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A Stitch In Time Saves Nine free porn video
A Stitch in Time Saves Nine
By Cal Y. Pygia
I'm lucky to have met Frankie. She's not one in a million, not with (at
last count) one in ten males transitioning to shemales, but she's still a
relatively rare find. We females who are transitioning to hemales, on
the other hand, currently number thirty-three percent of the world's
population! Female-to-hemale transsexuality is all the rage that, a few
years ago, male-to-shemale transsexuality was: it's the trend of the day-
-or, I guess, more accurately, the decade.
Of course, it, too, will decrease as female-to-hemale sex-changes become
less popular. Already, some social engineers are predicting that
hermaphrodites, currently not-so-trendy, will become the new vogue. Such
a trend is hard for me to believe, though. As someone who once owned a
cunt and a pair of boobs, I can't imagine why anyone who doesn't have
them would want them or why anyone who could get rid of them wouldn't do
so. Thank goodness, though, for girly boys like my Frankie. I don't
mind her having a pussy and tits, as long as I can have a cock and balls
instead.
When we transitioned, Frankie elected to be grow the tightest pussy
available and I, rather perversely, perhaps, grew a twelve-inch,
circumcised cock with hen's egg-size testicles. As a result, Frankie and
I don't just fit well emotionally, but we are also a perfect fit
sexually, because she likes big cocks and I like tight pussies.
Sometimes, even with lube, sex is a little uncomfortable for Frankie,
especially when I take her up the ass, but, she says, a little
discomfort, or even pain, is worth it to please her male.
Yesterday, Frankie and I visited the new Museum of Technology, where,
among other things, we saw what was called a "typewriter." The damned
thing was invented in 1870, and was used to stamp paper, fed through a
roller, with letters. As alphanumeric letters on a keyboard were struck,
the keys, which bore the corresponding letter or numeral, struck a strip
of ink-impregnated ribbon, before striking the paper, thereby
transferring the selected alphanumeric character onto the paper. It was,
one may imagine, a laborious process at best. A supposed "improvement"
to the contraption was electrifying it and substituting a "typeball" for
the keys. The apparatus was replaced by the primitive word processors
that began to appear in the late 1980's, which were replaced, in turn, of
course, by the advent of today's voice-scribes.
A lot of other equally ludicrous gizmos and gadgets were on display,
including several so-called "sex toys." One, known as a dildo, was
molded from an erect penis and looked pretty much like a dismembered male
member. All the ones we saw were circumcised, as it were, and included
raised squiggles that were meant to simulate veins. Some were complete
with balls made of latex, silicone, or plastic, and, believe it or not,
some of these ludicrous implements could even be strapped on, a female
employing a sort of girdle or "harness" to keep the phallus in place.
Females who wore these absurdities could play the part of males, fucking
either sex. When they fucked a male up his ass, the practice was known
as "pegging."
According to our guide, some dildos were even equipped with vibratory
appliances that allowed extra stimulation. These artificial penises were
available in all sizes and colors, many of the hues of which are
unavailable in actual human skin tones, and some were designed for
"double penetration" of both the anus and the vagina; some were created
specifically to stimulate a female's G-spot or a male's prostate gland;
and still others, dubbed "butt plugs," were engineered to be worn, for
extended periods of time, inside the rectum. There were inflatable
models and jeweled models, and so-called ejaculating models. One was
even a doubleheader, for mutual use between homosexual males or lesbians.
Monstrosities known as breast implants were available, too, for enhancing
feminine appearance, for assisting male-to-shemale transformations, or
for breast "reconstruction" following mastectomies, which were surgical
operations in which the breasts were removed, presumably for religious
reasons.
In a surgical operation known as "breast augmentation," a female (or a
male-to-shemale patient) would have bags, or "shells," filled with either
silicone or a saline liquid, inserted into her chest. Sometimes, the
implants would rupture and leak, causing serious health hazards, and
occasionally females (and male-to-shemale transsexuals) abused the
procedure by having repeated implants, of increasingly larger dimensions,
inserted, often for a period of years. The operation was painful, by all
accounts, and recovery lasted a week or more, with scars fading months
after the surgery occurred.
"Can you imagine such a thing, Donald?" Frankie asked as we ogled a
series of "Before and After photographs" of such "augmentation."
"I bet you're glad you can alter the size, shape, and density of your
tits at will, honey," I told him.
"We've come a long way, technologically, since those days," he observed.
"It's unbelievable what people had to go through to feminize themselves
back then. To think that it's all a matter of bioengineering nowadays
and we can control, manipulate, and transform our breasts, penises,
testicles, vaginas, buttocks, and anuses at will, just by thinking about
what size, shape, or sex we want to be. It's amazing!"
"A scientific miracle," I agreed, squeezing her firm, but soft, sleek
fanny through her latex leotards.
"Honey!" he protested. "Not here!"
I guess the trip to the museum made Frankie and me horny, because, by the
time the DNA scrambler had reassembled our bodies at home, we were both
"hot to trot," as they said in the old days (although why anyone would
associate jogging with fucking is beyond me).
