgan.

There was a recurring joke that went around. Someone would say: ‘Who has the biggest butt?’ they’d say: ‘Morgan,’ and the punchline was always the same: ‘Which one?’

He slammed the box shut and shoved it back into the bag, as deep as it could go.

“Geez,” he muttered to himself.

Instead, he lifted the thong. The black lace felt cool and delicate against his fingertips, and he sighed before he could stop himself from what he was about to do. Morgan pressed it to his nose and inhaled. A deep and longing inhale. It still smelled of her, musky and intoxicating, and he felt himself twitch inside his pants in instant response, as if his mind believed the woman was here, now, and ready to give him one last try.

Within minutes he was on the bed, pants shoved to his thighs, with the thong stretched across his face like a mask. He stroked himself with short, frantic pulls, inhaling all the while. He pictured her, straddling him with her thighs against him and her hips pressing down, smirking, giggling in that low amused laugh she always used when she was already bored. Did she let out that same giggle when she left the box at his door?

Morgan didn’t count the seconds, not now, but he knew it had been less than a minute and he was already close to an edge that was pulling him closer. The image of Caroline was still there in his mind, her alternative carefree look and black lipstick with almond eyes. But the picture suddenly shifted, as if his mind had now grown bored, or maybe wanted to protect him from the sight. So instead, she was no longer straddling him. He didn’t know where he was, but he wasn’t with her.

Caroline was supine on his bed, and now a man, a stranger who he’d never met before was over her. Morgan watched. Looked as the man fell into her, repeatedly, harder than he ever could with a length that resembled the toy in the box. The bed creaked. The mattress protested weakly against the two bodies that were interlocked and now becoming one.

Words of the note repeated in his mind while he watched the two be intimate: ‘This is what it’s supposed to look like.’ Over and over again. Repeated with repetition just as the man repeated his thrusts into Caroline.

He was above them, as if floating above the bed. The image burned, humiliating with the combination of her scent on his face and the imagined sights and sounds of her curving in pleasure. The way she wanted it. Had screamed for more.

Then, it was over.

He felt his knees jitter and warmth began to dribble out against his stomach in pitiful spurts. Shame, a greater shame than anything he’d felt before crawled hot up his throat, and every gasp of air he inhaled was filled with her and only her.

He laid frozen for a moment, the panties still on his face, then opened his eyes to see through the bedroom window against the monotone sky the men, those electrical workers, were still there. He darted to the floor, fumbled for his pants, pulled them up while cleaning the residue off his stomach with a box of tissues, and then, he listened. The crane whirred, the men shouted indistinctly against its noise, but no one said anything about him, or towards him.

Peering over the sill, he looked at them. They were sawing and mending and doing things he didn’t even understand. Did they see me? he wondered. There was no indication that they did or cared if they had. Instead, Morgan threw the thong back onto the bed and stumbled over to his laptop on the desk, meek but breathing more freely now.

The sudden realization that he was alone in his hometown for a whole weekend hit hard. It was alienating. What was he to do? Neil, his best-friend, had stayed out west at USC for break, and James, well James had dropped out sometime around the summer and went up to Alaska to ‘find himself.’ Morgan thought there’s not much to find up in Alaska but lots of snow and maybe a case of frostbite.

No, there was nothing to do, he realized. And he was certain now that his friend was more likely to ‘find himself’ here than skirting the Yukon.

Sadness suddenly washed over him. Sadness at the observation that everyone was having sex, he thought. Everyone but him. In his mind he said: Everyone has someone; my parents, my friends, probably even Caroline. Where is my flock? Where is my cabin upstate? Where is my lover?

He needed to run from this feeling. Someone had once told him that if you thought negative thoughts, you’d become the embodiment of negativity yourself, and that it’d ruin your youth. So run he did.

Morgan loaded up the laptop, checked there was enough charge to last the power outage, and instead went to where he always went when bored, or sad, or unsure of himself; on forums and websites that he was too ashamed to ever admit to anyone that he indulged in. Sometime this year, he discovered words that felt like keys turning in locks he hadn’t known were ever there.

He read them now: ‘sissy; femboy; beta; trans.’

The images that followed those delectable words sang to him too like that of a bird to its mate; made sense of his inadequacies. It didn’t shame him for ejaculating too soon, it celebrated it. It didn’t shame him for having a smaller than average penis, instead it said he should be proud of it! And when the websites told him that he should stop attempting to be intimate with women, that it had been a behavior learned and inappropriate for someone like him, he nearly believed it.

“‘Someone like me,'” he mouthed almost silently. Then, “What am I?” he asked himself.

The words stared back: ‘sissy; femboy; beta; trans.’ Told him to dress the part, to look like a woman because deep down he already was one. He shouldn’t date women it said, he should find men. Men who could provide for him intimacy that was more appropriate, appropriate for someone that had his mouth; his ass, larger than most males, which should be—

Morgan turned his head away from the laptop and looked to the bed. Caroline’s ghost was there. The panties, the bra, and everything else. He’d never tried before, but with the clothes being there, and nothing to do for the weekend, and no one home…

“I guess I’m not hurting anyone. It’s just a bit of fun,” he said aloud, reasoning in real time with the absurd thought he was considering. Then, he spoke it and made the thought sound real.

“Maybe I can make myself look like Caroline, just to see her, one more time.” If everyone had a lover this weekend, he concluded, then he’ll create his own. Here and now.

He stood over the bed and surveyed it all. It was Caroline: her choices, her style, her, boiled down to fabrics and things. So he decided in the moment that he was going to try.

“I have to shave first,” he said to himself, self assured and resolute. The women (in actuality males who now appeared to be women) on the websites and forums were always smooth and lithe. Morgan couldn’t become a facsimile of his ex with hair on his body. That felt… wrong, somehow, more appropriate for a beatnik or other naturalist.

So he ran a shower so hot that it steamed over the mirror, and for the first time ever started to shave every inch of his body. He watched as the blade skimmed his skin and with it, took hairs that swirled around the drain until they vanished.

When he finished one leg, leaving it bare and womanly in appearance against the wet water, he thought to himself: I’ve made a mistake, I should stop, this isn’t me. But he couldn’t exist with one bare leg, it looked ridiculous. So decided against stopping.

Morgan continued and showered until the water ran cold, then stood on the bathroom mat while the water thudded gently against the tub. His body glistened, and was now a sheen of smooth pale flesh from the neck down. He didn’t entirely hate it.

By the time he’d left the bathroom and padded back to his room, his heart was thrumming again.

“Am I really going to do this?” he asked.

No one was there to answer. Only the lingerie, the clothes too. So he closed the blinds, turned on the lamp, locked the door (even though he was alone) and started.

By the time he had finished fastening the bra to his chest, filling it with two thick socks so that the cups would match the void left by Caroline’s large breasts, excitement quickly replaced his prior nervousness.

Now, when he pulled up the lace thong, he imagined hands, hands that were not his own, pulling them down. It caused him to strain against the crotch of the fabric, tenting the lace, and he realized the same spot Caroline’s most intimate part once was, now had been filled with him, and it sent a thrill racing through his body. When he turned to inspect himself in the mirror, the undergarment had wedged between the cheeks of his backside, somehow making it appear even larger in an aesthetic and pleasing way.

I really have a girl’s butt, he realized. Then thought: I could stroke myself right now. But quickly decided against it. It was better to hold off for now.

Instead, Morgan rolled the stockings up his legs. The silk caught faint hairs of stubble he’d missed, but he didn’t mind. He slid into the leather pleated miniskirt next, then, he pulled the charcoal hoodie over his body last; the hem exposed a thin strip of pale skin just above his navel, which he rubbed at with his fingers.

The image was complete, yet was missing something. Makeup, he thought, and a wig. Then he would match the wantonness of Caroline.

