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932 No. 932
1. Jennifer I - (m/f, f-to-futa, dick growth)

//

Tonight as well, the sensation of his cock inside my pussy was uncomfortably tight.

It was odd, because his organ was still the same size it had always been -- 5 inches long, not very wide. Probably, it was a side-effect of the swelling that I'd been feeling recently; an effect of this strange affliction that had so rapidly worn away at my enjoyment of sex. Even now, with him grinding his cock against the rough location of my G-spot, I felt nothing within me beside the unpleasant pressure of skin against skin in mineral lubricant.

"I'm- I'm gonna cum," he said.

I faked a desperate moaning as he accelerated, pounding his way toward orgasm. Then, with a groan, he ejaculated, filling my womb with the tepid warmth of his semen. Half-collapsing and breathing heavily, he pushed himself off of my body and flopped on to his back, smiling at me like a puppy -- always as eager to please as he'd been since our marriage, years ago.

"How was that?" he asked.

Repulsive, I wanted to say -- but I didn't want to hurt him. Instead, I smiled.

"It was wonderful, honey," I replied. "I'll want to shower again before I sleep, though. I feel all sticky."

He nodded, and I gently pulled myself from the embrace of his arm. Stepping into the bathroom, I locked the door, and squat down on the small plastic stool outside the bathtub. I turned on the water, and without waiting for it to warm, I spread my legs and brought the shower head to my pussy -- scooping semen from within my birth canal using my fingers.

'Get it out,' I thought. 'Get this shit out of my body.'

I've come to hate the feeling of my husband's semen inside me. According to my gynecologist, this is some sort of psychological reaction commonly associated with my condition. Setting the shower head in its holder and turning off the water, though, I couldn't help but feel guilty.

'What's wrong with me?' I asked myself, leaning my torso forward and closing my eyes. 'Jonathan doesn't deserve this.'

//

The clinic of the specialist that I'd been referred to was in a bad district in the outskirts of the city. 'Affordable Same Day Abortions,' said the sign on the front of the run-down building. 'Confidential Women's Health Services.' I really wasn't sure I wanted to be here.

Opening the door to a flight of stairs, I warily eyed the glass jars that lined the shelves on either side. Within, the corpses of small fetuses floated unmoving in murky preservation fluid. My instincts urged me to leave and never look back.

Involuntarily, I shivered, but I firmed my resolve and proceeded up the steps. I needed this condition to be treated, and tasteless decoration wasn't going to get in the way of that.

The dusty waiting area on the second floor looked as if it hadn't been renovated since the 1950's. The lights were on, and the ceiling fan was revolving, but the front desk was vacated. The sign on the wall declared in loud bold font that services required no insurance and no legal identification. Nothing about the condition I'd been diagnosed with.

I sighed, sitting down at the end of a row of faded plastic chairs. On the seat beside me, there was a stack of pornographic cards advertising some sort of escort service featuring 'Chix With Dix.' Frowning, I turned the stack over so that I wouldn't need to see the freakish looking man-woman in the photo.

It was a few minutes of waiting before a muscular woman in a nurse's outfit stepped up behind the counter.

"Excuse me, ma'am," she said. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Er, yes," I replied, standing and gripping my purse. "My name is Jennifer Hyde, and I was referred to a Doctor Killian for special consultation?"

"Who referred you?" she asked brusquely.

"Herbert Evans, my gynecologist."

"I see," she said, typing something into the aging computer behind the wall. "Hold on for a moment while I confirm that we've received your records."

She was professional enough in attitude, but by her looks, she didn't fit my impression of a nurse. Her face wasn't mannish-looking, but she definitely had the build of a female bodybuilder, and she was several inches taller than me. It didn't seem as if she was wearing a bra beneath her uniform; I could see the outline of something that resembled nipple rings under her blouse.

"We've obtained your files," she said, meeting my eyes with a stony gaze. "Wait a moment while I inform the doctor."

She left the counter and stepped into the back. I don't know if the glance that she gave me meant anything, but I felt a bit bad for being judgmental. Growing up, my family had been very conservative, and that sometimes bled into my unconscious reactions. Did she think that I was looking down on her because of her life choices?

It was about a minute later that the nurse opened the door to the rear area of the clinic.

"Please enter," she said. "Doctor Killian is waiting for you."

