The Games (Part Four) free porn video

THE GAMES PART FOUR By Nancy Rose (NOTE: If you haven't read Parts One, Two, and Three you really should! Part One is here... https://fictionmania.tv/searchdisplay/authordisplay.html?word=1473 Chapter Thirteen MY HEART IS POUNDING IN my chest. I feel like I might feint. I can hardly breathe with this waist cincher on. Janine says I have just have stage fright. I don't have a "fright." I have terror, shear, pure, overpowering terror. The Feminine Parade is about to start. You would think this would be easy. It's a walk, maybe 200 feet total. I've walked hundreds, maybe thousands of miles in my life, but this short walk will be my longest. It sounds simple. You walk in from backstage. There will be an audience of 100,000 or more in the stadium. They will applaud, cheer and boo, depending on if they bet on you or not or if they are rooting for your state or not. You go to the stage left, up close to the edge, where a spotlight will land on you, lighting you up for all the world to see. You pose, smile, and wave if you wish. Then you walk across the stage to stage right, walking in 4-inch heels and wearing a tight, restrictive garment designed for figure shaping but definitely not movement. You pose, again, preferably with a different pose. Smile again. Wave again, if you wish. Then you walk to your spot in the lineup, next to the girl who went before you. Yes, the girl. We are all guys, but tonight we are competing as feminized males. The winner will get a huge advantage once The Manhood Games start. The winner will get a free orgasm. As the point of The Games is to not cum, and cumming means elimination and instant feminization and training as a breeder, getting a free squirt is a big deal. We would all like that prize, but it's clear only a few of us look really good and move well. The rehearsals made that clear. There are five of us, out of the 20 contestants, that look good as girls. The rest of us are just men in skirts, clomping around on heels with our faces painted. Oddly, I count myself as one of the pretty girls. Janine did an incredible job on me, I have to say. Even though I would not pass as a woman on the darkest night, I look pretty in my own way. My look has a fire theme, to celebrate my miner roots, my mining family and my mining state. We give the country coal, fuel for its fires and its power. It's something to be proud of, to celebrate. Janine's plan is for me to celebrate my heritage in a truly spectacular way. Despite her incredible efforts, I don't expect to win. I do have a chance to not come in last. Last place gets a penalty. You get a double shot of feminizer before The Games even start. Feminizer does exactly what it says. The femme juice will shrink muscles, make breasts grow, make cocks smaller, make asses bigger, stop facial hair growth, and some say it even affects your mind, how you think and feel. Feminizer is used as a punishment in The Games, administered to losers of contests, and sometimes paid for by the audience, who might be looking to give a contestant a handicap. The strange thing about feminizer is that even though it feminizes your body, it will also make you more horny. Where straight female hormones might degrade a man's sex drive, feminizer does the opposite. It makes you hungry for sex, and the need to cum becomes intense. Starting The Games with that kind of handicap would be difficult. So my goal isn't to win, but to not come in last. Somewhere in the middle would be fine by me. Though, I can't help thinking about winning. It would be nice to win. I look at myself in the mirror. I see a pretty man or a mannish woman, I don't know which. She is pretty. I like looking at her. There is some shame in admitting that. She wants to win, that girl in the mirror. With a little more confidence, she just might do better than I expect. Janine stands behind me, and we look into the mirror together. I'm her creation. "Confidence, Kat," she says. "I want you radiate confidence." She has started calling me Kat, which considering what I'm wearing, Kip doesn't seem to make much sense. "I'm terrified," I say. "Kip might be scared, but Kat is beautiful and powerful. Let her do the walking. Kat is full of fire. Kat likes to show off. Kat is a flirt." I look at the girl, a girl called Kat, in the mirror, and I can see all that in her. Even though she is huge, and has too many muscles, has arms the size of logs and thighs the size of the trunks, she looks good. She looks ready. "Are you Kat?" Janine asks. "Yes I am," I say. "Are you going to rock the stage?" "Yes I am." "You going to strut those long legs for the world to see?" "I am going to strut." "Are you ready to show them what a girl on fire looks like?" "I will blaze." This isn't a metaphor. The outfit Janine has created is all about fire. Right now, it looks like a simple black dress. It's made of a shiny plastic that looks almost of metal. The intent is to remind the audience of coal. Coal, when polished, can be beautiful. It shines and if you look closely at it, it releases a range of colors, blues and reds and yellows, all gleaming within the black flake. The skirt of the dress barely goes below my ass, so my big