Morgan scrolled through the internet while crossdressed, looking for a wig that matched his former girlfriend’s hair color and style. Finally, he found one advertised under the name, ‘Goth Princess.’ It was long luscious strands of raven colored hair, with bangs that would sit just above his eyes; it was perfect! He ordered it with the option checked for a same-day delivery, then moved to his parents’ en suite.

There, he raided the makeup his mother had left behind. As pretty as she was, part of her beauty was achieved through painterly and experienced hands. He didn’t judge it, Morgan knew most if not all women wore makeup, so he viewed it as a tool to enhance rather than be something to scorn.

He brought into his arms a bottle of foundation, concealer, blush and bronzer, eyeliner, and a palette of eyeshadow, then lastly, lipstick that was dark enough to match Caroline’s favorite onyx.

He was lost; Morgan tried painting his face and the result was so garish that he restarted, not once, but twice.

“I need help,” he whispered to himself, his hands covered in makeup, the sink strewn with wipes in various colors. Defeated but not undeterred, help is what he found, in the form of videos others had shared online, titled: ‘Basics for beginners,’ and what not.

After countless hours, including his failed attempts, the sight that now showed in the mirror was one of stunning beauty. It was almost as if a short haired girl had materialized in his bedroom where there was once only an average looking boy.

Her blue eyes were sharp with cutting liner, cheekbones high and alluring, foundation smoothing out everything into a soft glow, and her lips, well her lips were plump and a dark black that looked good enough to kiss.

“I look like her,” Morgan said to himself, shocked at the transformation. How could makeup change so much with so little? he wondered. It also felt… right. He didn’t hate the paste of foundation on his skin, or the way his lips felt as though someone had smeared a gelatinous gloss over them. Instead he liked it just fine, and smacked his lips together.

Smiling, he pulled the hood of the sweater over his head, and marveled at how feminine he truly looked, stunned, really.

Then, the doorbell rang.

He sunk to the floor, and his weight made an audible thump as the sense of being caught doing something no man should ever be caught doing heated his body to a sudden boil. Did his parents come back? How am I meant to explain this? he thought in rapid succession.

But after a moment or two, without the sound of his father or mother calling on his name, he found the confidence to tip-toe over to the window and peek through the blinds with a lift of his finger. Morgan watched as a delivery truck ambled down the street in the snow, away from the house, and he realized the missing piece to his puzzle had come.

So he burst through the door, rushed down the stairs, past the Christmas tree, past the kitchen where his mother’s note once sat, and opened the front door.

A cold breeze struck him immediately, he winced against the white light of the day, and saw a package waiting on the doorstep. Behind it were a pair of boots, connected to trousers that climbed up, higher and higher, to reveal a man in a fluorescent yellow vest, with a hard hat atop his head, standing at the foot of the door.

“Hello, Miss,” the man said with a friendly smile, “I was just coming around to let all the residents know that we’ve restored the power now.”

He motioned to the power line behind him, in front of Mrs. Jennkins’ house. It was now erect, and its cables neat and taut.

Morgan blinked once, then twice. The man thinks I’m a woman, he suddenly realized. He called me, ‘Miss.’ Do I correct him, tell him the truth, or let it go?

“Is everything okay?” the man asked.

Morgan nodded. Words couldn’t form out of his mouth. Not right now, maybe not ever again.

“I think I saw your brother before, he waved to me. Is it just the two of you at home?” the man asked.

“No—yes!” Morgan quickly said.

The electrical worker stared for a moment, then smiled. It was a pleasant and warm smile. And in fact, well, the man wasn’t bad to look at, at all, Morgan realized. He had a handsome face with the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, with brown eyes that were observant and bright.

“Well, all you have to do now, Miss,” he said, “is turn on the breakers and you should be good to go.”

Morgan stared at him. There it was again: ‘Miss.’

He asked, “Do you know how to do that? I can show you if you don’t.”

“Please. I uh, yeah, it’s new to me,” Morgan managed to stutter out.

The worker nodded and mentioned the breaker is usually found in the garage. Morgan moved away from the door and into the home, through to the garage, where he promptly lifted the door until the day’s light shone through.

The man appeared around the corner, stomped snow off his boots as to not track it into the garage, then came inside.

“Are you home from college?” he asked, as he searched and eventually found the circuit breaker on one of the walls.

Morgan cleared his throat and said, “Yes. I’ve got one more week to go before I go back.”

“How fun. Having a good time at home?”

Morgan shrugged.

“I dig the alternative look you’ve got going on, it’s very cool,” the man added.

Morgan blurted out, “I’m twenty-one,” suddenly, and immediately was unsure why he’d felt the need to mention that.

The worker just stared at him and smiled that same warm smile again. “Well… I’m thirty-five, I guess, if we’re exchanging ages.”

He opened the panel, and revealed a row of breakers that were all pointing in one direction. He talked about how it all functioned and the technicality of fuses and electrics to Morgan, but Morgan wasn’t listening. He was watching him instead.

Beneath the uniform and fluorescent vest, he could tell the man was in-shape and athletic, if not outright muscular. He seemed to move with a confidence that he himself never carried, a certain rightness in his masculinity, and he exuded the scent of a man who’d been laborious for hours upon hours; a certain musk belonging to that of a mature male he’d smelled in the pool halls and bars and clubs frequented around his college campus.

But also, Morgan now felt a sense of being protected and comforted in the man’s presence, similar to how he once felt as a child in the arms of his father. Back when he was a large and enigmatic figure who seemed the center of his world; though now he appeared malformed and bitter and withered. Was that his future, his doom, too?

The man finally said, “All you have to do is flick these little guys, and—voila!”

Suddenly, Morgan heard the beep of the oven in the kitchen, the washing machine sing a little song, and the automatic vacuum in the house stir to life and begin to clean.

“Thanks,” Morgan said to the man. Then curiously, “Do a lot of electrical workers say ‘voila?'”

The man closed the unit, and shrugged while saying, “Not that I know of.”

He walked back to the front of the house and Morgan followed through the open garage door, now unsure if he’d inadvertently disrespected him. If so, it wasn’t his intention.

“I didn’t mean anything by that,” he said. “I’m sure you’re educated, I just, don’t even know why I said that.”

Having reached the front of the house, the man picked up the package and held it out. “No disrespect taken,” he looked at the label and said, “Morgan. Nice name.”

Morgan took the package from the man’s hands, felt the largeness of them against the slenderness of his own, and said, “Thanks, again.”

“My name is Tony, by the way. Thirty-five year old Tony. maybe I’ll see you around, twenty-one year old Morgan.”

Morgan opened his mouth to say something, but instead stood there with his black painted lips left ajar while Tony set off, down the shoveled drive and through the snow blanketed yard, over to the Holly’s next door.

He went back into the house, heard through the pane Tony’s muffled voice say, “Hello, I’m with the electrical company…” then climbed back to his room with the package in his hands and closed the door.

All the while he wondered: did Tony know I was really a man just crossdressed; was he being polite by calling me ‘Miss;’ or, was there something else to it? More now, he felt a certain kind of enjoyment in being seen and referred to as a woman, a female, and not the male he was. Or perhaps thought he was. Perhaps it also wasn’t exactly fatuous he thought, to transform himself into his past girlfriend.

As he removed the wig from the package, brushed its beautiful black strands with his fingers and settled it onto his head, now, when he looked in the mirror he didn’t see Caroline reimagined, but someone entirely new. She (whoever she was) appeared daring, sexy, and powerfully attractive, all in one exhilarating combination. A ‘Goth Princess,’ just like the wig advertised.

He stood to the side and looked at his physique. Beneath the clothes and garments with the long hair and made up face, he was undoubtedly a woman at first, second, and third glance. Not that a woman was distilled to concepts such as long hair or makeup or a slender figure, but somehow, the addition of all these things brought out something, or someone, within himself to the surface.