I followed her within, and down a darkened hall that terminated at a consultation room. There was a young, pretty woman seated behind a messy desk -- younger-looking than the nurse, and wearing a tiny black latex mini with matching leggings beneath her doctor's coat. This was Doctor Killian, the supposed regional expert on my condition? She didn't look old enough to drink, much less hold a doctorate -- and why was she dressed and made up like a stripper?

"Have a seat, Ms. Hyde," she said, smiling as she wrote something on her clipboard.

I did as she asked, seating myself across from her.

"I've reviewed your files," she said without preamble. "Did Doctor Evans explain the details of your condition?"

"He did," I said, "but I didn't really understand a lot of it. He told me that you'd be able to tell me more?"

Doctor Killian nodded.

"The condition you have is an endocrine disorder called Tertiary Clitorophallic Virilization Syndrome, or TCVS," she said. "At onset, the symptoms include apparent sexual arousal disorder, or a complete lack of responsiveness to male sex partners. It's not a life-threatening or seriously debilitating illness, though -- so you don't need to worry about that."

"Doctor Evans said something about it being genetic?"

"That's not quite accurate. Over 65% of women have a genetic predisposition for TCVS, but the immediate cause is generally exposure to exogenous hormones."

"Like, hormone treatment or something?" I asked. "I haven't been taking any medications lately."

Doctor Killian touched her chin, as if considering something.

"Well, it can be induced with hormone treatment," she said, "but the term 'exogenous hormones' refers to industrial pollutants that happen to chemically resemble hormones in the human body. You pick it up from food and water intake, and sometimes from the air."

In other words, there was no way to know exactly how I picked up the condition. Even an expert could only guess, and that was of zero help in determining whether I could prevent this from affecting the life of my daughter Samantha.

"Is it treatable?" I asked.

"Unfortunately, TCVS is considered a permanent condition," the doctor replied. "However, some of the symptoms can be treated easily."

Symptoms?

"There's a quick and simple procedure to treat TCVS-induced sexual arousal disorder," she continued. "Takes about five minutes."

I blinked. This was exactly what I was looking for. If there was something that could cure me of my lack of responsiveness to Jonathan, the disorder itself wouldn't be a big deal.

"I'd like to undertake that treatment."

Doctor Killian raised a brow, apparently surprised at how quickly I'd come to a decision.

"You sure about that?" she asked.

"Absolutely."

"Alright, then," she said, opening a drawer and withdrawing a printed sheet. Placing it on a clipboard, she marked an 'x' next to several signature lines, and passed it over to me.

"Just sign by the x's, and we can get started," she said.

On a brief skim, it appeared to be a basic waver of consent. I'd signed similar documents for medical procedures in the past, and there wasn't a lot of fine print legalese here that I couldn't understand. Taking the pen from the doctor, I signed my name.

I expected to be led into an operating room, but Doctor Killian merely drew aside the curtain next to the consultation area. There was a gynecological examination chair, similar to the ones that I'd used when giving birth to my son and daughter.

"I'll need you to take off all of your clothes," she said, smiling deviously as she flicked on the lights. "Just put them in the plastic tray on the counter."

"All of them?" I asked stiffly.

I'd temporarily forgotten about the creepiness of the clinic, but seeing that smile of hers, it came back in full force. It wasn't an expression that suited her young, innocent-looking features.

"No need to be embarrassed," she said, more seriously. "We're all women here, right?" Seeing my frown, she added, "If it really does bother you, you can go ahead and keep your bra on, but just be aware that it might be soiled during the procedure."

Against my better judgment, I ended up removing all of my clothes. The doctor hadn't provided me with any slippers, so I stepped barefoot across the dingy linoleum floor and climbed on to the chair -- allowing her to secure my arms and my legs.

Surprisingly, the setup wasn't manually operated. Doctor Killian pressed a few buttons at a control strip on the wall, and the seat tilted back like a dentist's chair; the stirrups automatically parted my legs, as if I were about to deliver a baby. From a storage room, the muscular nurse entered, pushing a large machine attached by tube to a long, clear plastic cup. Propping up the tube with an odd-looking wheeled cart, Doctor Killian adjusted the height and planted the wide mouth of the cup over my pussy lips.

"What is this?" I asked.

"It's a pump," she said. "It'll feel a little unpleasant at the start, but don't worry. It's perfectly normal."