legs are almost completely exposed. The shiny black skirt is pleated and flares out. It bounces when I walk, showing off my black thong panties and ass. My big feet are stuffed into tall shiny black boots with 4-inch heels. The boots reach up to just below my knee and shine like they were polished for hours. I can see myself in their reflection. There are laces up the front of them, a kind of nod to the work boats coal miners wear, or so Janine thinks. The top is called a bodice, and is designed to pull me in at the waist, giving me more womanly hips. Somehow, it kind of does that. My waist looks oddly small, and I can barely breathe as a result. The top of it is full of padding and wires that push my chest up, giving me real cleavage. The big muscles in my chest, when pushed up like this, really do look like a woman's breasts. My shoulders are bare. They look big and bulky and clearly don't belong to a woman. But I'm also wearing black gloves that end in fire orange nails. The gloves have the strange effect of making my mannish hands look smaller. They could almost be a woman's hands. The dress looks great, if a little provocative, and slightly trashy. There is something about it that says whore. Kat kind of likes that. Kat wants to flirt and rebel a little bit, as all the other girls will be wearing elaborate gowns more suited to formal balls. But this dress also has a surprise. If you look closely at it, thin, almost invisible fibers are draped down the front, back and sides. They look a little like fishing line, and in bright light they disappear. When the spotlights hit me, no will see them. When I strike my first pose, I will press a small switch underneath my right arm. At that moment, the fibers will catch fire. Orange-yellow flames will cover me from my cleavage to my toes. The flames are cool, you barely even feel them. As I walk across the stage, my legs will peek through the fire as they would a slit in a dress. Janine got the tech from one of her devoted clients. "Just a dear man, very generous," she says of him. "You should be extremely grateful." "Well, if I become a breeder, maybe I'll carry a baby for him for free," I say. "Kat is quite the smart ass," she says. "I love it!" I laughed. I couldn't help it. Janine was having fun and so I was. "What are you going to do out there?" she asks me. I look into Janine's eyes in the mirror. She is looking at me over my shoulder, standing behind me, the goddess standing behind her creation. "Burn it down," I say with a voice I've never heard before. It's not a woman's voice, but it isn't the voice I've spent my life with. It's Kat's voice. "Kat is going to burn it down." Chapter Fourteen THE SHOW STARTS. The announcer's voice booms. "Welcome to the most fabulous show on the planet!" he yells, that evil grin in his voice. "Tonight we will see which how our fine young men look when they become fine young women. Let's start the show! Out first lovely lass is from..." The show starts with a tub of dough who can barely walk in heels without falling over. She's in a blue sequined gown that fits like a tent stretched over an elephant. I've got this girl beat. Her makeup is immaculate, but that is no big deal because all of us have great makeup, done by well-paid professionals. We are all wearing expansive clothes and glorious shoes that would cost a coal miner's wages for a year. What will make a difference is how we move, how we hold ourselves, how we pose, and how we smile. This little tubby girl has no chance, unless another contestant trips and falls on her face. We all watch her on the backstage monitors. She does her best, but she is stomping around clumsily, her weight too far behind her. Walking in heels is difficult when you are fit, doing so with a belly throwing your weight off, that is hard. One by one, the girls take a deep breath and walk through the curtain when their names are called. Some are pretty, some are handsome in a kind of odd way, the makeup bringing out a kind of pretty masculinity instead of femininity. Some of the gown are gorgeous, some outrageous, some with lights that glow different colors, some that move and flow like there is a constant wind. It is a strange assortment of girls, all of us competitors, all of us hoping to win, and hoping more not to lose. Yet we are all in this strange situation, sharing an experience. We should be friends. We should help each other. And that would be stupid, as Janine would remind me. I see her in the back with all the other advisors, who seem to be ignoring her. I wave to her. She blows me a kiss. Of course she does. What else would a sissy do? A wave would be just too normal for a girl like her. Dirk is behind me. He's beautiful in his own way. His face is longer than mine, making for a more classic beauty. His nose, sadly, is huge and makeup can't seem to help that, but he has cheekbones to die for, and lovely eyes. He's wearing a bright red dress that hugs him like it's painted on. His waist is tiny compared to mine, and as he is taller, his legs longer. With a figure like that, he's one nose job away from being a professional model. I smile and say, "You look nice tonight...what's your name?" "Darla," he says. "And you