“Did Caroline know?” Morgan asked himself. “Did she really leave those things behind by accident, or was it all planned, just like the dildo, because she saw this in me before I saw it in myself?”

The toy, the dildo, he thought. What if? Just to try, to see if it suited him better, just how the websites and forums said it would. He wrestled back and forth with the idea. Morgan didn’t consider himself to be gay or even bisexual for that matter, but the thought caused him to harden and strain against the lace of the panties once more, and the decision seemed to have been made by his body before his mind said, ‘Yes.’

He pulled out the box and opened it. Looked over the note, then held the silicon shaft in his hand. It was thick and felt comfortable in his grip. He ran a finger across the faux veins and ridges, then, brushed the box aside and placed the toy upright on the comforter of his bed. His heart was suddenly pounding within the cavity of his chest, almost causing the two rolled up socks in the bra to jolt up and down.

Making sure the blinds were still closed, Morgan took in a deep breath, knelt to the floor, felt his stocking clad knees against the carpet, then lowered his mouth. It felt odd. Like he had now taken into his mouth a hard, slightly chemical tasting, rubber appendage. Despite knowing it couldn’t feel anything, he however, felt everything.

Morgan grew harder than he ever had before, and the feeling was as exhilarating as the head and shaft now deep in his mouth. He realized this was just a ‘thing,’ and he shouldn’t be ashamed. The fake penis in his mouth was a ‘thing’ no more or less than the clothes he was wearing were also just ‘things.’ It was the context that made someone feel shame, or exhilaration, humiliation, or a want for more. And now, Morgan wanted more. Though he knew if he went further he might unintentionally ejaculate, and he didn’t want that, not now at least. So he lifted his mouth off the toy with a wet pop and stood upright on shaky legs.

The next idea came as sudden and felt as right as placing the toy in his mouth. He pulled out the bottle of lidocaine spray, tugged down his panties, and liberally spritzed the nozzle all over his shaft, head, and testicles. Morgan knew how much was necessary to achieve a slight sense of numbness, he also knew how much was needed for total paralysis. It was the latter he wanted. So he sprayed and sprayed until his hard four inches shined against the burning lamp in the room.

Within minutes, his erection subsided, then fell completely, and when he pinched the skin of his head and shaft and testicles between his fingers, he felt nothing at all. As though his manhood had been severed or clamped and rendered obsolete.

Now, he could focus on what mattered.

Morgan lowered himself to the ground again, and took the fake cock into his mouth once more. But now, he no longer wanted it to just be a ‘thing,’ he wanted it to feel real, or as real as it could. So in his mind, he imagined the penis was now connected to a man. Who though? At first, the man his mind conjured came forward faceless, but attractive, with a muscular body and his legs slightly parted on Morgan’s bed, with glistening skin and hard abs that crunched the lower Morgan pushed his mouth and throat down. But then, a face appeared uninvited. It was the same man who’d stood tall and erect next to him not long before, who exuded masculinity that was the perfect contrast to his newfound femininity.

The thought of the man, Tony, here and now in his bedroom made him thrust the toy as deep into his mouth as he could handle, and he gagged and choked, sputtering saliva all over the silicon until his drool ran down from his chin and onto the fake testicles.

When Morgan released his mouth and looked between his legs, his penis had shrunken to a useless nub; it was a mere spectator now. What mattered was his mouth, and maybe even something else.

Morgan glanced over his shoulder and in the mirror saw the sight of his ass in the reflection. The panties were scrunched between his crack, and the sight of it made him more aroused. But the arousal didn’t surge in his dangling limp cock; it surged elsewhere, and demanded attention.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled open a drawer, found a bottle of lube and generously applied the viscous liquid all over the shaft of the toy, and also, the spot between his cheeks where no one had ever touched before.

His pulse quickened, a little voice (maybe the voice of reason) told him not to do this. But he had to try. Caroline gave him the toy for a reason, and if he didn’t try now, when would he ever? he thought.

So he turned around to face the mirror, looked at the visage of a new woman who’d replaced the old male, and began to lower himself. He watched, intently at the eyes that fluttered half closed as the head, blunt and wet, pushed against his hole.

“Fuck,” Morgan whispered. This feeling, why’d it feel so good?

He didn’t stop. Couldn’t even if he wanted to.

Lowering further against a resistance that came against a forceful push, he suddenly yelped as the head breached the last bit of opposition. His knees shook, his small cock hung limp between his thighs, but he didn’t stop now. Didn’t dare stop now. Morgan continued to push against the toy and slid down, feeling his body take inch after inch of hard silicon.

He threw his head back and closed his eyes, lost in the feeling as he now began to ride it. He bounced up and down. Hearing the springs of the mattress groan beneath him. While in his mind, Tony was still there, fucking him, taking what he wanted. Morgan imagined the man’s calloused hands on his hips, holding him in place while he bounced harder and more forceful now.

How many seconds, how many minutes in total had he spent there he couldn’t say. All he knew for certain now was that he would’ve ejaculated already if he’d tried to masturbate the old way—the wrong way! No, this was better. Infinitely better. The websites were right, the forums too. This is how he was meant to experience sex.

Sex, he thought, and opened his eyes. His legs were tired, unaccustomed to the action of squatting and bouncing vigorously. What if he found someone to do this to him instead? The thought of gay sex suddenly seemed enticing. Even the words ‘gay sex,’ caused another surge of arousal through his body.

He slowly slid off the toy, felt the emptiness inside him and decided he’d try. Just this one time.

Morgan pulled the panties up, and where he once felt his penis strain against the fabric where Caroline’s vagina was, now he felt nothing at all. The lidocaine was doing its job perfectly, and the sight of his crotch in the mirror, neat and flush, looked so much better and more appropriate.

He grabbed his phone, and found an application that would do exactly what he wanted. It was location-based, discreet, with a quick sign-up and no questions asked. After five minutes, his profile was complete, along with a photo taken quickly in front of the mirror. In the image, he concealed his identity, but kept his feminized body on full display.

Notifications exploded within minutes.

From men his age, men double his age, men who wrote paragraphs expressing love, and men who only wrote two words demanding sex. And photos! Morgan had never seen so many dicks. Coming in all shapes and sizes and colors. Each one made him aroused, as if his body was responding to a call he’d refused to answer for years.

He was overwhelmed, unsure, and even considered deleting the app, but then stopped, because someone had just hit all the right buttons.

The man, nameless and faceless, told Morgan he was also twenty-one, home from college, and his photos showed an athletic body that looked like they could belong to anyone. His cock, hard with a slight upward curve in the photos, was no larger than the toy Morgan had just used on his body. It would be enough; not too large as to overwhelm and not too small as to be underwhelming. He knew he could take the toy, so this man, this confused student maybe just as confused and searching as he was, would be perfect!

Morgan knew he couldn’t invite him over though. His parents, in particular his mother’s propriety over the home never allowed women to come to the house. So she especially wouldn’t allow boys who wanted to fuck her son while dressed like a girl come either! Morgan knew this to be a universal truth as universal as he now wasn’t sure if he should go through with this at all.

Maybe I’ve taken this too far, he thought. But then, he thought of the feeling of limpness within the panties. The way it felt right and freeing. His image in the mirror’s edge too. Wasn’t that freeing? Then, he thought of the man on the app, and how his masculinity could be reimagined as the stranger who penetrated Caroline in his mind; why not go all the way? Why not be as wanton as Caroline and be penetrated as a woman?

No, he needed this. To feel this, just this once, he reaffirmed. But what to do about a location?

Then, the idea came to him. His old high school had a maintenance door on the east side of the gym that never latched properly. All the boys knew about it, and so they’d sneak in, descend to the boiler room, and smoke weed out of the prying eyes of their parents. Morgan guessed—no, he was certain—it still wasn’t fixed.

