My dreams are always surreal, but very rarely involve sex of any kind. So, when the image that inspired this story cropped up for a few seconds one night, it stood out in later recollection. I decided that it just might be worth fleshing out ... so to speak.
As he carried in his carry-out dinner, he immediately noticed the glow coming into the darkened kitchen from the living room of his condominium. Many people would not have been sure if they had left a light on, but his career demanded meticulous attention to detail. The fact that the alarm showed no signs of tampering was another bad omen.
Silently placing the boxes of Chinese food on the counter, he glanced at the phone. The line appeared to still be live; it hadn't been cut. As expected, the message light wasn't blinking. He had little contact with his family and the nature of his work discouraged socializing.
All this had taken scant seconds. He drew the gun from his shoulder holster and advanced to the doorway. Flashy home ambushes were vastly more common in fiction than reality, and any operative sent for assassination would be unlikely to be clumsy enough to make his presence so obvious ... but that was no reason not to be careful. He hadn't been in this kind of situation in years, but it was like riding a bicycle. The muscles remembered.
He quickly peeked around the corner, and jerked back to review what he'd glimpsed. One man, sitting casually in the recliner, a book held open on his lap. No obvious weapons or backup.
"I am unarmed, Mr. Harper," came the voice from the living room. "Please, come in. I am anxious to finally meet you." A rich, cultured baritone with a faint accent; Portugese, or maybe Spanish. Latin American, certainly. But it had been close to a decade since he'd been stationed in South America...
He stepped in cautiously, eyes roving, gun at the ready. After a rapid survey of the room, he moved to a secure point with a view of all entrances and adopted a classic two-handed Weaver stance, targeting the intruder's chest. "All right, you have sixty seconds to explain why you should live."
A slight, Mona-Lisa smile had appeared on the man's face. He was middle-aged; probably in his late forties but in excellent shape. Dark hair, slim moustache, a Latin cast to the skin; the suit he wore was impeccably styled. He seemed entirely at ease; either he was running an impressive bluff or else he was supremely confident. "My business will take rather longer than that, I fear."
"So far, you're not convincing me. Fifty seconds."
"I suppose introductions are in order. You, of course, are Stephen William Harper, former field operative and current intelligence analyst at the CIA. My name is Vinicius Filinto Henriques Ferreira. Does the name remind you of anything?"
"Nothing in particular. Thirty seconds."
"Perhaps you recall my neice, Juilia Carmina Melo Ferreira?"
A split second to look up the name in his memory, then he squeezed the trigger - the muscles never forgot. But nothing happened. It dawned on him that his hands were empty. The gun was gone. No ... he grabbed for the weight at his shoulder, and found the gun back in its holster. The handle felt cool as he yanked it out again, as if he hadn't been holding it at all. Alarmed, he re-targeted the man one-handed and tried to fire.
Again, his hand was empty. Thoroughly confused, he saw the gun, holster and all, sitting on the end table next to Vinicius. He began to feel actual nervousness. Whatever else was going on, Ferreira was clearly an amateur; professionals avoided such drama. A frightened operative was dangerous.
"I see you do remember. Excellent reflexes, by the way." The smile was full and condescending now. "They are, however, quite useless against me, as you can see."
Steve was understandably unnerved, but a former Army Ranger didn't give up easily, whatever the situation. He stalled for time. "What exactly is your game here?" he asked as he shifted his weight.
"My 'game' is perfectly..." He stopped short as Steve made his move, leaping forward and swinging the base of his hand in a short arc calculated to snap the man's neck. It failed to connect and he struggled to keep his balance. He numbly registered that he was back on the other side of the room, and Ferreira was well out of reach.
There was a pause as the two men regarded each other, displaying equally startled expressions. Then Ferreira burst out laughing.
Steve felt a flicker of panic this time, but he clamped down on the emotion with long-practiced surety and maintained control. Clearly there was something going on here he didn't understand. Until he could sort things out, he'd allow Ferreira to think he was in charge.
Cooly, he bit out, "That's a neat trick. How's it work?"