look like a whore, you little faggot." "Bastard," I say and turn from him. I'm fuming. He could be nice, for once, he could have been nice. I hear him snicker behind me. I resist the urge to turn and slap him. I wait for my name to be called. One girl, then another, then another, head out of the door. Then my name called, well, my girl name... "Kat Miller!" says the announcer. "Come on out and show us how a mountain girl struts her stuff." "Fierce," I tell myself. "You are fierce. You are on fire. Burn them up!" I slip into character, a girl named Kat. In my head, she is devastatingly beautiful, the kind of girl who stars in the vids, who is on TV selling soap and shoes. She has great legs and loves to dance. She flirts and loves when guys fall for her. She is a tease and savors making men want her. That's who Kat is. For the next few minutes, that's who I need to be. Not Kip, the boring boy who will spend the rest of his life in a coal mine and die of black lung. I will be Kat. I am Kat. I am going to walk on that stage and set it on fire. I walk out from behind the curtain. The lights hit me in the face, spotlights from above, stage lights from below. Beyond them, past the stage is the biggest crowd of people I have ever seen my life. On TV, crowds in the stadium don't seem so big, I guess because you can't see the entire stadium in one look. Now, however, I can see the entire field of people and the ring of them that surrounds us. This is what 100,000 people look like, and sounds like, an ocean of faces, rippling like water being touched by a wind. The cheer I get is deafening. It pushes on me, like walking into a wind. It makes me want to run away. It's like a monster roaring in my face. I smile my Kat smile. "I'm fierce," I tell myself. "I'm Kat Fierce." I walk forward, straight to stage left. I keep my weight over my toes, just like Janine taught me. My heels click, click, click as I walk in a straight line, one foot in front of the other. I swing my hips. I shake my ass. I make sure the world gets a long look at my legs in action. Having strong legs turns out to be extremely helpful when walking in heels this tall. I reach the end of the stage. I send my smile across the stadium. I wave to the left, then to the middle, then to the right. I strike my confident bitch pose, hands on my hips, legs spread, eyes straight ahead, staring at a spot in the middle of the crowd where young men and their girlfriends are standing and cheering. They look well dressed, shiny, great hair. That's what richies look like. This is what richies do for fun. They get good seats at The Pageant and they date real girls. Watch this, I think. You want a show? Here is a show! I press the button hidden underneath my right arm. The wires that flow down the sides of my dress begin to glow yellow, then orange, then red. The cool flame starts around my cleavage, flickers and dances. The blaze runa down the wires to the floor. The flames grow from thin, flickering lines to big ropy coils of fire. I'm wearing a dress of fire. The crowd screams with delight. I am a walking bonfire and yet all I feel is a cool tingle. It looks amazing. I feel magical. I am the center of the world right now. I can feel the eyes of everyone everywhere land upon me, and all I do is wink at them. I'm Kat. I like people looking at me. I look back at the four girls already on stage. They can't take their eyes off of me. They look shocked, even angry. They know I have them beat. The music starts up, something with an aggressively fast dance beat. That's my cue. I strut across the stage, my smile locked in. I make eye contact with many men out in the audience. I feel their eyes on me, wanting me, and I like it. What the hell has gotten into me, I don't know. This is not me at all. For a moment I'm Kip again, and I just want to run and hide. I'd like to find a nice bridge to jump off of. What the hell am I doing? I need to go! But I don't. I remember I'm Kat. I remember that I just need to just get through this, and it's almost done. All I need to do is cross the stage again and then take my spot in the lineup. Easy. It's just a little walk, and I've been walking all my life, not in 4-inch heels, but still, walking is walking. I reach stage right and strike my pose. I grin at the audience again. I wink to the faces in front of me. My dress is a blaze of yellow and orange and red, a cool flame that looks as hot as a star. Janine's friend really is a genius. I hope to thank him on day. I cross the stage again, headed back to my starting point at stage left, strutting, feeling confident. I like it up here. I like all these people smiling at me. I glance at the other girls and they look like they all smelled a fart at the same time. Too bad bitches. I've got a fairy god sissy helping me out. I step on my left foot it's like stepping onto a puddle of oil, unstable and slippery. My foot flies out to the side. I try to keep my balance, but my other foot is slipping too. It's like I walked onto an oil slick. I skitter, trying to stay up right. I almost make it but don't. I fall on my face, the wild flames of my dresses floating around me. They dance across my face, leaving a trail of tingles. I'm on