So he messaged the stranger and told him he’ll be there. When? An hour, they’d agreed. But there was one more thing.

“Do you have a blindfold?” the stranger asked.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he replied. “Bring it. I don’t want you to see my face. I need to be discreet.”

Morgan agreed to the terms, fished out from his side drawer a black velvet blindfold he’d used for sleep, and tucked it into a bag. Into the bag, he also threw in the bottle of lube, the lidocaine (for an extra spritz or two, just in case), and a roll of condoms. The protection was an old purchase that was never used while in high school; still useable, but hilarious now. The fact he ever thought he’d be having sex with girls in those long forgotten years made him laugh. And now the irony struck him: he’d be the one getting fucked tonight while a man wore them!

His penis twitched within the lace at the thought. It was a good idea to bring the lidocaine he realized.

The phone though, when he looked, its battery was nearly gone. It was an oversight but he wouldn’t need it. All those websites and forums with their words of encouragement had been branded into his mind, and the date with the stranger was set; they both knew the time and place. He plugged it into a charger, left it on the nightstand, then bounded down the stairs.

At the foot of the front door, he paused. That same voice of reason or nerves spoke to him once again, but he thrust it aside. Instead, he knelt to the floor, laced boots that would handle the snow, and left the great white colonial.

The sky had blackened, but the snow reflected the light and made everything visible and appear tranquil. The air smelled of burning wood, and as he set off on his journey he passed the Jennkins, the Hollys, the Wildermars, the Kilmasons, and saw the windows of their homes aglow. He heard the chattering of families, the noise of quareling, laughter in joy, and the sound of running water and plates being washed from ajar kitchen windows.

Had he betrayed his family, had he betrayed himself too? he wondered now. He trudged deeper into the snow that climbed higher up his boots, and was thankful he’d slipped into a trench coat to warm his body, but the journey, if it continued like this, would be treacherous and slow.

Maybe I’ve overestimated how quick I’d make it to the high school, he thought now. Then: What if I’m late and he leaves? What if…

Before he could finish the line of hypotheticals, a pair of headlights sliced over him, illuminating the ground. A sedan had come to a crawl, then the brakes squealed, and it stopped entirely now beside him.

A voice called out, “Morgan?”

He froze. And thought: I’ve been caught! Someone from the neighborhood has recognized me, he screamed in his mind. Was it the Jennkins, the Hollys, the Wildermars, the Kilmasons? Had one of them left their home to fetch something from the store and seen the young son of the Graces’ laboring through the snow, dressed as a girl, dressed as a goth on the search for…

“Morgan?” the voice called again.

He turned and looked at the sedan. Through the bangs of the wig and the shroud of the hood over his head, he couldn’t entirely make out who it was.

“Why are you walking in the snow?” the voice, a man’s, asked.

Morgan, unsure what to do, but ever the one to obey, moved closer under the shifting white beneath him. He peering in through the open window. The man looked familiar and also entirely a stranger; a masculine face, older than himself, with a slow curling smile that felt warm and safe.

“It’s Tony,” the man said, “from earlier today.” He lifted the brim of his baseball cap, and now Morgan saw all the same features from before: that strong jaw, the shadow of stubble, those bright brown eyes.

“Oh…” Morgan said. Then a little meekly, “Hi.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m… uh, visiting a friend.”

“Your friend doesn’t drive?”

“No.”

Tony leaned across the passenger seat, popped open the door, and said, “Come in. I’ll drive you.”

Morgan looked away, down the street where the streetlights dwindled to nothing as the road became more auxiliary. He saw the snow fly off mounds of white; saw the sidewalk (or the idea of a sidewalk) buried under more feet of snow. He knew it might be close to impossible trying to walk through it all. But he also knew he couldn’t go with Tony. He couldn’t be that close to a man, someone who knew him, or felt like he knew him.

“Come on,” Tony said again, “if you try walking in that you’re gonna get frostbite, or worse.” He patted the seat, Morgan sighed, knew it was true (and that he might also miss the meet with the stranger), and so stepped closer and slid into the seat.

The air was warm, blowing with the heat of an electric fire, and it felt good. How cold had he become? How numb all over? Morgan didn’t know when it’d happened or how dangerous it had quickly become, and he warned his hands in front of the vents now. How close to something was he flirting with that might’ve destroyed a part of him, or the whole sum of its parts?

Tony cranked up the heat further. “You’re shivering,” he said. “You’re too skinny for this winter,” he added, not mean spirited, but just noticing.

Morgan tried to slide deeper into the seat. Tony rolled up the sleeves of his sweater and asked where Morgan was trying to get to.

“The high school.”

“You’re meeting your friend at the high school after a storm?”

“I can get out and walk just fine,” Morgan said, angrily now.

“Wait!” Tony laughed. “Sorry, alright the high school it is. Buckle up, kiddo.”

“I’m not a kid,” Morgan said, catching himself smiling.

“I know, you’re twenty-one.”

At that, they both laughed. One intentionally, the other, maybe not so much.

“Why are you driving around my neighborhood?” Morgan asked.

“Didn’t realize you owned it. We just finished letting everyone around ‘your’ neighborhood know about the power. I’m heading home.”

Morgan nodded, then stared out the window. He couldn’t get away from the smell of the man; in the backseat was the vest, the hard hat, and the blue coverall belonging to the utility company. With everything off his body and only the clothes underneath remaining, that same masculine musk was more pronounced, and Morgan sat in it, letting it seep into his pores.

Morgan thought to himself now: What would Tony say if he knew I’d used him as a placeholder while playing with a toy? Would he be thrilled, disgusted, would he want to replace the toy with himself?

“Are you always this quiet?” the man asked.

“Yeah,” he replied. Then, sitting uncomfortably in the silence and the feeling of a need to break it, asked, “Is Tony short for Anthony?”

The man looked Italian, or perhaps some other culture that spoke a Romantic language, Morgan thought.

“Nope, it’s just Tony,” he said, then smiled.

Morgan sighed. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier. The whole thing about ‘voila.’ I shouldn’t have judged you, or whatever, for not going to college.” He pulled his hands away from the vent and held them together in his lap, they looked small and graceful.

“It’s fine. Honestly, I would’ve loved college.”

“You would’ve?”

“Yeah! I read the classics, I study things in my own time too. If I went to college it probably would’ve been for electrical engineering or something. You know, working or designing big things that can change people’s lives.”

“Why don’t you go?” Morgan asked now, lifting himself from the seat. “It’s not too late.”

The man remained quiet for a moment, then said, “Change scares me.” As the car slowed down at a red light, he clenched his jaw like he was stopping himself from speaking further.

Morgan felt the words strike a deep chord within himself; how much had he himself changed with such little time?

“I was afraid of change too,” he said now. “But change can be a positive experience. You shouldn’t be afraid to do things you want to do. Look at me: I’m twenty-one. Everything is changing constantly; new friends, new girlfriends—”

“You had a girlfriend?” Tony asked. He snapped his head towards Morgan and lifted his brow.

Oh, crap! Morgan realized: he thinks I’m a woman, and now on top of that he thinks I’m a lesbian too!

He tried to pivot. “Yeah, but, um, it didn’t work out. That’s beside the point, what I’m trying to say is—”

“I’ve never met a lesbian before,” Tony said. “Have you always been—”

“No!” Morgan said a little too loudly.

“So, you like guys too?”

“I’m… sure, I like guys.”

“What kind of guys?”

“Look, it doesn’t matter. All I’m saying is, you should go to fucking college!”

With that, Morgan sunk back into the seat, folded his arms across his chest, and looked out the window as the light switched and the car rolled forward once more.

“Go to college, or go to ‘fucking college?'” Tony asked, with that same warm smile.