I didn't really have a chance to contemplate what she was saying; she pressed a button on the top surface of the machine, and the pump started up, sucking at my pussy with incredible force.

It hurt.

It hurt intensely.

The sensation was stronger than anything I'd felt during childbirth. The seconds ticked by, and I felt that I was going to die; that the machine would suck out my guts and kill me.

Then, there was a shift.

It felt as if the suction had forced a mass to move within my abdomen -- irrevocably broken something that shouldn't have been manipulated. The pressure of the pump didn't subside, but the pain lessened -- transforming into a kind of sexual stimulation, gradually building in strength. Faintly, I was aware of the blood gathering inside the cup of the pump ...

"Do you feel it?" asked Doctor Killian. "A sense of arousal?"

For the first time in months, I realized that my nipples had hardened to something aside from the cold. My clitoris was erect as well -- enough that it felt as if it were about to burst. I was on the cusp of orgasm.

"Remember the muscular contractions that your body went through during childbirth," said the doctor. "Push with your abdominal muscles, as if you were delivering a baby."

I did as she asked -- pushing with all of the muscles in my abdomen and pussy. There was a second, plopping shift, and a release. I closed my eyes and screamed.

In the midst of my climax, something had pushed out from my pussy -- something enormous. The orgasm merged into the delicious sensation of urination, and in a succession of quick bursts that lasted for over twenty seconds, a spray of hot, pungent slime splattered over my skin. When it was finally over, I squinted open my eyes, fighting to catch my breath.

Between my legs, where my pussy should've been, I now had a massive, grotesque penis, glistening with blood and bits of yellowish white that resembled smegma. The skin was much darker than the rest of my body, and covered in angry, bulging veins. Beneath, there was a wrinkled scrotum the size of my fist.

The whole organ stank like rotting meat.

Approaching, Doctor Killian grasped my new manhood in her cold, delicate hands and took its length with a tape measure.

"Sixteen inches," she said. "Not bad. And it looks like you've got a little African blood in your ancestry, going by the coloration."

"I'm ... I'm one of those ... men-women?" I stuttered.

"A shemale, you mean?" she asked. "You could pass for one, sure, but no." She reached under my new scrotum and touched. I could feel her finger thrusting tightly into my birth canal. "Once your body adjusts, you'll be able to impregnate women, but you've still got a functional pussy. It's just mostly blocked by your scrotum. You might've been born a woman, but you're now technically a hermaphrodite."

"But, my husband ..."

"You're afraid of what he'll think of your new cock?" the doctor asked, stroking my organ. "Don't worry. Once you've satiated your need for sex, your cock will retract into your mons, and he won't be able to tell the difference. It doesn't emerge unless you're aroused and you intentionally force it outwards. Doesn't feel so nice if it's erect and you keep it inside, though."

I wasn't thinking right. I couldn't keep up with what she was saying at all, and my cock throbbed with need.

"I ... I came here because," I gasped, squeezing tears from my eyes. "I just wanted to ... return my husband's love ... I wanted to respond normally to him during sex."

The doctor's expression turned slightly melancholic.

"Your sex drive is differently wired now," she said. "The study of TCVS is a pretty young field, so nothing's absolutely certain, but ... Well, speaking from known cases, the vast majority of women who become hermaphrodites end up viewing men as sexual competitors rather than potential partners. Even if you think you love your husband right this moment, odds are that you'll end up feeling very different about him pretty soon."

I wanted to deny what she was saying, but she interrupted my thoughts, rubbing her thumb over the tip of my glans. I shivered, ejaculating again over her face and coat.

"Enough of that now," she said, smiling and lifting the skirt of her black latex mini to reveal a hairless pussy. "I'd like to discuss the matter of my payment ..."

Like a chestburster from Aliens, a foot-long cock pushed itself out of her pussy.
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>> No. 933
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933
2. Jennifer II - (futa/solo, masturbation, pissing)

//

In the mornings, after I kissed my husband and waved goodbye -- smiling as he drove out of sight with the kids -- the house became a domain where I alone was Queen. Spitting the trace amounts of saliva that had passed between our lips to the lawn, I wiped my mouth with a sleeve and entered through the front door, chaining it shut and arming the security.