the ground, face down, arm spread. I push myself up, but whatever is one the floor is still there. My arms slip and I fall again, causing more flames to go everywhere. I examine the stage and see nothing. But when I touch it, I can feel it, a slickness, like melting ice. And then it's gone. Like it was never there. The stage is back to normal. What the fuck? What just happened? I push myself to my feet. I can stand again, but my nose hurts from where I banged it on the stage. I hear a roaring, a roar of laughter. This is what it sounds like when 100,000 people laugh at you. I want to cry, but I don't. Kat is gone. There is no more confidence. She took it with her. Now I'm just boring Kip with his emotions kept in a locker somewhere deep inside him. I walk to my mark at stage left. I look out and see laughing people, pointing people, jeering people. I don't let my face show an ounce of emotion. I am blank. I am immovable. I am stone. Deep inside, a fire rages. Someone sabotaged me. When I find out who, there will be trouble. I take my spot next to the other girls. They all have mocking smiles. The first girl, the fat one, I swear I see something in her hand, a little black something the size of a coin, but then it's gone, perhaps somewhere in the fold of her dress. Did she have a tube of that mysterious, invisible, evaporating oil that made me fall? Or was it all my imagination? Was I just a clumsy girl who slipped in her too tall heels? She looks guilty somehow, nervous, afraid to meet my eyes, as she keeps shifting hers. I will find out if she did that to me. I am powerless. I want to throw the bitch down and search her every chubby little crevice, but I can't. It's my job to stand there and smile. That's what I do, hands by my side, chest out and proud, chin up. I'm to be a pretty statue while the other girls take their walks. I keep an eye on the fat one, stealing glances at her when I can to see if I can catch her doing something. She stands there smiling, just like me. Dirk, or should I say Darla, goes next. She struts with all kinds of confidence. She walks fast, her coltish legs prancing. Her tall thin frame makes for a much more convincing feminine image than my thick one. Her waist seems impossibly thin and that makes her ass look round and tight. She's in a white glimmering, skintight catsuit with a miniskirt of white feathers, each tipped with neon blue to match her neon blue pumps. As she struts I realize that Janine has given Darla a gift of technology as well. As she moves, the neon blue in the feathers begins to move, radiate, pulsate, undulate, traveling ever her catsuit until it's a riot of different neon hues, blues, green, reds and yellows. It hypnotic and somehow sexual. I can't take my eyes off of her. I try to remind myself that that is Dirk in front of me looking like a high tech sex bomb from the future. That girl is the guy who bested me at every sport, is taller than me, faster than me, and more handsome than me. And yet, seeing him now, seeing Darla, I am stunned by how beautiful she is. She bested me even at being a girl. That bitch. But I have to respect her. When she's done strutting her stuff in front of an absolutely manic crowd, she takes her place next to me, grinning like she just rocked the world, and she did. She doesn't have to say a word. Her face says it all. "That's how it's done," the twinkle in her eyes tell me. She might win the pageant, and I don't care. My goal was to not lose, and that is what I'm worried about now. That fall might have ruined me. When the scores come in, I just might be dead last, and with that will come an extra shot of feminizer, putting me at a huge disadvantage once we enter the House of Games. I try not to let my worry show on my face. The judges are still watching. Every second counts. However, the seconds I spent on the ground flopping around like a fish while my fancy dress of fire flickered around me are probably the seconds that will count the most. If I find out that that fat bitch did something to ensure that she stay out of the bottom slot, I will have revenge. One way or another, I will get even. The girls stride passed us, all of them looking good, sometimes mannish, sometimes surprising graceful and girlish. The crowd loves this show, loves to see poor men turned into women for their amusement. By my estimate, Dirk, or Darla, could win. She had the best walk, an amazing dress, a killer outfit, and a figure that real girls would die for. She still looked like a man if you looked close enough, but she is closer to the feminine ideal than anyone else on this stage. Then SHE walks out. Holy shit. She looks like a real girl. She is short, like a boy. Her face is round and small and her nose is pert. She is wearing next to nothing. It's a tiny red bikini studded with just a few lighted rhinestones. She doesn't need clothes to make her look like a girl. In fact, for her, wearing less clothes is a great strategy. This is cheating, this must be cheating. She even seems to have breasts, medium- sized, pert tits the perfect size for her small frame. They have put a real girl in the competition. We are all doomed. She is going to win. They might as well cut off our dicks