Ferreira, too, had regained his composure - though his eyes still twinkled. "Magic, of course," he stated matter-of-factly.
Hearing, out loud, the word that had been rattling in the back of his mind was oddly calming. Now Steve was sure it was an angle, a con. An impressive effect, to be sure, and he was definitely in trouble ... but that would make it even more valuable after he'd turned the tables, somehow. "Riiiiight..." he drawled.
"Your disbelief is quite understandable, even under the circumstances. Most 'mystics' are fools or madmen or charlatans. Only a few, a very few, know how to contact the ... entities that lie beyond this plane, and fewer still dare to face the terrible risks and costs of such contact. I myself would not have attempted it..." he trailed off, and favored Steve with an icy stare. Steve had been a ruthless handler for over seven years, and a soldier and 'wet-work' field operative for nine years before that. He still felt a thrill of anxiety at that stare.
" ... but you and your people... inspired me."
Again, stalling for time was called for. "It was nothing personal. I wasn't even..." Steve began.
"Spare me," Ferreira interrupted. "I know she meant nothing to you. But I am here to make it personal."
It had been a minor incident midway in Steve's career with the agency. He doubted he'd even thought of the operation three times since then, but now he wracked his brain for details. He'd been acting as station chief in Brazil at the time; he'd assigned one of his operatives seduce and turn a young secretary at the then-newly-formed ABIN (Brazil's current intelligence service). They'd been able to intercept and cut off a mole from an allied country with the information she'd turned over. There had been no way to hide where the tip had come from, however, so he'd transferred his agent to another country and cut the secretary - Julia Ferreira - loose.
"Do you know what happened to her after you monsters played with her heart? No, you never bothered to check. She fell into despair, still pining for your snake of an agent. Then she took to drugs, and came apart quickly. She was killed on the street by her pimp, less than a year after your little triumph." The bitterness and venom in his voice confirmed that Ferreira was definitely not going to be professional about this.
He paused for a moment, reflecting, sadness and regret writ large on his expressive face. "Julia had been very dear to me. I could not have loved her more had she been my own. When I returned from my travels she was gone, and my brother, her father, was a broken man."
His attention returned to the present, as he looked up at Steve. "I swore vengeance that day. It has taken years to prepare, years full of dark deeds and fearsome bargains. But I gained the power to find those who had wronged my blood, and give to them my wrath."
"I know you're angry," Steve said, placatingly. "But as I said, I wasn't personally involved. I never even met..."
Ferreira cut him off. "What is the phrase? 'The buck stops here?' You approved it, oversaw it. You are responsible."
"I'd think you'd be a lot more pissed off at the guy who actually carried out the..."
Another brusque interruption: "He has already been dealt with. Simply to get the attention of what are commonly called 'demons' requires ... certain sacrifices." He radiated grim satisfaction. Steve had always been good at reading people; it was a vital part of his job, and indeed a survival skill in his profession. Very few people, even pros, could lie to his face. Ferreira was not a pro; obviously a passionate man, he wore his heart on his sleeve.
Steve knew now that he wasn't lying. This man really believed what he was saying. Given what had already happened in the past few minutes, he couldn't be sure the stranger was actually insane. Of course, if he weren't, it might be worse...
Ferreira was speaking. "I give to you now my curse. You shall know what Julia knew, feel all she felt. You, too, shall betray your country for love." He smiled. "And I shall be the instrument of your downfall. The beings I have bargained with are far beyond the human. They do not fit in our little categories of 'good' or 'evil', they are truly incomprehensible. But I have met their price, and they are not without a sense of humor. Together we determined a punishment exactly tailored to your crime."
He gestured, and Steve felt a fleeting moment of dizziness; his vision blurred for an instant, then resharpened. It was almost too short to recognize. He stood for a few heartbeats, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing else happened. He exhaled, only then realizing he'd been holding his breath.
