The Games - Part Twelve free porn video

THE GAMES PART TWELVE By Nancy Rose If you haven't read the previous parts, you really should! Part One is here... https://fictionmania.tv/searchdisplay/authordisplay.html?word=1473 If you have read this far, then thank you! I hope you have enjoyed yourself. I appreciate your time very much. Could I ask one small favor? Please leave a review, just a line or so will do. Thank you! And now, on with the story... Chapter 44 I'M KIP'S FATHER, SO I GUESS that makes me a hero in certain circles. The men in this room are either congratulating me or giving me condolences. I can understand the confusion. One the one hand, my son is still in The Games while eight other contestants have cummed out and been sent off to the breeder farm. So that's good news, right? On the other hand, my son is on the sissy road and looks more like a girl than a boy. Not such great news. I don't take offense either way. I'm just tired of talking about it, tired of the attention. I don't want attention. I want someone to do something, even if I'm the someone. I've had it. I think we've all had it. I'm at a rebel meeting, my first. What I'm seeing doesn't inspire a lot of confidence. There are 20 of us here, in a store room at the mine. Most of us are older, in our 40s and 50s, and in bad shape. Spend a few decades in a mine and you'll have a bad back, lung problems, eye problems and arthritic hands that barely work unless they are around a pickaxe. Not many young men here. They have their own meeting. That's the nature of this rebellion. It's not one big group trying to become an army. That would be too easy for the government to detect and destroy. This rebellion is made up of small groups, no more than 20 in each. Groups designate specific members, called "contacts," to talk to other groups. Contacts never reveal information about the location or membership of other groups, and each contact only has one group they talk to. All those precautions make for poor communications and slow decision- making. Nothing has been done in a long time outside of some rocks thrown and some windows broken. The group leader, Cliff, explained all this to me. Cliff is a mine foreman, management. He hasn't held anything heavier than a clipboard for years. I never would have pegged him for a rebel, yet here he is, patting me on the back, congratulating me on finally taking a stand. I look at these fellows - nice guys I suppose, and with their hearts in the right place - and I want to leave. I want to pretend like I was never here. Yet here I am, risking my life, risking my family, sitting with a group of rebels who look more suited to draining beer kegs than overthrowing governments. I should leave. I think I'm going to drift to the back while everyone is watching the vid screen. I'm going to walk right out the door, put my collar up, pull my hat down, and hope that government cameras aren't watching me. I have no reason to stay. My Kip is already gone and my younger son just might have a chance at a life. What the hell am I doing here? I'm an idiot. I let my temper get the best of me. I take a step backward, toward the door. Whatever is on screen has everyone transfixed. I'm curious. I'll take a look. Not like I have anything better to do, except get the hell out of here. It's some new threat from the government. They...oh lord... Anyone caught consorting with rebels will be placed in...damn...rubber underwear that...I cannot even think about it. It removes your manhood, gives you a vagina. It leaves you a man, but gives you a pussy, or at least something like a pussy. The scientist talking about them shows footage from one of the contestants in The Games. The sissy looking guy wears the...panties. They are called "cunting panties." The little guy has a dick, a perfectly normal dick, and then he puts on the panties, and a while later...oh god, nothing. His dick is gone. He has a slit like a woman. That bitch, the president, she's looking to get rid of men completely. Everyone in the room is angry. Everyone wants to do something. The president wanted us to be afraid. She just made us more angry. As men, we are tired of being blamed for all the world's problems. We are tired of being found guilty without a trial. Our gender does not make us criminals, yet that's how we are treated. We are just useful slaves to the women who run the world, used for hole digging and mountain moving. Enough. It's time we fight back. It's time someone did something. I sit. I listen. I'll help if I can, even if this little group doesn't exactly look like war-making firebrands, this gathering of broken-down, middle-aged men with our pot bellies and receding hairlines. A guy in the back shouts, cutting through the din of rumbling, complaints and