right now. The little pixie is named Pie according to the announcer. She takes her place at the end of the line, and all 100,000 people in the crowd are look right at her. With no special effects or even much makeup, she holds the world's attention. Dirk, or Darla, looks crushed. She thought she was going to win. She is clearly not. At least she isn't going to lose. That's my job. The curtain comes down. Now the judges will tabulate their scores, and the TV audience, who also votes, will have their say. Chapter Fifteen A FEW HOUR later, we are standing on that stage again. Pie does win, and she bounces up and down on her tiny heeled feet just like a fairy, daintily clapping her hands and smiling with excitement. I don't use that term "fairy" derisively. When I say fairy, I mean she might as well be from an old fairy tale. If you told me she grew gossamer wings with the full moon and flew around the world spreading magical dust and putting coins in good children's socks, I would believe you. Then the rest of the girls are called. Darla comes in second place. Good for her. She looks proud. She even gives Pie a congratulations hug, which goes on for maybe a beat too long. She looks like Darla, but somewhere under all that hair and makeup is Dirk, and Dirk wants to fuck Pie just like the rest of us. We are down to the final scores, mine and the fat girl's. Her name is Brenda and I hate her. I am convinced she did something to make me fall, but I have no evidence, and it wouldn't matter anyway. This isn't a professional sport. I'm not sure there are any rules. Obey the agents and the newts, and that's about it. If you get hit with a shockstick, then you know you broke a rule. Otherwise, cheating would seem to be perfectly legal, maybe even encouraged as it would make the show that much more entertaining. Brenda's number is called before mine. She gets a score of 48.4. I have lost. My score is called. I get a 48.2. Two one hundredths of a point. I fell flat on my face, and that bitch still barely beat me. That's how fierce Kat is. I'm almost proud. Almost. The other girls clear the stage. I stand there, my head hung in shame. I'm to get my first shot of feminizer, a double dose, right there on national TV. I hear a grunt, then shouting behind me. Darla has Brenda by her hair, pulling savagely. Darla is furious, her pretty face twisted into a scowl. Her fist is balled, and I can see its long red elegantly polished thumbnail. She takes that fist and bashes Brenda in the face, once, twice and almost gets in a third in before agents hit her with a shocksticks, bringing her down. Newts appear as if out of nowhere and take Brenda by her arms and walk her off the stage. The agents drag an unconscious Darla off of the stage. The other girls, teetering in their high heels, looking shocked and afraid, skitter behind the curtain. I'm alone on the stage again, 100,000 people waiting to witness my punishment for not being more feminine than a fat little pig stuffed into blue spandex like so much sausage. "It seems like our friend Kip, the winner of The Manhood Parade, was just a little too manly," the announcer tells the world, his voice booming in the air like a god above the 100,000 attendees. "Such a shame he will lose some of that sacred masculinity. The good news is that he would seem to have a lot of manhood to spare!" This is it. This is the moment all boys grow up fearing. I am a man, and love being a man. We are taught from birth that being a man is the greatest thing one can be, and that being manly is what we should strive for. Anything feminine should be shunned, left to sissies and breeders and real women. Femininity means weakness, means submitting, means being vulnerable to big strong men who have wants and needs. In this world, we men live to be manly. The Manhood Games are all about proving that what we value most, what makes us men, can be taken away from us by those who rule us. I am angry and terrified at the same time. Soon I will have chemicals and nanobots coursing through me, doing their work. What about me will change? Will my cock be smaller? Will I be weaker? Will my father and brother be ashamed? I can only imagine how my father's friends, the other miners, will act toward him. They will pity him, and pity me, and he will hate me for that. Being pitied means being humiliated. This is what I've brought down upon my family. And all because I slipped on...something. Brenda. What did she do? Dirk seems to know. Dirk tried to exact revenge for me. I'll have to thank Dirk. It's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, stand up for me and take dozens of shockstick strikes for me. A thin, pale newt walks out, his purple robes flowing, his bald head shining as dozens of stage lights bounce of it. He is followed by two agents in black uniforms and masks. I wonder who the men are under those masks. How did they come to their jobs, keeping men obedient to the government, faceless horrors who strike fear into the hearts of decent people everywhere. What is like to be hated so much that you have to wear a mask? The newt examines me while the agents stand behind me, just in case I choose to resist. I would not be the first. He