Before he could stop himself, Morgan burst into laughter. Uncontrolled and gregarious laughter. It was unmistakably light and youthful, even to his own ears.

When they came to a stop again, beyond the passenger window Morgan saw the mammoth brick building of his former high school. With age, it now seemed smaller and not as daunting as it had once appeared.

“Thanks,” he said, “for the ride, and the laugh.”

“Anytime. I’ll remember what you said about change. Maybe I’ll do it.”

“You should.”

Morgan popped open the door of the car, grabbed his backpack from the footwell, but before he could step any farther than a few feet outside and into the snow, Tony called behind him.

“Hey! You forgot something, Morgan.”

He turned around, and a great pit dropped in his stomach. To his fear and shock, Morgan saw the roll of condoms had somehow slipped out of his bag and were now flat on the seat. Their golden wrappers caught the light of a nearby lamp, and Morgan stared at Tony for a heartbeat, before swiping them off the seat.

“Thanks,” he said rather weakly.

“You know,” Tony said, closing the passenger door with a thud and rolling down the window. “Usually the guy brings those, not the girl.”

Before Morgan could say anything, Tony said goodnight, rolled up the window, and drove away. Now, he stood alone, close to the field that was covered in at least a foot if not more of snow, that led towards the gymnasium. He didn’t know what to make of Tony’s comment, but didn’t want to dwell on it.

When he reached the door, he pushed against it, lifted with his right shoulder, twisted the handle and just like it always did following the combination, the door clicked open.

“Thank God,” he said to himself. He hadn’t thought about the possibility of it being locked, and now was thankful that wasn’t the case.

Inside, he looked at the old gym. Its wooden floors had been recently polished and shined bright against the moonlight slanting through the windows. Memories played in his head suddenly, of how he watched the girls frolic carefree here, how he heard their sneakers squeak against the floors, and how he’d overheard them speak so forthright about boys in school. He’d longed for those girls then, the same way he still longed for Caroline now.

“What am I doing here?” he asked himself. Why am I meeting a man for anonymous gay sex when I’ve loved women? Always loved women. But quick as these thoughts arrived, he also reminded his mind of the feelings he’d experienced in his bedroom, even being in the presence of Tony. So he buried the guilt or shame, and headed towards the basement, determined.

Down below, it was perpetually dark. They’d stored old equipment and gym mats here, and he could still smell the ghostly sweat of male exercise on them, mixed with a plasticine rubbery scent, but also the faint linger of marijuana in the air too. Morgan laughed to himself, because some things truly hadn’t changed despite the passage of time.

But the smell of the sweat and the mats now brought another memory with them. He remembered how when he wrestled with the other boys, they’d sometimes made it a point to dominate him. What’s more, he realized how they’d forced their groin against his back or backside a little too harshly while pinning him to a mat. He could feel it now, and hear Mr. Knowles’ voice from afar, saying, “Alright Sam, let Morgan up now.”

It didn’t bother him. Back then, he viewed it the same way an animal dominated another to assert its status; or how a king might subjugate his subjects through force. It was stupid masculinity, mixed with teenage angst and misplaced arousal. So why did the memory suddenly make him twitch within the panties now? Had it then, too?

The spray was wearing off, Morgan realized, and thankfully he had time. Tony’s car ride probably saved him thirty minutes—he couldn’t say for sure without his phone to check the clock, but with time to spare, he took off his trench and placed it carefully behind a fishnet holding up basketballs. Then, dug through his bag for the lidocaine, spritzed more of the chemical onto his genitals, and waited for the effects to kick in.

While he did, the boiler made a sound that resembled water coming to the boil. It was set low, enough to stop the pipes from freezing but not high enough to warm one’s body by itself. In the metal hull, Morgan could see his feminized reflection within the iridescence, and it pleased him.

He pulled out a mat, once a lucid purple like that of fresh verbena but now dulled into a weak lavender from sweat and exercise, and laid it flat. There, he moved into position, just as agreed to with the stranger.

Morgan placed his forearms on the rubber, his knees too, and assumed a bent over posture with his rear facing the stairs, so that when the stranger was to come down, he’d be met with the sight of his round ass peeking beneath the pleated leather miniskirt within the darkness.

He checked himself by cupping his hand around the small mound within the panties. Now, he was so thoroughly numb he couldn’t feel anything at all but the dull sense of fingers brushing there with distant pressure. It looked less like a penis too, he thought, and more like a clitoris. Shriveled and petite. The feeling made him imagine himself more clearly as a woman, or perhaps a being caught between two forms.

Suddenly, Morgan heard the sound of metal clanking and groaning at the hinges. It was the door from upstairs, and his body jumped at the sound. There was no way to know what the time was, but had his date come early too? he wondered.

Quick as he could, Morgan fished through the bag with trembling hands, and slid the black velvet blindfold over the wig, resting it at his eyebrows beneath the bangs. He laid out the bottle of lube he’d brought with him too, then the roll of condoms on the floor beside it. Footsteps creaked against the floorboards from somewhere above now, coming closer, and so he pulled the blindfold down and over over his eyes.

His world became black.

His heart hammered against his ribs now with a frantic drumbeat that echoed in his ears, drowning out the distant hum of the school’s heating system. This is it, he thought, the point of no return, as his knees pressed into the faded lavender mat, his forearms flat against it, ass presented upward like an offering under the pleated leather miniskirt. The stockings clung to his thighs, slightly twisted from the hurried positioning, and the charcoal hoodie rode up his back, exposing the small of his pale, smooth skin to the chill.

The footsteps continued to move around upstairs, as if searching for something, or someone.

He could still stop this, the voice of reason or fear whispered urgently in his mind. It said: I should remove the blindfold, grab my things, slip out the maintenance door before he sees me. Run back through the snow to the safety of my home, strip off Caroline’s remnants, wash away the makeup, and pretend this weekend was just a bit of sexual exploration gone too far!

But his body betrayed him, and so he stayed frozen in place, muscles taut with anticipation rather than flight. Why? he wondered. Maybe because beneath the terror, a deeper current pulled him under, he realized. It was the same current that had led him to the forums, the wig, the toy; he wanted this. Needed it, to know who he really was.

Footsteps were coming closer now. Heavy and deliberate as they descended the stairs from the gym above. The stranger, the twenty-one year old college guy with the athletic build and the modest six-inch cock was here.

Morgan’s breath turned more shallow and ragged now, as the door at the bottom of the stairs creaked open. There was a pause, then more steps, closer now, circling the cluttered space of the boiler room. He could hear the man’s breathing, steady and deep, contrasted with his own panicked gasps as he kept his eyes closed beneath the blindfold and looked ahead into nothingness.

The air suddenly carried the faint scent of freshly sprayed cologne, mixed with a masculine musk.

The footsteps stopped behind him.

Morgan’s heart pounded so fiercely now he wondered if the man could hear it too, the same way he could hear it in his ears. But silence instead stretched out. It was agonizing, and it felt as if the stranger was appraising him by taking in the full sight of him here, bent over on the floor.

Then, Morgan felt it. A touch from large hands settling on his hips, rough with calluses, the kind earned from real work and not college keyboards or textbooks. They dwarfed Morgan’s slender frame, and the thumbs pressed into the exposed skin above his waistband now, sending a shiver through him.

These are masculine hands, he realized, so different from his own. Different from Caroline’s delicate touch too. These were hands that could grip, control, and dominate him so easily. Is that what he wanted all along? he asked himself, to be dominated?

The man didn’t speak at first. Instead, he explored with one hand, using it to slide up and under the hoodie to trace Morgan’s back. His fingers were rough against the smooth, shaved skin there. Then, the other hand dipped lower, cupping the curve of his ass through the leather skirt, squeezing with a firmness that made Morgan gasp. It was intimate, invasive, and exhilarating all in one; a stranger’s claim on his body, reducing him to nothing but sensations in his blindfolded state. The hand moved up to the hem of the skirt now, and flipped it over casually, exposing the lace thong wedged between his cheeks.