Like Doctor Killian said, internal erections were extremely uncomfortable. Though the organ wouldn't release itself from the confines of my abdomen without conscious intent, it took nearly all of my willpower to fight the combination of the pressure and the needy insistence of my arousal.

"I'm sorry, Jonathan," I said, "but this is for you as well."

With my back against the door, I squatted down and spread my legs as if taking a shit -- squeezing my eyes shut and groaning as I pushed. There was a now-familiar plopping noise as my cock and balls burst from my cunt, tenting in my skirt and wetting the fabric.

Dripping glops of precum and pussy fluid to the wooden floor with every step, I kicked off my shoes in the foyer and unbuttoned my skirt -- filling the hallway with the pungent scent of my manhood.

My husband hadn't noticed the shape of my erect nipples beneath my blouse, but in truth, I'd been frequently going full-commando for several weeks. In the beginning, I'd only stopped wearing panties because I didn't want to soil them -- but the risk of exposure was in itself somehow a turn-on, and I ended up losing the bra several days in.

Stripping and letting my blouse drop to the stairs as I ascended to the second floor, I studied my nude body in the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the wall of the landing.

I liked to think myself fairly attractive. Blonde and blue-eyed with fair, northern-European features, I'd managed to maintain a slender figure despite two pregnancies, and I had C cups that didn't exhibit noticeable sag. My new penis, however, ran very much the counter to the rest of my appearance. The skin was a dark brown -- approaching midnight black; and the leathery surface was covered in bulging blood vessels. At its thickest part, near the the middle, the diameter was larger than my wrist. I didn't know if what Doctor Killian said about African ancestry was true, but my cock honestly didn't look like an appendage that belonged on somebody fully Caucasian.

"It's like I have a black man's cock transplanted between my legs," I muttered, pressing the tip against the glass and leaving a trail of slime.

There wasn't anything I could do about the scent. Even after washing the organ multiple times with antiseptic soap, the fluids that coated the skin whenever it pushed out of its flesh pocket had a permanent odor of fish, urine, and sweat -- slightly better than the rotting meat that I'd smelled like immediately after 'giving birth.' A month ago, it was almost intolerable, but I'd gradually become desensitized -- accepting it as one of 'my own' scents.

If I had to describe it now, I'd say that the smell was 'delicious.'

This was probably the biggest change that I'd experienced, beyond the physiological stuff. Things that I'd previously disliked were arousing; and noxious scents, for example, now only classified as 'sexy.' Consciously, I still comprehended that I /should/ be disgusted, but whenever I started getting horny, my actual responses would shift dramatically. Padding barefoot into the toilet and pulling a pair of my daughter's panties from the laundry, my only thought upon holding it to my nose was that the smell of Samantha's virgin pussy was absolutely mouth-watering.

I crossed the hall and opened the door to her bedroom. It was a very girlish space, with pinkish-tinted walls and shelves lined with stuffed toys that she hadn't yet grown out of. Sitting naked on her bed amidst cute, plushy animals, I wrapped her panties over the head of my cock and started stroking.

"Mommy's gonna fuck your cunt, Sammy," I said, beating my cock into her underwear. "Mommy's gonna pop your cherry -- knock you up with a little sister. You said you wanted a little sister, right?"

As a normal woman, I'd been multiorgasmic -- and that had apparently carried over when I'd become a shemale. Unloading twice in quick succession, I remained rock-hard even after coating the inside of Samantha's panties with a thick layer of sperm. Beating myself to a third ejaculation, I accidentally pulled the fabric beyond its limit -- tearing through with the tip of my cock as I shot my load. A jet of semen sprayed across the floor.

"Fuck," I said, peeling the soiled underwear from my erection. "I'll have to throw this out."

I lifted the panties to my face and ran my tongue across the cloth, scooping some of the semen into my mouth. I had no idea why, but the texture was different from my husband's cum. Though there was a lot more of it in volume, it was thicker and less watery, with a yellowish tint that made it look as if my piss had mixed into it. Along with cockstink and sour saltiness, it also tasted a bit of urine -- so maybe the guess was correct.

Licking my lips, I tossed the panties to Samantha's bed and made my way over to her dressing mirror -- smiling as my toes squelched in the cum on the floor. In my reflection, there wasn't a trace of chaste smile that I'd grown used to seeing over the years. I actually had a surprisingly lewd expression, and in my eyes, there was a hungry look -- like that of a sexual predator. Catching a bit of semen that I'd missed along the top of my lips, I stuck out my tongue and licked.

