Chapter 3

So the next morning I was skiing with my friends waiting for the phone call. They knew something had happened, but not what. I suppose they all thought I’d been a closet lesbian all along, in denial, and now I was fighting it or something; but they didn’t know about my monstrosity so I couldn’t explain. Anyway at eleven my phone went: Henri was in the mountain restaurant.

I got there at top speed and sat down opposite him, seeing that he’d chosen an unpopular table to give us privacy in the mid-morning quiet. He smiled at me, a naughty glint in his cocky ski-instructor eye.

“Okay my wife has an idea. Being a woman maybe she understands the two of you better than me. Are you ready?” he grinned even more broadly at me. I nodded nervously.

“The idea is that you can make use of your special feature and make it so it can have a function. A role. A reason for you to look at it in a more positive way.”

“Okay,” I said, because that was what he expected.

“My wife thinks you can make it bigger, with testosterone - some that you take orally and some other type that you...”

“NOOOooo!” I freaked. BIGGER??

“The testosterone would have some other effects,” he carried on regardless, “but after I described you to her she thinks you would be satisfied with the result. You are so feminine now that a bit less will not be a problem. You might grow some more hair, on your arms and so on, but you have so little now you can afford that I’d say; your breasts would become smaller, but you can afford that too; you might become a little more feisty, but Chloé is not timid, I think that would be okay; your voice might drop in tone, but Chloé’s lower tone is sexy is it not?”

By this time my mouth had dropped open. But he was being so casual about it, I had to actually listen.

“My wife would have to monitor you, to find the best dose, but she thinks that if you also work to increase the blood flow you could maybe double the length and make it thicker. Many men are that size...”

“But...”

“So you can see that Chloé would accept that, can you not? Irregular as it might be. She is a free-thinking person, and she feels like that for you ... for her the opportunity to be entered, joined, by a beautiful girl, with blue eyes and long blonde hair, by you ... you can see that? To have it inside, stimulating and connecting, rather than just being something on you? The two of you would share it.”

“Henri...”

“Oh also testosterone would increase your sex drive, but that would not be a problem I think. Chloé could take just a little too perhaps, so she could keep up with you ... I think, being honest, she might not quite make the GS team so it would be okay for that. Anyway I suspect her sex drive might be quite high already.”

I shuffled in my seat, because by now my wretched clit had gone ‘Boingggg’ at the insane idea.

BUT. Jesus Christ. My hypersensitive clit inside Chloé??? Talk about relating - this was a whole new level.

“But it wouldn’t last.” I had to raise an objection, to give my swirling mind time. “And anyway it’s at the wrong angle.”

“Testosterone is a natural hormone, not a drug,” Henri smiled. “Not synthetic or anything like that. You can take it as long as you like, all your life, or just stop, it will be up to you. As for the angle, it will bend enough I think? How much does it bend now? I don’t suppose it goes as stiff as a penis?”

I didn’t know how stiff penises go. “It does go upwards, I suppose, if I bend it like that,” I had to admit. I knew the glans on a clit and the glans on a cock are basically the same thing, with actually a higher density of nerve-endings on a clit, but it was ridiculous. Still, I couldn’t stop my imagination running with it...

Chloé’s pelvis is gorgeous. A gorgeous shape, and it had to be super strong. Her pussy would be incredible. Chloé was incredible. To have my clit IN her would be incredible. And to feel and see and hear her sexed-up and perhaps even orgasming with it in her ... when it’s sooooo sensitive...

But would she really go for it? This was so messed up, freaky and just unnatural. Chloé who was so perfect ... but Henri knew her really well, didn’t he? He’d never have set this up if he wasn’t pretty sure...

What would it feel like? Right now, already, just thinking about it, my clit was making my whole bloodstream tingle.

I scolded myself for being timid. I’d regretted being timid already. Timid was not the way for me to live my life. If it didn’t work, I’d only be in the same place - without Chloé - not worse off. I could just stop taking the testosterone, after all.

“Yes, alright.” I settled for being insane. “Please. Thank you Henri.”

So I went to see his wife Martine, who was lovely, and she gave me a programme to follow, and the testosterone. It seemed to me it was a bit dodgy what she and Henri were doing with testosterone in a ski team, but I kept those thoughts to myself; I supposed inter-resort competition could get quite intense but they weren’t tested? Or perhaps it was to speed up healing from injuries? Anyway for me and my clit it sounded doable. Or at least, worth a try.