Morgan felt the cool air in the basement kiss his skin, then the tug as his panties were being pulled down, slowly, deliberately. He felt it move past his cheeks, exposing his hole, then his taint and testicles, all the way until they bunched around his thighs.

His limp, numb penis dangled free, useless and forgotten between his legs. There was no twitch, no hardening, it just swayed there, exposed and irrelevant. The man’s hand brushed it incidentally as he adjusted the panties, pulling it even farther down now to the backs of Morgan’s knees, and the fleeting touch was only registered as pressure, not pleasure.

Morgan’s face burned with humiliation, but it stirred something deeper inside him too, a twisted arousal that pooled in his core, making his exposed hole clench involuntarily.

Fingers returned now, this time slick with lube from the bottle Morgan had left out; he heard the faint squelch of it as the man helped himself. Then, one finger circled his entrance, teasing the tight ring of his muscle. It pressed in, slow and insistent. Morgan bit his lip, stifling a whimper as the intrusion stretched him. The lube was cool and slippery and nothing like the toy. This was warmer, more alive, and he felt it so viscerally as the roughness of the fingertip scraped inside him.

A spark of pleasure ignited nerves he hadn’t known existed too, but he was also nervous as well, and his mind pummeled him with thoughts.

I’m letting a man touch me like this, he realized. A stranger’s finger in my ass, preparing me like… like I’m a woman. The thought made him tremble, but he arched back slightly, pushing against the invasion, craving more.

The man added a second finger and worked the lube deeper into him.

“Nice pussy,” he muttered.

The man kept his voice low, almost to the point just below a whisper. But the tone, it didn’t quite match the youthful app profile. No, this was deeper and more mature. The words hit Morgan all the same though, because it was crude and objectifying, reducing his body to something feminine, fuckable.

His ‘pussy.’ The term echoed in his mind as the stranger kept working his fingers in and out. His ‘pussy,’ validated the forums’ promises, made him feel appreciated by someone in a way Caroline never had.

He moaned softly. The sound came out muffled as his forehead was now pressed against the mat, while those fingers twisted and probed deeper, curling to brush a spot inside him that sent electric waves throughout his body.

The boiler was bubbling ferociously now beside them, and Morgan was trying desperately to remain quiet, but he couldn’t himself from releasing small gasps.

It went on for what felt like an eternity, and it felt as though the man was savoring the preparation, drawing out Morgan’s submission. Fingers plunged and retreated, three now, stretching him wider, the slick sounds obscene in the basement.

Morgan’s breaths came in pants, his body adjusted as he craved the fullness even as his mind whirled with doubt and desire. This was real, not fantasy. A man’s hands were inside him, owning him. And he didn’t want to run away from it.

Finally, the fingers withdrew, leaving him empty. Morgan heard the tear of foil, and knew it to be the condom packet. Then the rustle of fabric as the stranger’s pants came down; there was a zipper’s rasp, the soft thud of cloth hitting the floor, and then thighs pressing against his own.

Anticipation built, his heart became a wild thing in his chest. He felt contact. The man’s lubed cock was being rubbed against his ass, hot and hard, sliding between his cheeks in long, teasing strokes.

Morgan could feel the veined length gliding over his hole, the head bumping his numb balls, the slick heat of it promising more. It continued for a while, the man grinding against him, holding his hips, building tension. The friction had become maddening. Morgan now knew this to be the true point of no return for his masculinity now. There was no more pretending; he was about to be fucked by a man, taken like the sissy the websites claimed he was. The words flooded his mind: ‘sissy; femboy, beta; trans.’

The cock suddenly shifted, and the man now placed it beneath Morgan’s genitals, letting it rest there for a moment as it pulsed hard and erect against him. Even through the numbness, Morgan could feel the weight, the girth of it, pressing against his limp penis and balls. The cock was huge, far larger than the six inches promised in the app by the stranger. This was eight, maybe nine inches, and it was thick and manly, dwarfing his own useless nub. Why had the man understated it online? Morgan wondered. Men always exaggerated, he thought, not underestimated their size. It was a fleeting sense of confusion within the arousal. Was this to lure him in? To surprise him? It didn’t matter; the size intimidated and excited him in equal measures, because it was a symbol of the real masculinity he lacked. Now, it cemented the difference between him and the stranger; the stranger was the man, and he was to be the woman.

He decided he was going to let it happen. No backing out now. Morgan wanted this: to be fucked like a woman, filled and claimed. He pushed back subtly.

The man obliged, gripped his cock, removed it from against Morgan’s clitoris of a cock, and positioning the head at his hole. This moment, Morgan thought, was one of the most arousing moments of his life, and his body seemed to vibrate with pleasure. Pressure built, slowly, harder, then slow and inexorable, the stranger entered him.

Pain flared fast, sharp and burning as the thick head breached him, stretching his ring beyond what the fingers or toy had prepared him for.

Morgan yelped. His fingers dug into the mat and tears pricked under the blindfold. It hurt with a deep ache that made him tense all over, but beneath it, pleasure bloomed too, and the fullness was intoxicating as inch after inch slid deeper into him.

“Fuck,” Morgan whispered against the mat.

The man paused halfway, or what Morgan thought was halfway, as he felt hands gripping his hips now with a stronger more bruising force.

“Relax, slut,” he growled, low and quiet again. The word sent another thrill throughout Morgan’s body. If it wasn’t for the lidocaine he might’ve cum at that moment alone.

But he didn’t. Instead the man kept moving.

Slow at first, he rocked gently with shallow thrusts that eased more of himself inside, and Morgan clenched his eyes shut beneath the blindfold as the lube smoothed the man’s cock in. His body yielded, the pain faded into a delicious burn, and each withdrawal from the stranger left Morgan feeling empty, while each push in filled him deeper and craving more.

The stranger’s balls brushed his own numb testicles as he bottomed out, buried to the full, and Morgan moaned, loud and unashamed with the sound echoing off the boiler pipes.

“Good girl,” the stranger whispered. “Are you ready for more?”

Morgan nodded and breathlessly said, “Yes.”

It built gradually into slow, rhythmic fucking now. The man’s hips slapped lightly against his ass, while his impressive, large cock dragged over that sensitive spot inside Morgan with every stroke. His world narrowed to this sensation: the stretch, the heat, the way his body clenched around the invasion, milking it instinctively.

But the man wasn’t content with slow. His pace quickened now, and his thrusts became harder, deeper, and punishing. The initial gentleness had given way to something more primal. He pounded into Morgan now, hard and unrelenting. The mat shifted under their weight with each impact.

Morgan could hear the sound of his own ass slapping, as the wet sounds of flesh on flesh filled the room, mingled with his own gasps and whimpers. The cock pistoned in and out, relentless, hitting depths that made white light burst behind the blindfold. Pain and pleasure blurred into ecstasy, Morgan’s body rocked forward with each thrust, and his stuffed ‘pussy’ gripped the length like it was made for this. The man’s grunts joined the symphony. It was low and animalistic as his hands roamed now; slapping Morgan’s ass, holding his shoulder and yanking him back onto his cock for deeper penetration.

It went on, long and intense, as sweat slicked their skin despite the basement chill. Morgan lost track of time, lost in the rhythm: in, out, stretch, release. His limp penis flopped uselessly with each thrust, numb but leaking pre-cum in pathetic dribbles. The humiliation fueled him, this knowledge that he was being used, fucked like a girl, his manhood being made irrelevant.

Had he worn a blindfold to this truth his whole life too? he wondered, during the pleasure and pain of being fucked. This was so much better, this sex. Why had he run from it?

The man spanked his ass hard now, gripped tighter, and pounded Morgan’s hole like he was trying to destroy it.