"You're a dirty bitch, Jenni," I said, low and sultry.

There was quite a bit of fluid in my gut from the orange juice I'd had during breakfast -- and unlike what I'd heard about men, it wasn't that difficult for me to piss through an erection. Holding my cock and directing the tip at my reflection, I willed myself to urinate.

It took a moment, but after a false start, I was pissing like a race horse -- hosing down the mirror and the side of Samantha's dresser with a continuous stream of yellow. When my bladder finally ran out, I gave my cock a jerk to empty the urethra, and then peeled back my foreskin entirely. I'd only cleaned it several days ago, but a ring of greyish-yellow smegma had gathered again in its usual place.

Sitting down cross-legged in the urine that had pooled on the floor, I bent forward and brought my tongue to my glans -- cleaning the scum along its rim. I'd never actually done this sort of thing with my husband -- in part because he felt that making me perform oral sex was disrespectful and demeaning. Before all this, I'd shared much the same opinion -- but I'd spent a significant part of the past month orally servicing the filthy, black cock before me. It had enslaved me; made me realize that I might have never been the sort of woman that my husband could respect.

Swallowing the smegma on my tongue, I changed my position slightly, pushing my chest forward so that I could give myself a titjob. With my hands, I squeezed my breasts together, enclosing my shaft and rhythmically pushing them along the length. Feeling the gradual approach of another ejaculation, I opened my mouth and swallowed -- forcing the end of my thick member to the entrance of my esophagus. Pumping it into my throat, I sucked as if my life depended on it.

When it came, the orgasm was explosive -- but the first bit of semen unexpectedly entered my windpipe, and I began to choke. Uncontrolled, the shaft escaped my throat and plastered my face and breasts with seed. A third, fourth, and fifth shot of cum emptied my scrotum, coating the mirror and the rest of my body in an arbitrary splatter of yellowish white.

Spent, I coughed and spread my legs, watching as the organ went flaccid, pulling back and retracting into the folds of my pussy. After a minute, the only sign that it had ever been there was the stream of semen leaking from my birth canal to the puddle of piss beneath.

"You look like you've been raped," I said to myself, allowing my torso to fall to the floor.

Several minutes later, when I hoisted myself from the piss and semen to begin cleanup and sterilization, the usual guilt that plagued me in the wake of 'Jenni the Shemale' started to set in.

//

After a long soak in the bath, I dried myself and picked up a plain white bra from the clothes rack. Putting it on, I tried to secure the hook, but found that I couldn't.

I removed the bra, examining my breasts in the mirror.

'Have they gotten bigger?' I wondered.

I turned my torso. It was hard to tell, but it looked as if my breasts had actually grown a bit -- which was odd. They hadn't really changed much in size since my daughter was born, twelve years ago.

There were a few other slight differences that I'd almost missed: A bit of extra volume to my biceps, and the beginnings of what looked to be a six-pack beneath the skin on my stomach -- even though I hadn't been exercising more than usual.

Frowning, I toed the switch on my bathroom scale and stepped on. I'd measured at 121.2 pounds two months ago. Now, my weight was 129.5.

"What?"

//

My appointment was three thirty in the Ob/Gyn wing at Saint Micheal's, a university hospital eight stops from my neighborhood by bus. It was the first time that I'd consulted with Doctor Killian in a location other than her private practice, and she wasn't dressed in her usual style. With wire-rim glasses, a conservative dress beneath her coat, and her hair in girlish braids, she looked every inch the medical professional -- almost virginal.

"I was wondering when you would come and ask about that," she said. "It's been, what, thirty-eight days since your delivery?"

"The weight gain is ... normal, then?" I asked.

"It's a standard characteristic in post-delivery TCVS women," she said. "The weight gain and the onset of muscular growth mean that your body's completed the endocrine adjustments necessary to facilitate adaption to a physiologically masculine role."

"What does even mean?"

Rather than answering, Doctor Killing moved her mouse and started clicking through something.

"Ah, here it is," she said, turning the flat-screen monitor on her desk so that I could see.

On screen, there was a young, slender woman with dark hair, standing in nude. Her face looked familiar, but I couldn't place her.

"Alright?" I said. "What am I supposed to be seeing?"