However, in just under an hour, we had an engagement we couldn't
postpone. The Council of Extended Existence had ordered us to appear
before them to argue our case for another nine-year extension of our
lifetime. With everyone everywhere fucking everyone else, the world is
in a population crisis. To survive as a species, we have to curtail the
amount of time that anyone is allowed to live. Everyone is guaranteed a
minimum life expectancy of twenty-one years, but, after that, he or she
has to justify any extensions that the Council may award him or her, and,
after the first extension, it becomes increasingly difficult to make
one's case. If we're granted another nine years of life, this will be
our third extension. We're hopeful, but not overly so.
Maybe the chance that we'd lose our case and be euthanized also added to
our intense need to breed. In any case, whatever the reason, we were
half mad with lust by the time our scrambled bodies were reassembled and
we were home again from our trip to the museum.
We could make love, I told Frankie, but we'd have to settle for a
"quickie."
Frankie set her clitoris for a fifteen-minute orgasm, and we proceeded to
fuck.
I'm an ass male--or hemale--and Frankie is gracious--or submissive--
enough to receive me in this manner. Knowing our time was limited, she
assumed the position quickly, kneeling on our float-a-bed and dropping
to her elbows so that, her legs spread wide and her beautiful, sleek
buttocks high in the air, she presented her anus to me.
I knelt behind her. The mattress of the bed shifted beneath me as I
adjusted my position relative to hers, and the float-a-bed rose and
dipped, as if it rode a turbulent sea. Seizing my foot-long cock in my
fist, I guided its purple glans between Frankie's smooth buttocks,
jabbing the tip of my erection into her anus.
Her sphincter, resolute guardian of her bowels that the ring of muscle
is, refused, at first, to grant me entry, but, of course, I persisted.
Her asshole continued to deny me entrance. I held my prick in place,
against its tendency to ride up, along the cleavage of Frankie's
buttocks, rather than to enter her resistant anus, and, shoving firmly,
managed to force a couple of inches of my rigid malehood through the
tight portal to her innermost depths.
I shoved half the length of my erection through her snug anal opening,
feeling the six inches slide past the circle of her anus, and paused,
letting Frankie become accustomed to my penetration of her bottom. Her
anus fluttered frantically about my invading organ, flexing and relaxing
repeatedly, in quick squeezing motions that sent shivers up my spine and
through my cock and balls.
Frankie moaned. "Oh, Donnie!" she gasped. "You are so huge! You'll
split me in half with your thick, hard cock!"
She knew I wouldn't, of course; I'd fucked her countless times before in
her delightful derriere. Her protest was intended merely as a
compliment, and, although I'd heard it a thousand times, it still had the
planned effect: it made my malehood swell even further.
"Fuck me, honey!"
I drove the remaining half-foot of my prick through her snug anus,
watching the rim of her asshole indent before my advance as I crushed her
buoyant buttocks flat beneath my pressing pubes. My cock entered her
bowels until only my balls remained outside her rectum. I ground my
groin firmly against her ass cheeks, as if I had yet more cock to slide
between these warm, firm-soft mounds.
Frankie groaned.
Mindful of the time, I programmed myself to last precisely fifteen
minutes before I experienced orgasm. Then, I began to pummel Frankie--
sexually, not physically--driving my erection deep into her bowels,
withdrawing eight to ten inches on each backstroke, and plunging again
into her deep tunnel of love, until I was, once more, however momentarily
and briefly, lodged completely inside her rectum.
Her buttocks bounced before my repeated onslaughts, now flattening, now
rebounding, as I fucked Frankie fast and hard, plowing into her as if my
own ass were on fire. In and out, my massive member pumped, as I jerked
and thrust, rammed and crammed, lunged and plunged behind her, my pubes
crushing her beautiful buttocks with every new advance into the occupied
territory of her conquered bowels.
Beneath me, Frankie squirmed, twisting and writhing as I mercilessly
drove my cock back and forth inside her clinging asshole. She gasped and
moaned, whimpered and groaned, as I fucked her fast and furiously. My
prick was a piston inside her hard-ridden ass, and I drove my malehood
into her with the smooth, relentless, irresistible motions of a machine
of steel rather than a hemale of flesh and blood.
Time flies, as they say, when one is having fun, and, before Frankie and
I knew it, the fifteen minutes we'd allowed ourselves to experience the
sadomasochistic joys of dominance and submission, as played out through
my fucking of her ass, had passed, and we were seized by a pair of the
most powerful orgasms we'd ever experienced.
Frankie thrashed and bucked, writhed and rocked, wriggled and squirmed
like a marlin on a hook, as intense waves of pleasure flooded her bowels.
My cock convulsed inside her ass, as my balls, high inside the drawn
pouch of my tightened scrotum, erupted, geyser after geyser of my warm,
thick semen, flooding Frankie's innermost depths.