Arousal built in waves, not from Morgan’s cock but from somewhere deep inside, coiling tighter with every slam. He tried to hold back, but couldn’t stop moaning as the man relentlessly fucked him hard and fast now.

His breath shot out in little bursts, and climbed higher, and higher until he squealed and then, it happened.

He hit an apex. organ came without touching himself. His limp, numb penis twitched feebly as cum spurted out in weak ropes onto the mat below. No hardness, no buildup in the usual way; just a prostate-milked orgasm, humiliating in its helplessness, while his body betraying him completely and his thighs trembled with orgasmic bliss. The forums had told him his seed was weak, that it deserved to be wasted on the floor, and the memory of those words made him leak even more out.

Morgan couldn’t breathe. His mouth was agape with soft little gasps escaping his black painted lips.

The stranger noticed, then chuckled darkly as he slowed his thrusts.

“Look at you, cumming like a bitch from getting fucked,” he whispered against Morgan’s ear. “Pathetic little clit leaking without even a touch. You’re no man, you’re made for this. Aren’t you?”

The words humiliated Morgan and burned through him, but they turned him on even more, amplifying the aftershocks. Emboldened, with his voice hoarse, he gasped, “Take off the condom… cum all over my ass.”

The man growled with approval and pulled out with a wet pop that left Morgan’s hole gaping and empty. There was a rustle, the sound of the condom being discarded across the floor, then hot strokes against his cheeks as the stranger jerked himself. Morgan could hear the sound of the man’s lubed cock, and the fact his own remained limp and numb turned him on beyond anything he’d experienced. The stranger grabbed the fat of his ass one hand and spread the cheek apart.

Moments later, warmth splattered across his skin. Thick ropes of cum painted his ass and dripped down his thighs. Then, the stranger held the head of his cock against Morgan’s hole and grunted as he shot out another spurt of hot cum.

Morgan was entirely covered. The man sighed in satisfaction and smeared his cock across both cheeks like he was marking his territory, then let the full weight of his semi-erect penis lay flat at the wedge of the crack he’d just claimed as his own.

In the aftermath, Morgan collapsed onto his stomach with his bare ass exposed, spent and trembling, the mat sticky beneath him. Only now did he notice that the blindfold was gone from his head; it must’ve shifted askew in the frenzy, he thought.

He tried to glance over his shoulder as the man pulled up his pants. But the basement was too dark. Shadows swallowed details, and all Morgan could make out was the outline of the man who’d just conquered him; the muscular build, broad shoulders, the kind of physique that spoke of strength and effortless masculinity that always eluded him.

Then, his footsteps retreated up the stairs and he was gone, leaving Morgan alone in the dim basement with cum cooling on his skin, wondering what he’d just become.

Morgan laid there for awhile. How long he couldn’t say for certain, but he remained still and replayed what’d just happened. He moved his hand to his cock to confirm he’d orgasmed while untouched, and felt he had really done so; it wasn’t imagined.

“I came from being fucked,” he whispered breathless against the rubber mat. Inhaling the air that was now tinged with the smell of sweat and sex, he rose to his feet on shaky legs. He looked for the blindfold, but after being unable to find it, eventually gave up and grabbed his trench coat. He left the stranger’s seed on his ass and wore it almost with pride.

Outside the air had grown bitterly cold and nipped at any exposed skin it could find. By luck though, he was able to hitch a ride with an old man operating a snowplow, going by the name of Chester Garson. Chester wore thick glasses and Morgan assumed with the man’s poor eyesight, he must’ve looked pretty convincing as a woman. Maybe as convincing as he now felt.

Am I a woman? he thought to himself during the ride. Whatever I am, I want more of this, he decided in the moment.

When Chester dropped off Morgan close enough to the house, he trudged through snow the rest of the way. The stranger’s cum had become icy against his skin, but the fire of the way he fucked him in the basement hadn’t left him, and he knew it never would.

When he walked through his front door, he half expected his family to somehow be home, catching him in the act. But no one was there.

“I have to tell him,” Morgan said to himself. I have to tell the man ‘thank you’ for everything.

He gingerly walked up the stairs to his bedroom, inspected himself in the mirror: he looked like a whore who’d just been ravaged, and his body smelled of sex. The hoodie, once imbued with the faint scent of Caroline was now replaced by the musk of the man who’d claimed him too.

Then, he reached for his phone.

When he loaded up the app and went to the stranger’s profile, he saw something he hadn’t expected. There were two messages, sent two hours ago, well before their meeting.

‘Hey,’ it said. ‘Sorry, I have to bail on our meeting and can’t make it. Maybe we can see each other some other time before you leave for college?’

Morgan stared at the message. He read it again and again. Then, his heart began to beat fast and out of control as he realized what had just happened.

A random man had just fucked him, and he had no idea who it was.

* * *

When Morgan returned to college, it was to the same dorm, the same major, but not the same body or mind that had left before.

The snow gave way to fresh leaves in the spring, then summer came, followed by the slow creep of another fall semester. But with each day that passed, in quiet moments alone or while daydreaming in a class, he relived the encounter in the basement. He didn’t know if he could ever feel what he felt that night again, but he wanted to try.

He let his hair grow out. At first it was chalked up to laziness, and when someone pressed more insistently about it, he said he was skipping haircuts to save on money. By October, it brushed his collarbones in dark and wavy strands, the same way Caroline’s had. As for his ex, Morgan had seen her only once since his return to college while walking around campus. She was strolling hand in hand with a jock that looked like he ate nothing but protein. Morgan thought he’d feel jealous at the sight, but he didn’t have much of an opinion about it either way.

In addition to the hair, he started wearing subtle makeup too: a touch of concealer under his eyes, a faint line of black along his upper lids, clear gloss on his lips that caught the light when he studied in the library. Nothing dramatic. Just enough that people sometimes did double-takes, then looked away politely, or smiled at him. He wore looser jeans, feminine sweaters in soft pastels, occasionally a thin silver chain around his neck too. No one commented outright about his look because college was full of people just like him, trying out new versions of themselves.

But one Tuesday afternoon, in the third-floor study carrels, Jason noticed.

Jason was tall and quiet, an engineering major with a handsome face and a habit of chewing on the ends of his pens when he was thinking too hard. He sat two tables over reading notes while Morgan studied, but his eyes kept drifting over. Morgan tried to ignore him. Then, curiously, he looked up from his textbook and caught the man lingering on the gloss of his lips, the way his hair fell softly over one shoulder. He tucked the hair behind his ear and tried to ignore him again. Eventually though, Jason walked over, casual, or at least pretending to be casual, and said “Hey, do you mind if I sit with you? These outlets are all taken downstairs.”

Morgan looked up, said, “Sure,” then continued reading, or tried to read.

Instead, they talked. First about the cold coffee in the vending machines, then about midterms, then about music neither of them listened to anymore. Jason had a soft laugh and an easy smile, and by the end of the hour he’d asked for his number. Morgan smiled and obliged, not expecting anything to come of it. But soon, something did.

The first date was coffee and a walk across the quad under the autumnal leaves. The air was crisp that day and carried with it that distinct scent of imminent change. It was enjoyable though, the date, and they both wanted to do it again. So the second was planned as a night of pizza at Jason’s off-campus apartment.

By the end of the second date, Morgan was on his knees on Jason’s bed, skirt hiked up (he’d bought a simple black one online, told himself it was just comfortable), with his panties pulled to the side. Jason was gentle at first, then eager. He used a condom, kissed Morgan’s neck, called him beautiful, and it felt good. Felt warm and full and safe. Morgan came with Jason’s hand stroking him in time with being penetrated, a small shuddering release that left him flushed and smiling.