threats. "Shut up!" he shouts. "The rebellion has the answers!" The room quiets down. All eyes are on the guy. I think I've seen him once or twice in the mines. He keeps to himself. Skinny, young, easily the youngest person in this room, in his late 20s. "I'm the contact with a rebel group with contacts inside the capitol, and there is a plan." "Plan? What plan?" asks Cliff. "All I know is that this year's Games will be the last. That we are supposed to watch and learn. We will see proof, and we will know when to act." "Proof of what?" is what everyone asks. Explanations are demanded. "That's all I know," says the skinny guy. "We are to wait, and there will be proof." "What else! Tell us more!" "The rumor is that there is a way to counteract the government nanos. We can become immune from them. But that's just a rumor." "Impossible!" seems to be the consensus. We have seen nanos turn men into sissies and breeders for decades now, and they are doing it faster and more efficiently than ever. How could there be a cure? A resistance? "That's all I know," says the skinny guy. "We are supposed to keep watching." So that's what we do. We watch the TV and look for "proof." Proof of what? I guess we will find out. Chapter 45 IT'S MIDDAY, I THINK. I don't know for sure. Dirk and I have been walking for a while. Dirk is wearing blue short-shorts that have his rock hard, hairy legs on full display. It's like he's walking on tree trunks. He looks like he could smash through a hundred tacklers and then run through a brick wall. Our killball coach would be thrilled. I'm also in short-shorts, pink ones, and they seem tiny and tight. They barely cover my ass and keep slipping into my crack. He gets to wear blue-leather combat boots with think rubber heels, laced up to almost his knees. Those are ass-kicking boots. I'm wearing shiny, latex pink boots with 4-inch stiletto heels as thin as needles. They are tight, rubbery, and look like a second skin around my calves and ankles, like I was born wearing them. My legs are smooth, thin, with a little extra meat around my thighs and ass. I can see why the gamemakers have dressed us like this, both in similar outfits with devastatingly different effects. It's the contrast. He's a brute and I'm a piece of sexy fluff, and it was just a couple days ago we were both fully grown men, physical equals, him a little taller and leaner, me a little wider and stronger. We are hunting, hunting for Sam, my chubby little nemesis. But we are getting nowhere. And we are getting hungry. The nanos in use are burning energy, and we are starving. The halls are endless. The doors are innumerable. I have no idea how they made this house, which redesigns itself at a moment's notice. The word LUNCH appears on the red velvet wallpaper between two doors. There is an arrow below it, and then more arrows appear, running down the hall and around a corner. We follow the arrows and come to an open door. We walk into the room. What the hell is the next piece of insanity going to bring us? The door slams shut behind us. Of course it does. That's what doors do here. They shut behind you and you don't get to leave until something horrific has happened. The room is a white cube, no furniture, no anything, just white everywhere. "Hello Dirk and Kitty!" says the announcer. I know we are now on TV, on display, and it's time for us to perform. "Welcome to lunch!" he says cheerfully. Across the room a wall fades and then disappears, revealing a woman, a large, fat woman with big floppy breasts. She's strapped down on a table. Her legs are spread open and tied down. Her arms are also restrained. I walk toward her, the poor thing. Who is she? I notice a smell, a delicious smell, like warming milk. It makes me even hungrier. My stomach growls. Her breasts, their nipples so big and ripe, they are leaking milk, little drops forming on the nubs. Her face is...grotesque. It's a mask, rubber, almost real looking, but not. It's a garish, mockery of a made-up female face, thin eyebrows lifted in perpetual surprise, mouth open, as if waiting for a cock to slide into it. She turns her head and looks at me. The mask keeps her from communicating. There is pleading in her eyes. "I am not drinking milk from that cow," Dirk says. "Why not?" asks the announcer. "I'm a fully grown man. I will eat meat, or nothing." "And you, Kitty? You aren't much of a man anymore, but do you also refuse the nutritious gift this poor girl is offering you?" "My name is Kat, and yes. I would rather go hungry." "So you would like a choice, is that right?" "Yes," I say. "I would like a choice." "Cheeseburgers, please," Dirk says. "Then a choice you shall have!" the announcer says. Another wall fades then disappears, making the room huge. What the hell is that? It looks