pokes and prods me with some kind of medical device. It's a small handheld computer with a metal rod that is used for the poking. He touches the device's screen once or twice and continues his poking. While he does the examination, the announcer decides to fill in this potentially boring segment of the show with his ever annoying voice. If I get to kill someone at some point, I'd like it to be him. "The esteemed Dr. Kranzis is examining dear Kip, measuring muscle mass, testosterone levels, blood health and various other important medical data. Each shot of feminizer is calibrated for the recipient. A contestant of the games should never get too much or too little." The esteemed Dr. Kranzis is right in front of me. I could reach out and snap his neck. It's a thin neck and I am not feminized yet. My arms are thick and my hands are strong. I could wrap my fingers around that thin neck and pop his head off before the agents behind me even know what happened. The announcer continues: "Feminizer, of course, is a precious gift government scientists have given us. Without it, humanity would have been wiped out. The Earth would have been a planet of aging men slowly running out of fertile women. Thanks to feminizer, we have fertile breeders, and we haves sissies, lovely Sealed Sissies providing pleasure to the working and corporate classes alike." Of course, I am not the first man to consider a committing a capital felony before The Games start. Killing someone doesn't get you out of The Games. You still go, and when you lose (and they will make sure you lose), you'll be sent off as a breeder to penal colony to be a whore maker, your babies admitted to a life of slavery and worse. So I don't snap his scrawny little neck, but I want to. "Lift your skirt, please," he asks is a creaky little voice. My face flushes red (I can see myself on the video monitors that face the stage). He puts his hand underneath my skirt and fondles my cock. I stand there like a prized head of cattle being inspected. He gropes and pulls my balls, not roughly, but thoroughly. Then he slowly squeezes my shaft from its base to its end. Again, a newt is handling me, and again, my cock gets hard. I hate that. The rough pulling seems to get that response. And I hate this newt touching me like he owns me. I'm powerless. I stand there and take it. The newt takes a syringe gun from inside his purple robe of many pockets. I wonder what else he has in there. The gun looks like a weapon. It's made of white lacquered metal with a small digital read out on the side and a slot that contains a vial of pink milky liquid. The newt touches a dial on the back of the gun and then lifts it to my exposed left arm. "There will be some pain," the newt says, almost a whisper, meant just for me to hear. Could he be feeling some flavor of mercy toward me? "Accept it and let it pass. The first shot is always the most difficult." "And now Kip will experience firsthand the gift of the feminizer, and we are privileged to witness the transformation," says the announcer. I'm going to stay calm. I'm not going to give them a show. I'm going to stand there and take this shot likes it's for the measles. I'm not going to resist in a way that gets me shocked, and I'm not going to cry and beg and blubber on TV. I'm going to resist in the one way that will annoy the shit out of them. I'm going to stand there like nothing at all is happening. Even while the nanos do their thing and the hormones make me nauseous, even though I will be afraid and angry and worried about all the changes that are happening to my body, to my cock, I will stand there, and yawn. That will make for horrible TV. It will seem like nothing even happened to me. Boring, that's the last thing the producers want. They want me to cower in fear? I will act as if nothing at all is happening. Just another day on the planet. Maybe I'll whistle and tap my foot impatiently. Nah. I'll stand there, looking blank. I'm really good at that. I feel the injector placed against the skin of my arm. The metal tip of it is cold. The newt presses into the muscle firmly. You need a good connection for the injection to form a good seal and transfer the chemicals into me. The newt pulls the trigger and there is a shhhht sound. I feel a pinch in my arm. It's mildly painful, but not a big deal. I don't show any indication that anything happened. Then I feel a warmth spreading, starting from injection site, flowing through my chest, down to my cock, into my arms, into my legs, then into my head. I get a little dizzy. I try not to show anything. I stare straight ahead. It's not unpleasant, this warmth, almost like taking a bath. I feel sweat beginning to form on my forehead. The first pain happens in my core, right behind my belly button. It's a hot knife into my intestines. I wince, bend over a bit. I probably don't look bored anymore. I probably look like a person who was just took a punch to the stomach. "The male body fights back!" the announcer proclaims, sounding excited. "The struggle begins, and our poor Kirk is the battleground." The next pain is in my testicles, like I've been kick by a donkey. This pain drops me to me knees. The kicking continues. I don't fall. I