They kept seeing each other. Twice a week, sometimes three. Jason learned what Morgan liked: slow at first, then harder, fingers digging into his hips, the occasional slap on the ass that made Morgan gasp. It was consistent, affectionate, even tender. Jason asked questions like: Did this feel okay? Did he want more? and he listened to the answers.

Months after they’d been seeing each other consistently, Jason took Morgan to a party with an opportunity to meet his friends. There, he introduced Morgan to the group as his girlfriend. Morgan was surprised, but didn’t protest, because a thrill ran through him at the word. Either way, it turned out to be a fun evening. The women were kind and sisterly, pulling him into conversations about makeup and campus drama, while the male friends of Jason seemed to look at Morgan with a certain hunger he’d never seen directed at him from other men before. Their eyes lingered on his lips, his hips, making him feel exposed and desired in equal measure. When they returned to the apartment tipsy and laughing that night, Jason quickly undressed Morgan, pinned him to the bed, and fucked him harder than he ever had before, almost with a sense of possessiveness. For the first time too, Jason didn’t wear a condom. Feeling a man release deep inside him without protection made Morgan’s limp penis twitch. And though he still hadn’t orgasmed handsfree, he still liked the feeling of sex this way.

But in the quiet moments afterward when ever they’d been intimate, when Jason was asleep beside him and Morgan listened to the air conditioner humming incessantly, he admitted the truth to himself: it just wasn’t the same.

Jason was kind, and Jason cared. But the basement stranger had not cared at all.

Morgan realized that when you experience incredible sex, you seem to constantly relive the experience or hope to recreate it. You see it everywhere: in the mundane and also the profound. And unintentionally (perhaps unfairly too) compare everything to it. He realized, maybe this is what Caroline had felt?

That difference between Jason and the stranger lived in Morgan’s body like a low-grade fever. He remembered the blindfold’s velvet weight, the way the man had called him “slut” like it was his real name, the brutal rhythm that had made him orgasm untouched, leaking onto the mat while his cock stayed limp and useless. Jason made him feel wanted. But the stranger had made him feel taken; there was no contest.

When winter break arrived again, Morgan told Jason he also needed a bit of a break from their relationship, then went home.

His parents met him at the door. His mother’s eyes flicked over the longer hair, the faint shimmer of gloss, the thin bracelet on his wrist. She said nothing about it. Instead, she hugged him longer than usual, then pressed a kiss to his temple.

They exchanged pleasantries and caught up on what had happened over the past year. Morgan didn’t mention Jason by name but said he’d met someone who was very nice to him, and made no mention of the fact that person was a man.

“There’s a stack of mail for you on the kitchen table,” she said eventually, getting up to start on dinner. “I sorted it. Most of it’s junk, but a couple look personal.”

His father grunted something about the Christmas lights and disappeared into the garage.

Morgan carried the envelopes upstairs. Among the credit-card offers and a holiday card from an aunt, there was one plain white envelope, with no return address, just his first name written in block letters on the front.

He closed his bedroom door, sat on the edge of the bed with nervousness and slit the envelope open with his thumbnail.

Inside, there was a single folded note and something soft, black, and familiar.

The note read: ‘Call me.’ Followed by a phone number.

Folded neatly beneath it, was the blindfold. It was the same one, had to be, because the velvet still carried the faint scent of basement dust and old sweat. It was the smell of him and the man.

Morgan’s pulse kicked hard. He held the fabric to his nose for a long moment, then set it aside. Took out his phone, and dialed.

It rang twice.

A man’s voice answered, low and calm, but also familiar in the way a half-remembered dream is familiar.

“Are you back from college?” the voice asked.

Morgan swallowed, and said, “Yeah.”

“Good girl.”

The words landed hard and rekindled a fire within Morgan he thought he’d put out.

“Tonight,” the man continued. “Same place. Same time. You know how I want you.”

Then, the line went dead, and Morgan stared at the phone for a full minute.

While he ate dinner with his parents shortly after, all he could think about was the call, and the anticipation which made him tremble. He and his mother spoke lively about many things: new pop albums, the new fashion women on campus wore. “I don’t like those tight leggings girls wear now, it’s too sordid,” she said. Then, she mentioned his sister was arriving from out west with her boyfriend tomorrow. His father said nothing, only, “I once had long hair like you at your age,” to Morgan. He finished his meal, then retreated to the basement.

When his parents went to bed for the evening, Morgan showered and shaved everything smooth, then stood in his bedroom and dressed for the occasion. It was a simple outfit: skirt, sweater, and boots, covering a bra and panties and nylons. It was the way he dressed now with Jason. A year ago, something like this would’ve been alien to him, but now it felt as comfortable as his own skin.

There was no big snow storm this year so the ground was mostly bare and hard, making it easier to traverse. When he approached the high school it looked smaller somehow, and the maintenance door was still unlatched after all these years.

He descended to the boiler room, and here too the air smelled the same. There was the rubber mats, old sweat, and the faint linger of spent cannabis.

Morgan spread out a faded mat, dropped to his knees with his forearms down, ass up, skirt flipped, and panties tugged aside, just like before. He didn’t need the lidocaine tonight; he wanted to feel every inch of it, every maddening sensation that he now craved.

Then, he waited with the blindfold over his eyes.

Eventually he heard heavy footsteps, coming down the stairs. The door at the bottom creaked open, slow and teasing.

Morgan’s breath stuttered. He didn’t turn around because he didn’t need to. He could already feel the shape of the man filling the doorway with the same broad shoulders he saw in the dark a year ago.

Before his mind could catch up to what was happening, he felt hands settling on his hips again. They were just as rough and calloused and enormous as he remembered them. Thumbs pressed into the soft skin above his waistband too as the man leaned down with his breathe hot against Morgan’s ear.

“Missed me?” he asked.

Morgan closed his eyes beneath the blindfold and nodded once.

“Strip, I want you completely naked.”

Morgan obeyed. With the blindfold still on, he removed everything else: the skirt, the panties, even the bra, leaving him stark naked in the basement.

He heard the man’s zipper coming down. Then the rustle of clothes being thrown into a heap.

Morgan arched his back just a fraction, offering.

“Was thinking of a new position tonight,” the man said.

“Oh?” Morgan whispered.

He was being moved. The stranger pushed him flat onto the mat, gripped his hips and shifted him to his side, then positioned himself behind Morgan. The stranger’s body was also without clothes, and the feel of taut hard muscles and warmth against his body was the perfect contrast between his own feminine energy and the man’s masculinity.

It felt emasculating but also arousing to be spooned this way.

Suddenly, the blindfold was lifted off his head and thrown aside. Morgan blinked within the dark, and slowly could see in the reflection of the boiler his image: laying on his side, naked, with his limp cock between his legs, his smooth pale skin, and behind him, the sheer muscular body of the stranger. He was large in every way, and his cock, now at his entrance (without a condom) was a stark and humiliating contrast in comparison to his own. In every aspect he was a woman, and the stranger a man.

But he couldn’t see his face. It was obscured by the darkness.

He thought, as the thick head nudged against him: this is what it’s supposed to look like. Those same words from the note with the toy. It repeated in his mind.

And for the first time in months, the ache inside him finally eased. He was about to be ruined again, properly and perfectly, the way only this man knew how.

Morgan closed his eyes in anticipation.

A picture formed in his mind, and it was this: a pole against a clear blue sky. It was thick and brown, hard and erect that climbed higher and higher. And as his eyes followed its length, he saw at the top of it, cables, thick and black being stretched by a man in a hard hat. The man, this stranger, had his back to Morgan, but Morgan watched all the same as he worked. His sleeves were rolled up, the forearms in action. The man in the image was breathing hard, and it matched the breath he now felt against his neck within the real world.

Then, the stranger entered him, and Morgan heard only one word whispered into his ear as the cock slid deeper into his ‘pussy.’ A word he hadn’t heard in over a year.

“Voila.”

 

The End.

 

 

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