"Fuck, you almost had me..." the rest of the words died in his throat as he focused on Vinicius. The stranger with the jet-black hair and firey eyes suddenly seemed larger, more powerful, more threatening, more compelling. He wanted to look away, and yet he found himself staring, fascinated and frightened, as Vinicius laughed out loud. The sound seemed undefinably different, confusing and absorbing in some new way...
As Vinicius spoke, Steve was transfixed by stirring overtones in that deep voice that he had missed before. "You do not even yet realize your fate. Go, examine yourself. Your manhood." He chuckled again.
Steve turned away slightly, still furtively glancing at the disturbingly striking intruder. His manhood? What did that ... In a flash, his hand was at the crotch of his trousers. For several seconds he probed, terror mounting. Something was wrong. Where was it? His hand plunged under his waistband, reaching down. He didn't find what should have been there ... but further down, he found something else, something his brain refused to process for what seemed a very long time.
There was a pussy there. He had a pussy. The thought floated on the surface of his mind, unmoored and alien, refusing to sink in. He fled Vinicius's mocking laughter, racing to the bathroom. He knocked the door closed and tore his pants down.
Sight did what touch alone could not, driving understanding home. There in the mirror was a slit between his legs, partly concealed by his bushy pubic hair ... and nothing else. His form seemed otherwise unchanged; the same clean-shaven, chiseled face, the same toned arms and legs. But the one difference outweighed the others. He was a man with a vagina. The world wobbled. He recognized the sensation from when he'd been shot early in his career ... he was going into shock.
After a while - he wasn't sure how long - he tentatively reached down to feel it. His fingers reported the usual sensations he recognized from countless sessions with women in the past. But the data coming directly from his crotch was impossible to integrate, nonsensical at first.
Vinicius pushed open the door, his cruel amusement unmistakable. Again Steve was struck by something newly unsettling about his tormentor, something gripping that further strained his already barely-held composure. He mustered his courage and barked out, "What the fuck is going on? What kind of bullshit trick is this?" But he couldn't keep all the hysteria he felt out of his voice, spoiling the effect.
"It is all real, I assure you. All that and more. As I shall now demonstrate." He stepped forward and stood behind Steve, so they were both facing the mirror. He took hold of Steve's face, turning it forward. Steve saw Vinicius's reflected eyes boring into his own, and could not look away. Some part of himself wondered why he wasn't even trying to attack Vinicius, but the idea was somehow ... impossible. He could no longer make himself believe he could ever overpower the commanding gentleman, even without the protective magic. Vinicius reached around and began unbuttoning Steve's shirt, unhurried. He slipped it off and dropped it onto the floor. Then he pulled the t-shirt up and over Steve's head; he unthinkingly lifted his arms to help. Resistance never even occurred to him.
Another change was apparent now; his nipples were larger, and the areolas around them had greatly expanded. It was bizarre seeing those erect feminine nipples on his hairy, muscled chest. Dread filled him as Vinicius's hand reached up and approached one. He gasped involuntarily as his strange tormentor began to gently stroke and tweak the rapidly-stiffening nubs.
It felt incredible, amazing. He looked at Vinicius in the mirror and was again captured by those striking, arresting eyes. He could not even think of looking away, though the contempt he saw in them made him feel small and helpless. His knees trembled. His breath came faster now, and when Vinicius pinched a nipple it pushed a low moan from deep in his throat.
Vinicius's other hand reached around at waist level, its target unmistakable. A wild mix of terror and anticipation shot through Steve's heart, which was hammering in his chest. The world slowed to a crawl as Steve realized what was about to happen ... and realized how powerless he was to prevent it ... and realized how darkly exciting he found it to be so utterly at the mercy of this cruel, powerful man.
Then fingers grazed teasingly across his vulva, and he inhaled sharply, hissing. He could sense how wet he was, how his newly-traitorous body ached to be touched there, and much more forcefully. His hips bucked forward slightly, involuntarily, but he couldn't bring himself to move more than that. He wondered how he could feel so weak and so frozen in place at the same time.