refuse to fall. The pain rips from my balls to deep inside my guts, like a monster is inside me, trying to tear its way out with an ax. Then as quickly as it came, it fades, shrinks down to a small ache in my balls, like an old bruise. In a weird way, it almost feels good, like a firm massage. My cock grows hard. I feel it point straight out, stretching out my black panties, looking for a hole to enter. I'm on my knees. I look down and see my shiny leather skirt poking out in a very un-ladylike fashion. "Pardon me," the newt says, kneels, and lifts up my skirt. "We need to see, to verify." He pulls down my panties and let's my cock spring free, my big pink, veiny cock. I watch on the video monitor above the stage. The camera gets a close up of my shaft, filling the screen with its rigid glory. I'm proud of it, despite the fact that I'm being chemical feminized in front of the world. It is a cock to be proud of. Then it happens right before my eyes. There is a flash of burning pain in my rod, and then it shrinks, gets shorter by an inch, and thinner. The entire shape of it changes. It started out fat, chunky, and after the change the shaft is now thinner, with the head flaring out. In a weird way, it's become more flower-like and not so tree branch-like. There is still plenty of cock there, as I started out big, but now I'm smaller, and I feel sad. I'm changed. They changed me. They stole from me. A flash of pain and my balls shrink as well, tightening up, lifting up closer to my body. They once drooped and flopped, and have now become tight, like two ripe plums, ready for picking. "Excellent," the newt says. "A perfect transition." "Witness the triumph of science!" the announcer says. "See how it transforms our once manly Kip into something smaller and more feminine." Fire blazes over my skin, it's everywhere, burning me everywhere. This time I fall to the floor. No more acting bored and trying to ignore it. I'm in pain, like I've been dipped in acid. I scream and yell and cuss. Then my voice breaks, and I notice my voice is a little higher, even as I'm screaming. The pain stops for a moment. Then I feel it collecting in my chest, in my breasts. Oh no. I know what parts of me are about to change next. The itching and burning centers on my nipples then spread around them. I feel the pull of my skin as it stretches against new growth. I have tits now. I look down at my chest, and two small, firm tits push against the bodice I'm wearing. Then it's over. The pain is gone. I'm panting, covered in sweat. I'm on the ground, curled up in a ball. I want this to be over. I want to be alone and to sleep. I'm so sleepy. "Let me help you up, my dear," the newt says. "We'll get you to a bed momentarily." He takes me by the hand and helps me to my feet. I'm still wearing my heels, but they seem big now. My feet are swimming in them. My shoes are loose. In fact, my dress seems to be too big now as well. Where once it was tight, squeezing me in, my muscly back stretching it almost to the breaking point. But now, now It's lose fitting, almost baggy and falling off of me, except for my chest, where my...oh my...where my breasts are. "We need to give them a look," the newt says. "It won't take but a second. Just stand there and be at peace. This will all be over in a minute." He unzips the back of my dress and pulls it down to my feet. He looks up at me, and I look down at him. Such a weird little frog of a man. I step out of the dress with legs I don't remember being mine. They are thinner. Still toned with muscle, but smoother, curvier. I stand and look out into the transfixed audience. They are silent, like this is a religious ceremony and their priest is about to speak. The cameras focus on my. I'm afraid to look at the video monitor. I feel smaller, weaker, and I feel a weight on my chest that wasn't there before. I look up and see myself, my new self. I look thinner, still muscled, my stomach tight, no fat anywhere on me. But my waist is thinner, my hips wider, my shoulders not as broad. My breasts are plump, but small, like a girl fast approaching puberty. My nipples are bigger. My neck seems longer, or maybe just thinner. Even my face has changed. It's rounder, cheek bones more prominent and my jaw line softer. I look at that person, and she could easily pass for male, with the right clothes. However, undressed, in makeup and heels, she looks like a manly woman, a handsome woman. Except for her medium sized cock, she would be accepted at completely female. I stand still. I go back to looking bored and emotionless. Take me in world. Take it all in. This is the new me. And by the way, go fuck yourself. TO BE CONTINUED Hi! I hope you are enjoying this story. It has been very fun to write! If you could do me a favor, please leave a review. It doesn't have to be long. Reviews help get a story noticed and will also let me know what you like (and don't) about The Games. If you'd like to chat, you can like me on Facebook at... https://www.facebook.com/nancyrosetv I'm also on tumbler here... http://nancyrosetv.tumblr.com/ You can also read my full length novella The Trainer here... http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DZ3396Q Hugs, Nancy