But I had to grow my prong first, before I showed it to Chloé. It had to be useful and connect us, as Henri said, not just be this freakish thing on me – then I was ready to believe she might accept it; or at least, I was ready to roll the dice rather than walk away from her.

Martine’s programme had a certain cohesiveness to it. The hormone would increase my sex drive and part of the plan was to keep my clit aroused and engorged as much as possible – for hours every day – to increase its blood capacity. A lot of exercise was part of it too: that would add more testosterone to my system she said. And it was true that apart from carrying a fair amount of muscle I was girlie enough to stand some increase in my masculine side.

There were eight days to go before Christmas, and I resolved to make it Chloé’s surprise present. I was desperate enough to think that people don’t turn down Christmas presents.

Henri hooked me and Chloé back up again, and she seemed to have stepped back from trying to be girlfriends with me and settled for being friends, so we skied together the whole time, meeting up with my bunch here and there and for lunch. My friends, as I knew they would, welcomed Chloé into our group and discreetly encouraged us. They pushed us to go off together skiing, and we did.

There was tension to my spending time with her, but it was okay. Tension mixed with joy. I had an idea she’d sensed something was in the offing, perhaps some optimism in me, that kept her going, or possibly she was just playing out a tactic, but anyway she settled for chatting and smiling at me a lot. We had a couple of evening meals, but neither of us invited the other back afterwards.

For me it worked perfectly to be around her, given that I was supposed to be aroused a lot. I found I could bear the just-good-friends distance knowing that it was temporary and, hopefully, going to be followed by something special.

Evenings and quite a bit of every night were spent on my bed with my swollen clit between my fingertips. I experimented with all kinds of lubricants, adding to the DHT hormone cream that Martine gave me, making up cocktails of creams and oils to produce just the right sensations for keeping it going hour after hour.

And I found it was working. I started measuring my thing, for the first time, and watched it grow from 2.0 inches to 2.2, then 2.4, with the girth increasing in proportion.

As my sex drive rose I found the daytime was too long to go without so I bought some larger panties, lined the front with a bit of plastic bag, and smothered my clit in cream and oil cocktail, to keep it comfortable and so I could give it a quick fondle from time to time. I bought a thin kagool-length jacket to wear over the top.

The days went by and my clit grew more and more mega: 2.5 inches, 2.8, and then 3.0. It was amazing as well as awful, and my head was full of sex the whole time.

Then suddenly it was Christmas Eve already, and my sausage was still only 3.1 and it wasn’t enough.

It was neither one thing nor the other.

I was going home the day after Boxing Day and there was no time left. I experimented with various cylindrical objects to mimic it, and it would go in a pussy alright, but the stroke would be too short to be a proper movement. Even my roll-on was a bit longer.

In the evening I had a crisis: I knew I couldn’t reveal it to Chloé! I just couldn’t. It was useless: a weird, freak medical condition. I lurched back into hating it.

I made myself call Henri, at least, and he put me onto Martine, who told me to come round.

So I went round to their apartment and they sat me at their kitchen table, took a hand each, joined their own to make a circle, and gave me a weird coaches’ pep talk.

“You have to believe!” they said, one after the other and together, “BELIEVE it’s going to happen. Self-belief. Bodies can respond like that, it’s a magic!”

I nodded and smiled at the silliness, but gripped their hands and chanted “I believe” with them.

They gave me a Christmas stocking, with a little vibrator in it. I laughed, letting some tension out, while they told me the vibrator was five inches long by one across and I had to hang the stocking up in the old time-honoured way and believe that my clit would be that size in the morning, after Father Christmas had come!

Then Martine took me into their spare bedroom and had me strip down to my bra and panties. What with her doctorly manner, and everything she knew and had done for me, I didn’t even think about it.

I could see that my forearms had some tiny blonde hairs now, and already my tits seemed a bit smaller than they had been. Well I knew they didn’t really fill my bra any more; I took an irrelevant moment to register that I was glad about that, because the weight of a D-cup pair is quite noticeable, and not really what you want when you’re doing sports.