A digit glided along his moistened slit and he openly whimpered. He wished he could push it away but he simply leaned back into the firm arms of his captor, and allowed himself to be felt up. The well-lubricated finger slid over his clit and he yelped with pleasure, his head rocking back and his eyes closing unconsciously. His world narrowed, centered on the new chasm at his groin. His nipples sent random sparks of pleasure as he opened his legs as wide as they could go, limited by the pants around his ankles.
He could hear himself moaning and whining like a bitch in heat, though he was not truly conscious of anything but the ecstasy being forced on him, growing exponentially. But then he felt a moustached face rub against his ear and his eyes snapped open. He saw himself draped across Vinicius, as his iron hands mercilessly roamed across Steve's strangely mixed new flesh. He saw himself writhing, excited... wanton. The musk of an aroused female filled the air, and the understanding that it came from him somehow added to the excitement. He felt so naked, so exposed. But most of all, he saw Vinicius watching, dominating him in every way, making him into his plaything. It was Vinicius' proud face that triggered his orgasm.
It was far more intense than any he'd had before. It swept him away utterly, carrying him in wave after irresistible wave until they receeded enough for him to be aware of his surroundings again. He discovered himself collapsed, panting desperately, bent over the counter in front of the mirror, legs wobbling, barely managing to remain upright. His pussy (there could be no denying its reality now) was still quivering in erratic little spasms, forcing hitching gasps each time, as the fingers withdrew. They slid around his hips, leaving a wet trail of his own juices.
He raised his head with effort. Vinicius was there in the mirror, triumphant, gloating. Steve felt utterly humiliated, conquered. Before, the few times he'd made a mistake or been outmaneuvered, it had filled him with rage. Anger would not come, now; only despair, and - doubly hateful - a strange and confusing acceptance, even satisfaction.
All these emotions flashed through his mind in a whirl, before Vinicius' had fully stood up. Steve watched his violator survey his victim, clearly enjoying the helpless expression he could not suppress on his face. He felt himself blushing - blushing - but he could not look away from those enthralling eyes.
Alarm filled him as Vinicius ran a hand down his ass and began exploring his lips once more, now from behind. "No, please, no more..." he pleaded, hating the submissive, supplicating tone in his voice - but unable to sound, or even feel, more assertive.
A stern look from Vinicius and he no longer dared even beg. Firm digits teased and probed anew; more swiftly than he would have believed possible - faster than any man could ever recover - he was groaning uncontrollably. He'd seen women have multiple orgasms before (or, at least, he was as sure as a man can be that they weren't faked), but experiencing one was entirely different. His second orgasm was as devastating as the first. He wasn't able to remain upright this time, and he fell to the floor on hands and knees.
As he knelt there, panting, he felt the tears come. He hadn't cried since childhood but everything was racing out of control. He looked up wildly at Vinicius and was no longer able to deny what was so upsetting about him - he was gorgeous, breathtakingly handsome. Steve was observing everything about the man in an entirely new light. The proud, aristocratic features; broad shoulders; strong hands (his new nether anatomy twitched at the sight, almost yearningly); trim waist and belly without a hint of paunch; long legs...
He let out a sob, despair mixed with unwanted but undeniable longing.
Vinicius watched him cry for a time, an appreciative grin on his face. "Now I think you see. At least, a little." His voice sent chills up Steve's spine. It was beautiful, mesmerizing. Sexy.
"Ate amanha," Vinicius said, mockingly. He walked out of the room without a backward glance, but Steve's eyes were riveted on his firm, tight rear. Moments later, he heard the front door open and close.
Steve lay on the cold bathroom floor, weeping quietly, for a long time.
Eventually he recovered enough self-possession to get up and pull on his clothes; he didn't look in the mirror. He robotically checked the house. Everything seemed secure - though he wondered if he'd ever feel secure again. All that he'd ever believed about reality, about himself, seemed to be crumbling. He found his dinner sitting in the kitchen where he'd left it, a lifetime ago. He sat down heavily on a stool and began mechanically eating the cold noodles, trying to think.