"Don't recognize her?" asked Doctor Killian. "This is Nurse Shannon, just after she was diagnosed with TCVS. Notice her height and the build of her body."

I was reasonably familiar with the muscular nurse by now, but even being told outright that the skinny girl on-screen was her, I had a hard time mentally reconciling the person in the image with the hulking shemale.

"She was about 5'6" and 118 pounds when I took the photo," Doctor Killian continued. "Right now, she's 6'1" and 185 pounds. TCVS is the factor that made the growth possible."

She'd virtually transformed into an amazon, in other words -- and the condition was the cause. But what did that mean for me? Doctor Killian had TCVS as well, and it didn't look like she was becoming 'physiologically masculine.'

"How big is it going to make me grow?" I asked.

The doctor turned her screen back to its original position.

"I think you're misunderstanding," she replied. "TCVS doesn't actually /cause/ the growth. It just facilitates. In plain language, you're potentially at the start of a second growth spurt, and undertaking certain activities /will/ spark it off. It became inevitable the moment your male organs became functional. Have you been doing any exercise recently?"

"No, not really," I said, trying to recall anything relevant. "Just house-cleaning."

"Well, that's apparently enough to give you a bit of muscle definition. Keep at it, and you'll be seeing more obvious changes."

I clenched my jaw and stared at the floor. Jonathan would definitely notice.

"Is there any way I can prevent this?"

Doctor Killian tapped a pen to her table.

"I want to say yes, but it might not be viable for you," she answered. "My personal solution is a weekly injection of hormones for growth inhibition. Problem is, it isn't free, and your husband would definitely notice the bill if he touches your household finances at all."

"How much is it?"

"Seventeen hundred dollars per shot."

So far, my consultations with Doctor Killian hadn't cost much, monetarily. Even today's visit had been folded into insurance coverage for Ob/Gyn. Seventeen hundred dollars, though -- that wasn't an amount that I could casually pay without Jonathan asking uncomfortable questions.

This was a death knell.

The charade that my marriage had become was beginning to draw to a close. I thought that I could protect Jonathan and the kids by hiding my changes -- but someday soon, that wouldn't be an option anymore.

"Look," said Doctor Killian, taking off her glasses. "You really need to stop thinking about this in terms of what's right or proper for Jennifer Hyde, the woman. She pretty much stopped existing the moment you were afflicted with TCVS. Jennifer Hyde the hermaphrodite is your present and future, and to deal with it, the first step you need to take is acceptance."

"I don't /want/ to accept," I said evenly. "The moment I release my cock, I lose all of my morals and inhibitions. I hate that. You know what I thought about this morning? I thought about raping my own daughter. How can you even talk about acceptance?"

Doctor Killian sighed.

"I'm not trained to offer psychiatric counseling," she said, "but it sounds like you're having trouble with this mostly out of guilt and sexual repression. You aren't dealing with your urges in a healthy way, and you haven't accepted that the consequences of an illness aren't anything that you should personally be feeling guilty about. Being a hermaphrodite isn't an ugly thing."

"Then what do you recommend?"

The doctor put on her glasses again.

"Are you free this afternoon?"

"As long as I get home before seven," I answered. "Why?"

"Once we finish up here, wait for me in the lobby," she said. "I'll be there in about five or ten minutes. Wanna take you somewhere."

//

Our destination was in the suburbs, about twenty minutes beyond city limits. Doctor Killian parked her red minivan outside a building that looked like a country club, and we disembarked.

"Where are we?" I asked, following her into the lobby.

"A gym, spa, and athletics club for women with special needs," she said, nodding at a muscular girl at the front desk. "It's a charity that I helped to found with a couple of friends."

The receptionist nodded back, and Doctor Killian touched the card-key hanging from her neck to a reader. There was a click from the translucent glass door beside it, and she pushed it open, gesturing for me to follow.

Inside, there was a second lobby, and several women were seated in the sofas about the room -- making out with each other, or in various states of undress.

Every single one of them had the telltale bulge of a male organ between their legs -- and even in the air conditioning, I could pick up the distinct scent of semen.

"Wh- what is this place?" I asked again, feeling my cock begin to harden inside me.

"Club Sapphos," replied the doctor. "A place where women afflicted with TCVS can just be themselves." She paused. "For the next stage of your treatment, I've decided to provide you with a free lifetime membership."


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