‘I wonder if Don will like my new nightgown? Well at least it sure is comfy,’ I mused. I peeked downward at the cute embroidery pattern of my chamise, ‘Whoa did my boobs get bigger?’
The critics warned Gender Changing technology could be used for more nefarious purposes, and Congress enacted strict regulations: verify willingness, ensure the ability to change back to the original gender, no mind modifications beyond basic gender neurological processes, etc. But alas, none of this mattered when my car broke down outside the Stepford Country Club that rainy night. “Come inside, warm up in our clubhouse while your tow truck arrives,” Invited a silver-haired gentleman driving past into the sprawling gated community. Unknowing of the consequences, I complied, and found myself seated in an intimate, posh setting with about twenty other all male club members. Everything went black.
I awoke, instantly recognizing the long flowing hair on my shoulders and the extra plump cushion on my bum. My god they… “Don’t worry, you are going to come to love being a woman Claire, we all did eventually,” Said the glowing picturesque blonde lady. I cried and cried as they addressed me by my new name, gave me classes on ‘ladies etiquette’, and forced me to dress like a socialite. I couldn’t get over that I lost six inches in height, the way my chest dangled when I bent down, and how my groin was void of any member. But it seemed I only had so much capacity for bawling. Despite my initial protests, I began listening intently to the Etiquette classes and mingling with the women at our weekly tea parties. Yes, they robbed me of my gender and faked my death (‘Fatal Car Accident on Stepford Road’ read the papers), but at least I wasn’t truly dead. For my own sanity, I needed to make the best of the situation as I planned my escape. By the time the ‘Class of 2016’ Debutante Ball came, where the newcomers were revealed to the Country Club Members and their wives (all Stepford-made), I actually relished how the long flowing floral white dress complemented my curves. One champagne glass was enough to wipe away any inhibition to accepting the propositions to dance, who knew being led across the dance floor by a man could be so satisfying! The remaining male parts of my mind wanted to gag, while the rest of me wanted to swoon in their strong arms.
I twiddled my time and thought why not live life to the fullest? It wasn’t like I would ever get an opportunity to enjoy my time like this again after I blow the lid on the whole Stepford Wife operation and became male again. So I accepted my male suitors propositions, and went on many, many dates. For the life of me, I couldn’t get over how some were so handsome, charming, confident, and poised, or how much I would appreciate that. Ick, I used to be a very straight male, I swear! One date stuck out above the rest, with Don. By this time I was crushing hard; the other new girls gave me crap for how many times I changed and redid my makeup until I found just the right combination, a pleated summer dress and my most flattering bra. I thought we were just driving in his antique convertible from the Club House to the Country Club lake for a picnic, but imagine how hard my heart beat as we drove out the gates for the first time since I changed! This was it, my one chance. We drove on the highway through the evening air, in minutes I could run out the car and be rescued. Yet when we pulled up to a stop sign, I sat there. I did not have the self efficacy to do it. Why leave now when Don and I were having such a good time? I resigned myself to escape another day. Another day and another passed, each time presenting further opportunities to leave. I didn’t. The other girls and I were even making regular trips to the nearby beach towns for morning mimosas, manis and pedis. I could have just walked up to a police officer and told them, but nope, I just lacked the intrinsic vigor to do it.
Don’s erection sprang free, my delicate hand massaging his thick shaft in preparation for him to fuck me from behind. I wonder how that felt for him? To my immense alarm a few months before, I became cognizant that I couldn’t remember any of my male-specific memories as I tried to conjure up what peeing standing up felt like as I wiped from front to back. Sure, I remembered my full life before Stepford, but my mind just couldn’t connect to the actual feelings and memories of guy specific activities. My mind raced through my life as a guy: Having an erection and cumming? I drew a blank even though I knew I had done it thousands of times; An appendage and balls down there? No idea how that felt, did it get in the way?; Feeling lust over women’s bodies? Longing over their soft & hairless skin, breasts, thick hips, thin waists, and their fragile demeanor seemed very foreign at best; Shaving my face? Totally weird. By the time Don proposed with that sparkling diamond ring, oh my god I was thrilled to my consternation, I ceded to my total loss of masculinity and male thought processes and said yes.
Does the thought of escaping still cross my mind from time to time? Occasionally, but my conscious only throws it around jokingly. At some point, I accepted that I was a willing participant in being a Stepford Wife. I love cooking my hubby breakfast in my dainty nightgown and June Cleaver earrings, without the stress of rushing to work in the morning. I chuckle reflecting on how burdened I used to be trying to attain the next promotion. I revel in the attention Don lays on me, if I want a new adorable purse I get it. This is in total contrast to when I was male desperate to win the affection of an ultimately hard-to-please girl; okay, he does say we should wait a bit for kids, despite my total baby fever. I cherish going out with my girl friends, gossiping about this or that, trying on the latest jewelry or fashion with them in open changing rooms (yes, sometimes down to our birthday suits). You have no idea the friendships you can have with women when you no longer crave their bodies and romance. And I actually have something to look forward to every night, unlike just Netflix as a guy, when he comes home from work and dominates me; putting me in my place as a girl, the person in our relationship without the penis and balls. “I am a woman. Oh my god I am a woman!” I moan loudly as he thrusts all the way to my cervix, his hands on my limber body, his face buried in my jiggling bust, and his semen ejecting into in my vagina in total recognition of my emasculation.
Guess you can’t be an escape artist when you admit you are a longing participant.