He'd gone through training to resist many forms of torture. He'd been in combat several times, and he hadn't cracked then. Sure, he'd been rattled and off-balance by the gun disappearing and ... such, but he would never have just surrendered like that, not for anything. Obviously the changes were more than physical.
The physical was bad enough. He didn't need to touch himself to notice that things were ... off. His shirt rubbed his new nipples in an odd way. Even as he thought about it he could see points rising, visible under the cloth. And his briefs were disturbingly loose. Just walking around pointed out a conspicuous absence.
But when he thought about what had happened in the bathroom ... the shock was immediately mixed with a resurgence of excitement, of lust. Some new part of him had liked it, had fed on the delicious helplessness. And thoughts of Vinicius himself sparked an even more chaotic flurry of emotion.
As long as he thought in the abstract ... if he thought about someone stealing his dick, and toying with his mind, and finger-fucking him, he could be properly indignant, even outraged. But if he thought specifically that Vinicius had done so, his fury collapsed.
Remembering the man's hands, so surely and confidently reducing him to jelly, caused his skin to flush and his breath to come more rapidly. He was scared to be angry at Vinicius. (Steve finally, absently noticed that he wasn't using the man's surname anymore, even in his thoughts.) He was commanding, intimidating, and alluring ... and each fed into the others. He knew that it was wrong, but it didn't feel wrong to be aroused by, and attracted to, his sheer animal power.
Steve finished eating and made his way to the living room, intending to sit on the couch. Before he'd arrived there he'd changed his mind. He had to understand his situation, figure out what was going on. Unknowns were dangerous, and his own body was now a critical unknown. He went upstairs, closed the blinds, and took off his clothes. There was a mirror over the dresser.
Aside from the nipples and his crotch, things seemed the same. He was a bizarre mix - a fit, lean man with women's genitals. He walked about in a small circle and confirmed a suspicion he'd developed - his gait had changed slightly, his hips were subtly reconfigured - not wider, just shaped differently. A quick, experimental snap-kick revealed unexpected flexibility, it reached inches higher than his previous limit. He wasn't unusually hairy for a man, but his legs looked strange beneath that clearly feminine groin.
Reluctantly he examined the ... vagina between his legs. The task proved to be more difficult than he'd anticipated; he ended up laying on the bed with a hand mirror. Aside from its terrifying location, it proved to be a disquietingly normal example of the type. Pert, symmetrical lips; a cute clitoris demurely hiding beneath its hood. A short distance within there was even what had to be a hymen. He would have found it attractive, placed in other surroundings.
The attention of his hands, however, was causing it to stir alarmingly. He bolted off the bed with alacrity and wiped off his fingers. He moved to the mirror, shifting attention to his nipples. Again, except for their placement, they were entirely typical out to the edge of the areolas: at that point his normal chest hair reappeared. They were by now erect and firm, and sensitive to his exploratory contact. Somehow they seemed connected to the awakening flesh below, bestirring his arousal further.
It felt so good. In his imagination, Vinicius' magnetic eyes watched him as one hand descended and began to rub his new lips and clit. His back arched, almost involuntarily. He began to picture himself putting on a show, displaying his submission, affirming what Vinicius hade made of him ... his toy, his pet, his ... his slut. Steve's sighs waxed into moans and then shrieks as he came again, almost as violently as before.
As the pleasure faded he came to a sick realization of how thoroughly the hooks had sunk into his very being. Gathering the scraps of his willpower, he pulled his hands away from his still-eager, throbbing flesh and fought to calm down. It took time, much time, but eventually he'd restored some sense of equilibrium.
As noted, Steve was not one for surrendering. He assailed the problem from many angles as the evening wore on, but it was like there were now trapdoors scattered across his mind. Considering certain aspects or specifics of his situation would drop him down a slippery ramp toward shuddering lust, and only immediate and frantic effort would keep him from entertaining dangerous fantasies ... and succumbing to them. His pussy's appetite and aptitude for pleasure displayed no apparent limits as the night wore on. It took a firm and careful rein on his own thoughts, consideration of the issues only in the most general terms, to retain his self-control.
