A Christmiss Story

"Yes!" I cried as I felt my orgasm welling up deep inside me, and when I exploded inside her, I felt her shiver as her body responded to mine. When it was finally over, Donna collapsed onto my chest, and we lay there heaving as our hearts beat together. I was still in ecstasy when I felt a sharp pain in my right ass cheek. "Aargh! What was that?"

"Your hormones," she said coolly as she put the spent hypodermic syringe back into her vest pocket. "As you know, the Consent Decree authorizes me to administer female hormones if necessary to modify your behavior. The shot I just gave you was much, much stronger than the dose you got before." She got up and started putting her jeans back on.

"What will it do to me?"

"Let's just say you could get away without wearing panties for the foreseeable future. Your balls are going to start to shrivel up, and as for your dick, well, you may have to sit down to pee."

I suddenly felt terribly nauseous, and I barely made it into the bathroom before I began throwing up violently. The beer, the bratwurst, and my own bile poured out of me as I retched in despair. When I was finally finished, Donna poked her head into the bathroom. "Very good," she said. "Bulimia is the perfect cure for bratwurst and beer. Most girls have to be taught that. I'm very proud of you." I was racked with dry heaves as she left my apartment.

I was sick in bed the rest of the weekend, and was only able to get down a bowl of soup on Sunday evening. So much for losing my girlish figure.

* * *

Monday was like every other weekday: up at six thirty, an hour devoted to my hair and makeup, squirming into panties, bra and a slip, tugging on my pantyhose and trying to decide which skirt and top or dress to wear. On that particular day, I selected a knee-length black skirt and a white mock turtleneck, then padded into the kitchenette in my stocking feet to pour myself a bowl of cereal.