Caution: This Transformation Mind Control Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Romantic, Reluctant, Mind Control, Heterosexual, TransGender, MaleDom, Humiliation, Oral Sex, Masturbation, Sex Toys,
Desc: Transformation Mind Control Story: Chapter 1 - A man wakes up in his apartment to discover he's been surgically transformed into a woman. Who did this to him? And why is he letting himself be turned into a loving wife and sexual plaything?
"Thunk, thunk." The cable from the box twitched causing a twinge of pain in my crotch where it was plugged in.
"Thunk, thunk," it continued. I could feel something shifting in my abdomen.
The thunking continued for about five minutes before it finally went "ping!" after which the cable detached itself and zipped back into the box by the side of the toilet.
"Ohhh!" I gasped, as urine gushed from my body, splashing noisily into the toilet bowl. Some valve inside my body had been released and now I could urinate. A powerful sense of relief and warmth coursed through me.
God damn box!
Two days ago I woke up, horribly mutilated. My penis was gone, replaced with folds of skin. There were stitches just under each nipple. But I was still flat-chested, so what was going on? And my face had been changed, my nose was smaller, my cheekbones higher, my throat was raw and I croaked whenever I talked. I could barely recognize myself.
And now, to add insult to injury, I was forced to connect myself to this infernal machine before it would let me urinate. After two days of trying to piss by myself, I finally gave in, followed the instructions, and connected the cable to the socket nestled in the folds of my new sex.
How had this happened? Who would have done this to me? I tried to remember, but only got fragments. Some kind of medical/psychology experiment I had signed up for?
But I would never have signed up for this.
"Oh, but you did," said the sternly efficient lady sitting across from me. She had introduced herself as Julia, my 'case worker' from the Institute. "In fact, here are copies of your consent forms. I brought them for your files."
She handed over a folder and then checked her watch, tapping it. I looked through the pages, confused and bewildered. After I woke up I was feeling pretty good, but seeing the pages and suddenly I couldn't seem to think straight.
"But I couldn't have signed these..." I mumbled, looking at my signature, clear as day. "Why?"
"I was there when you signed them. The interview process was quite extensive." She tapped her watch a couple more times, seemingly impatient to continue. She jotted something down in her notebook.
Fragments from the interview started to come back to me, all those questions. Scenes of the surgery drifted into my head, the hospital bed, IV tubes, medicines, papers, signatures. Had I agreed? Was it possible?
"But, I don't understand..." I tried to put the papers down but instead they slipped from my fingers and onto the floor. I felt my eyes get wet. Was I crying?
"There, there...", she moved to sit next to me and patted my hand. My tears dripped down my cheeks and onto my T-shirt. "You were accepted into our top Gender Reassignment Program, it's very exclusive."
"But I don't want to be a woman," I sobbed, my breath coming out in gasps. "I always thought I'd find someone and have children someday..."
"Ohhhh, you can still do that. That's why I'm here. It is perfectly natural to feel confused, sad, even depressed after surgery. Go ahead and cry, it will make you feel better."
"And you are going to have such an exciting time ahead of you," she continued, trying to brighten the mood. "There's electrolysis, makeup, cooking, posture, child care..."
But I wasn't listening. Eventually she left.
'Trapped, ' I thought to myself.
The next morning I felt better and my head was clearer. Although still nagged by doubts, I decided that there was no way that I could have willing agreed to surgery. My signatures must have been forged, or coerced.
But now what? Lawyers, detectives ... I needed help. I picked up the phone, but the line was dead. So, I threw on some clothes, grabbed my car keys...
No car keys. No wallet. No identification of any kind. I looked through every drawer and closet and ransacked my desk.
Come to think of it, where was my computer? And my television set? What else was missing?
I ran out of the apartment to the parking lot.
Suddenly dizzy, I sank to my knees and threw up, stomach convulsing, eyes watering.
I must have overdone it.
I staggered back into the apartment, cleaned myself up, and sat down to urinate.
The cable coming from the box was complex. Three tubes and some weird electrical connector. The female end was hidden in folds of my new vagina. Julia had left some instructions on how to keep it clean by wiping it with rubbing alcohol. I clicked the two ends together. Once joined, they would not come apart until it was done. I was stuck, forced to sit like a meek little mouse while the box pumped who knows what into my body.
"Whirrr ... thunk, thunk." Each thunk from the box caused something to move inside my abdomen. 'Nutrients, post-surgery medicine, MFHRT-23A, CM-1B' said the hand-scrawled sticker on the box.
I bent down to investigate my new crotch. It was still tender from the surgery. Whoever it was who had butchered me had taken the time to do a proper job. There were folds of skin and real vaginal lips. I parted them and gasped, I had found a small bump nestled inside. A clitoris. Oh man, it was sensitive.
I probed a little deeper and gently eased a finger inside. It was wet and slippery.
I brought my finger to my nose and took a sniff. It had been a while since I had a girlfriend, but it sure smelled like it was supposed to.
But wait ... what was going on? How was this possible? Can men with sex change operations like this secrete lubrication? Where was it coming from?
"You sold the car to pay for the surgery, I think, along with your TV, computer, and stereo," Julia said. "And you surrendered your wallet before surgery. We're still processing the paperwork to get you a new driver's license."
It was two days later. Despite my best efforts, I had been unable to leave the apartment. Every time I tried, I would get sick and throw up in the bushes, before running back to the safety of my apartment.
Is this what it's like to have agoraphobia?
"Why haven't you cleaned this place up like I recommended?"
"What?" I looked up.
"Cleaned up. Wash the dishes, vacuum the floors, run the laundry, etcetera."
"Whatever," I sulked.
Julia looked at her watch. "I don't have time for this," she said. "I am disappointed by your attitude."
Something about this exchange was starting to make me feel queasy. What's going on here? Wasn't I the one who paid for the surgery? Aren't I the customer? What right does she have to lecture me?
"I won't have one of my girls being such a disgrace," Julia continued.
"You know that you should be keeping a clean apartment. The Institute is keeping your pantry stocked, the least you could do is show this small bit of appreciation."
"Wait a minute..." I gulped, "I mean, no ... I..." Suddenly, my queasiness had blossomed into full-blown nausea.
"You what?" Julia asked, arching her eyes.
"I'm sorry!" I ran into the bathroom and threw up my breakfast.
Julia entered the bathroom after me, knelt next to me and gently stroked my back. It was so bad that I actually burst into tears as my stomach convulsed over and over. Finally I settled down and Julia was able to clean me up with a wet wash cloth.
"Thanks," I mumbled, grateful.
"It's okay," she said. "This used to happen to me all the time."
My mind was thick and confused. "What? Throwing up?"
"Yes, whenever I disobeyed my mother I would get sick to my stomach. Your body knows. It happens to all women."
"This happens? To women?"
"Now that you are being pumped full of female hormones, your emotions and feelings are taking control of your body."
"Hormones?" I muttered, thickly.
"Right! They will make your breasts grow, along with other things." She smiled. "Now, is it so much to ask that you keep this apartment clean?" She asked, gently.
"Good. I'll inspect it the next time I visit."