He went to bed, very late, demoralized and without even a vague idea how he could proceed. Even that was disquieting; normally he slept naked, but he found that he needed a shirt to protect his ... chest from unwanted stimulation. He feared what tomorrow would bring ... but the despised new parts of his psyche felt a cloudy anticipation, too.
Steve woke at the sound of his alarm and sat up. There was no confusion about his circumstances; it had been a restless, fitful night, and from the few snippets he could recall it was perhaps a mercy that he didn't clearly remember his dreams. But the bed was wet where his crotch had lain.
He showered, briefly and unthinkingly; he could not risk devoting too much attention to his altered body ... but he also couldn't go to work smelling like he did. He pondered calling in sick but he didn't want to stay home where it was clear he could be easily gotten to. He chose a stiff, thick shirt, hoping it would hide the nubs on his chest if they awoke. The rest of his morning ritual was comforting in a way, but tension underlaid the whole proceedings. He wrestled with the decision he had to make all along his drive to work. Presenting his credentials as usual, he was admitted to the secured areas and he sat down to go over his morning briefings and case reports.
In the end, he couldn't do it. He came close, several times, to alerting his boss that he'd been compromised. But he never quite made it to Edwards' office. It wasn't just that it was career suicide; he had a strong sense of duty and patriotism, and was willing to put that over his own ambitions ... if only barely. But acknowledging what had happened ... exposing his complete humiliation to others ... it was just too much. Telling his superiors that he'd been magically castrated - telling anyone - well, no man could face that without pause. He'd be probed, studied, examined. Treated like a lab animal. And snickered at...
Work, too, was reassuring. He was incredibly relieved to confirm that he wasn't looking at other men in a sexual way. Thoughts of Vinicius' appearance had to be quickly stifled for the shivers they brought, but his co-workers were just other guys. Just as happily, he still found women attractive ... though if he went too far in that vein, he started to feel his fantasies and desires warp in unfamiliar directions. Still, he could function on a business level. In many ways his day went entirely normally.
But he felt like an imposter going into the men's room, walking past the urinals and sitting at a toilet to pee. Wiping was emotionally but not physically excruciating.
He took a chance and did some digging on Vinicius, striving to adopt a mindset of abstract research, though it was hard to maintain; his interest was more than academic, after all. Still, there was little to discover; mostly travel records. He'd apparently never attracted much official attention. A Brazilian citizen from a well-off family. Studied anthropology and history abroad in several countries. Well-travelled since then, too - he'd been on every continent, including Antarctica. It wasn't clear where his money came from, but Steve didn't dare initiate a more thorough search that might be noticed. No known ties to any organizations of interest.
He stayed later than usual, putting off the inevitable. Deviating from routine too much might draw attention from the internal agency watchdogs, however, which he could not afford in his current predicament. He ate dinner out, dread and excitement mounting simultaneously. When he pulled into his garage, his stomach was churning with the volatile mix of desire and fear. He was mentally rehearsing what he'd say and how he'd react if Vinicius was there ... but he had little confidence that he'd actually be able to follow through.
He entered the kitchen gingerly, and when he saw that the living room was dark he was pierced to the heart with relief ... and disappointment. He recognized that he was psyching himself out, but the rigid grasp he'd always kept on his emotions was getting rather frayed.
A quick tour showed that the ground floor was as he'd left it. He felt more reassured still as he went up the stairs and saw that the lights were off. Again, a survey cleared the area. He stood in the bedroom, glad to be spared a confrontation ... or mostly glad, at least.
He almost screamed when the voice came from behind. "Good evening, Mr. Harper." Displaying the reflexes he'd been complimented on last night, he whirled around in a flash.
Vinicius sat in the chair in the corner, casual and relaxed. Once again Steve was transfixed by the man's handsome appearance, even as his mind frantically tried to account for his sudden presence. The Brazilian had not been there when he'd swept the room seconds ago.