I jerked my spewing cock from her bowels and watched as the enormous
prick continued to spray my molten seed, the white streamers unfurling
over Frankie's back; splattering against her bottom; running down the
cleavage between her spread buttocks and into the raw, red, gaping wound
of her ravaged anus; trickling down her perineum and the lips of her
disregarded cunt; and along her inner thighs. More and more fountains of
semen spewed forth from my lurching, straining cock, arcing over and
across Frankie's sleek bottom, branding her, as it were, with the essence
of my malehood. In decorating her ass and asshole with my sperm, I
claimed them as my territory, just as I claimed Frankie herself as my
thrall.
Yes, we have certainly come a long way since the days of typewriters and
breast implants and dildos. Thanks to the technologies of recombinant
DNA, genetic engineering, biofeedback, and psycho-cybernetics, we have
assumed almost full and total control over the anatomies that were once
our destinies. By thought alone, we are able to add or subtract breasts
(or increase or decrease their size and shape); multiply nipples,
vaginas, penises, or testicles; increase or decrease penis size; loosen
or tighten vaginas or anuses; and, of course, change our very sex.
Science allows us to perform miracles, to be as gods and goddesses.
There is, however, a limit to what we can do just because we wish to do
so. Under the law, what is effected through surgery is final and cannot
be reversed. This is the primary reason that females and shemales seldom
subject themselves to such archaic and dangerous procedures as breast
augmentation or other forms of plastic surgery and why hemales rarely
have penile implants installed or resort to mastectomies to rid
themselves of their unwanted female breasts. Such procedures are no
longer necessary, for one thing. We can accomplish all of these outcomes
simply by willing them to occur. Our bodies obey our mental commands in
these matters just as they do the orders of our will to lift an arm,
grasp a breast or penis, or empty our bowels or bladders.
We have almost total control over our bodies, even to the point that we
can will our hair to be blonde, brown, black, or red while willing our
pubic hair either not to grow at all or to turn a color different than
the rest of our bodies' hair. We can, if we wish, also will that pubic
hair conform to any shape and length we want. We can decide to have
three breasts or six; two penises or a dozen; or both sets of genitals,
creating ourselves, for however long we wish, both male and female.
In addition, transsexual sex changes result in fully functioning
reproductive systems, making pregnancy and childbearing possible for
male-to-shemale members of society and fatherhood a potential reality for
not only males but hemales as well. For the first time in human history,
ladyboys like Frankie have the option of becoming mothers.
We don't need to resort to surgery to accomplish our hearts' desires, but
we also usually forego such procedures because we are bound by law from
reversing any such transformations that result from surgical operations.
Indeed this prohibition is the reason that we succeeded, when we turned
up at the Council's mandatory interview, to argue our case for a nine-
year extension of our respective licenses to live, while so many other
petitioners failed in their attempts to be granted this same privilege.
A third extension is almost unheard of, so extreme is the planet's
overpopulation crisis. Despite the legalization of homosexuality,
abortion, euthanasia, and, in some cases, even homicide, there are still
too many people on the planet, and it is rare, indeed, that anyone is
granted three extensions of his or her license to live.
When Frankie showed the Council members her vagina, though, they agreed
that the desperate measure she'd taken (and to which, as her Significant
Other, I had agreed) warranted such an extension. The procedure is
known, among medical practitioners, as infibulation. Essentially, it
involves a permanent suturing shut of the labia, so that sexual
penetration is impossible, although urination is still allowed. Since
they were installed by surgeons, the steel fibers that the doctors used
to sew shut Frankie's smooth-shaved pussy lips cannot be removed; they
must remain in place until death do they part, making penile-vaginal
intercourse with Frankie impossible, even if I should develop an interest
in such sex, in lieu of anal intercourse. It is impossible for us to
become parents, even through an adulterous union, unless we ourselves
should be willing to risk death, for adultery is a capitol offense, and
the execution of the death sentence is swift and certain.
One might imagine that females and shemales everywhere would subject
themselves to the drastic extreme of vaginal infibulation in order to
secure a possible extension on their licenses to live, but many prefer to
die rather than to be "mutilated" by undergoing such a surgical
procedure. Indeed, despite the worldwide ban on unsanctioned pregnancy,
some females and shemales persist, secretly, in bringing forth more of
our kind. When they are caught--and almost all are caught, sooner or
later--both their bastards (the birth of any unsanctioned child is
considered illegitimate, regardless of the parents' marital status) and
the criminal-mothers themselves are summarily and publicly executed.
Therefore, when someone makes the extreme form of sexual self-sacrifice
that Frankie made, she tends to stand out as a true patriot who deserves
an extension of her license to live.
We were overjoyed at the Council's unbelievably generous decree, of
course, and, having been granted an additional nine years of life,
Frankie and I returned home, after a brief stop at a merchandise market
for chocolates and flowers--a bouquet of ten red roses, one for each of
the years that, collectively, our two lives have been extended--and,
setting the onset of our respective orgasms for a solid hour, so as to
synchronize our ecstasy, we stripped naked, and I gave Frankie's
delightful derriere the pounding of our not-so-young lives.
Jeannie
- 24.04.2020
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