"You ... I don't ... Please, leave me alone..." It was hard to talk, to think; he just wanted to drink in that amazing face, that lean body. He knew that he should be shouting, cursing, but he suddenly felt so confused. All of the strong words he'd planned had dissolved, vanished. His nipples were perking up, so hard and sharp that his shirt couldn't conceal them. It was embarrassing, but part of him wanted Vinicius to know how turned on he was becoming.
"Hush." At the word Steve's feeble protests ended and he fell silent, abashed. "I promised I would come today, and I am, as they say, a man of my word." The white, even teeth flashed by his grin were captivating. "Are you truly so sad to see me?"
Given leave to speak, he cried "Yes!", his voice breaking. He remembered the root of the term 'hysteria' and almost despaired. "You ... changed me ... attacked me..." He could feel himself flushing, lubricating, at the images in his mind.
A mock frown wrinkled his brow. "Indeed? I don't recall spirited opposition." He almost leered then, but somehow even that was... sophisticated, coming from him. "It must have been terrible."
The warmth he felt on his face ... he must be bright red. "I didn't ... You ... I wouldn't have..." He didn't know what to do with his hands.
"What did I do that was so upsetting?"
"You ... touched me, held me ... felt me..."
"That doesn't sound so fearsome." The feigned puzzlement gave way to a serious expression. "Show me. What did I do that offended you so?"
"Please, don't make me..."
"Show me," he ordered, in a tone like steel.
Steve collapsed inside. He could not stand up to Vinicius, he was like a physical force. Where had his willpower gone? Yesterday he had been a cold-blooded killer. Now he was timid and bashful ... and his blood was anything but cold.
With trembling fingers he reached up to his chest and pinched his nipples through the shirt. "First, you squeezed my ... my chest..."
It took him a second. He quailed within, but he felt his still-alien clitoris swell when he understood what Vinicius meant. The holster slipped off and was cast away; slowly, he began to unbutton his shirt. "You ... you took off my shirt, like this." It fell to the floor.
He looked away shyly. "You took off my undershirt." Slowly he pulled it over his head and dropped it softly to the ground.
"Did I? What did I do after that?"
"You squeezed my nipples." He began to play with the strange, stiff nubs on his chest, marvelling at the sensations they evoked. It was like an erection, but more concentrated, and there were two of them, and they seemed to be connected to everywhere. His pussy was flushed, straining...
Vinicius allowed this to go on for some time. Steve was moaning softly; he'd never made much noise during sex before, but the feelings swamping him demanded expression. Eventually, his audience queried, "You find this unpleasant, then?"
Lying was out of the question. "No," he whispered.
"What was that?"
Compelled, he spoke in a loud, husky voice. "No."
"How does it feel?"
The delay was brief, barely perceptible. "Good, oh God, so good," he panted. "I like it." Why had he added that? It was true, but it felt so... naughty to admit it.
Vinicius' frown had retuned. "We must explore further, then, and find what upset you so." He seemed so casual, and yet Steve couldn't imagine refusing him. "What happened next?"
"You ... you touched me. Down there."
"Where?" Like a schoolteacher, eliciting the proper answer.
"On my ... my pussy." Oh, God, why did it feel so good to say it?
"How could I?" The accent was so charming... "You are still wearing pants."
He was suffused with embarrassment; he hadn't been reenacting things properly ... and then, as he became aware of that thought, he was embarrassed by how thoroughly involved he'd become in Vinicius' game. But it couldn't shake him loose of the control; indeed, his breath came faster as he began to unbuckle his belt. "I'm sorry, sir." The honorific just slipped out, naturally, without a conscious decision.
He kicked off his shoes, one by one, and eased the pants down; slowly, flirtatiously. He realized he was doing a striptease for the man who'd stolen his maleness. Where resentment, where rage should have been, there was only shame ... and a growing, dazed wonder at how erotic it all was.
He stepped out of the pants and turned slightly as he began to slide off his briefs, gradually. It was indescribably exciting, so sexy. His reservations meant nothing anymore, they hardly registered; he was in another world now, where other rules applied. The only anxiety he felt was fear that Vinicius wouldn't find him attractive.
His audience simply regarded him, infinitely superior, a lord surveying a peasant. Steve kicked the briefs away with a flair and ran a hand down his belly toward his ... his snatch, his twat. It was on fire, he was on fire. It didn't feel alien now; it was too powerful, too deeply rooted to be anything but part of his being.
He fell to his knees, legs spread. He plumbed the strange and wonderful new convolutions of his crotch, feeling the delicious slippery friction, hearing the slurping wetness, smelling his own new musk. All for Vinicius, who had ignited this glorious conflagration within him. He gave voice to passionate moans and whines; he had no control, it was was if his pussy was crying out directly.
It was so much like his fantasy of the night before that he wondered if Vinicius could read his mind. As he raised his head and gazed into those oh-so-compelling eyes, he felt as if they were peering into his very soul, that every secret within him was laid bare before this irresistable presence. He felt tiny and humble ... and unbelievably hot.
A hint of a smile on that face; he knew, he must know. "Oh, oh God, oh please, oh my Gooood!" Again his climax was intense and cataclysmic and unmanned him, completely and literally.
As a man an orgasm had been a final thing; once he had come, arousal dropped precipitously, and didn't return for a time. His new parts didn't have that limitation; arousal receeded somewhat, but came nowhere near zero. He was still hungry, starving for more.
It was enough for him to remember how degrading this all was, though ... or at least, how degrading it should have felt. There was barely a flicker of resentment, however. He was ashamed ... but eager.
Vinicius was smiling broadly. "That didn't appear so upsetting. Tell me, how do you feel?"
He didn't even want to lie. "Hot," he panted. "Sexy."
"You enjoyed that, did you?"
"Yes," he admitted coquettishly. He was flirting!
"Do you wish me to leave now?"
"No!" he anxiously and unthinkingly exclaimed.
"Well, then, I appear to have done you a favor. It is only right that you repay my kindness," Vinicius admonished sternly.
Steve suffered a thrill of terror. He thought he knew where this was headed, but he realized that he was too worked up, too far gone, to refuse Vinicius now. He'd do practically anything ... and understanding that, he felt himself become even wetter.
The man stood up from his chair. "Come, approach me."
Steve began to stand, but the words came sharply. "On your knees."
He crawled forward, face burning, but whimpering with lust. To Steve, Vinicius looked ... magnificient from down on the floor. His submission was total. He reached Vinicius' feet and stopped, trembling. Unbidden, he bowed his head. He could feel juices running into his pubic hair, onto his belly...
The moment stretched ... and then he called down. "Remove my shoes."
He reached forward. "Yes..."
Viciously: "Yes, what?" Steve paused. It was appalling how little resistance he could mount, how the words were squeezed out of him.
"Yes, Master." He shivered. The cool air running over his naked skin, perking his nipples ... it did nothing, he was still so hot...
The shoes came off, one by one. The pungent smell should have been off-putting ... but it was arousing instead. It was his Master's smell.
"Now, the pants."
He reached up, fumbling for a moment, unhooking the belt, pulling it free. His hands grew surer. The pants had a single button, easily undone. The sound of the zipper descending made him shiver again. He wanted this. It didn't feel like the desires were being imposed from without. It was like he was awakening to parts of himself that had always been there, latent, waiting for the proper time to stir and bloom. It felt natural, right, and wonderful.
He pulled the pants down. Vinicius wore boxers. That struck Steve as more manly than briefs ... and that was somehow more sexy. He was gratified to see that, despite Vinicius' affected detachment, he was sporting a prominent erection, stretching the sleek fabric. Steve wanted desperately to please him.
There was something else he wanted desperately, too. He leaned forward and took hold of the boxers with his teeth. The smell was intoxicating, the feel of the smooth cloth against his cheek was delicious. It had to be real silk. Slowly he descended, slipping the undergarment to Vinicius' ankles to join the pants. He sat up again and regarded his Master's cock.