like a bowl on a stand, a fountain maybe, or a sink. I walk to it. "Don't get too close," Dirk warns. He's so protective lately. It's sweet. I like it. It is a kind of bowl, a crystal bowl, polished and carved. Inside the bowl is a face. I understand now, it's a mold. If you poured plaster into it, you would make a plaster face. Whose face? I don't know. It's hard to say. The crystal face is inside out. "This is your choice, Kitty," says the announcer. "You can drink from the milking breeder, or you can place your face into the mold." "Nope, I'm not doing either one," I say. Who knows what will happen if I do that? Put my face, the one part of me that still looks like me, into a mold, a government mold full of all kinds of evil tech. "What are you afraid of?" the announcer asks. "I want to keep looking like me, thank you very much." "Dirk is perfectly welcome to put his face into the mold." "Yeah, you go ahead and fuck off," Dirk says. "Yes, Dirk would indeed look silly with the face the mold would give him. That is true. Excellent point. Let's make your choice a little more interesting then." Another wall fades, but doesn't disappear completely. We can see through it, but it's milky, like looking through slightly frosted glass. Behind that glass is a table full of food. In the middle of it is a tray of cheese burgers, big fat cheeseburgers. The cheese is melted and dripping over the sides of the buns. The buns are golden brown. There are layers of lettuce, tomato and onion. They look perfect. "I'm sorry," the announcer says. "I'm sure you'd like to smell your reward lunch." A slot in the glass wall opens above our heads. A burger-scented breeze wafts in. It's delicious. My stomach rumbles. My mouth waters. "Damn, that's nice," Dirk says with longing. "I'm so fucking hungry." "Dirk, if I might make a suggestion," the announcer says. "You are certainly bigger and stronger than Kitty. You could always force her face into the mold. She won't be harmed in any way, we promise. It will just make some minor alterations." "You sick bastards," Dirk says, standing tall, his arm muscles flexing, his hands turned into fists, a warrior in search of a war. "Why don't you come into this room and we'll see what your face does when I smash it into that thing." This is a weird one. Why do they want my face changed so badly? How would my looking different serve the government? Is my face important somehow? It seems far-fetched, but it does make some kind of sense if you use your imagination. What if I'm important? I'm being watched by millions. I was cheated, and the government didn't make things right. That kind of thing upsets the audience. I've been in the audience all my life and I know. People get angry when The Games don't seem fair. Maybe I'm now the symbol of everything people hate about the government. Maybe I'm the one people are rooting for, and maybe, just maybe, I'm the face on the posters that rebels are now plastering all over the cities. I don't know. It seems silly. I'm just a guy trying to get through The Games. Why would I be important? But that question brings back the one I started with. Why does the government want my face changed? I know this...If they want my face changed, then my face stays the same. Fuck them. "I'm afraid if you don't choose an option soon, another one will be presented to you, and one you will probably not like." "Bring it on, fuck face," Dirk says. Easy for him to say. It's not his face we're talking about. "Very well then. Let me introduce you to the remaining blues, all of them as big and strong as you, thanks to government science." The door opens and in walk three big hairy, muscle-covered dudes, all of them in blue tights, wearing blue leather gloves and combat boots. "This is the first combat challenge of The Games!" the announcer says. "Their mission is to get Kitty's face into the morphing mold. Your mission, Dirk, is to stop them. If you keep Kitty's face unchanged for 30 minutes, then you get those hamburgers you crave. If the blues are successful, Kitty will have a lovely new face and they will get to enter the room full of food. Now fight!" Their names are Walker, Blake and Lawson, from States 18, 17 and 12 respectively. I remember them from training and orientation. Lawson is the smallest of them, but wiry looking. Walker and Blake and both monsters, just as big as Dirk. "Get behind me," Dirk says. Again he's being protective of me. I like it, even though my pride is a little bruised. I want to fight, but really, who am I kidding? Any one of these guys could throw my skinny body across the room. However, I don't have to fight to win, do I? I have 30 minutes. I am fast. I have long nails. They are painted red, yes, but they are also strong and thick. I think about Pie, and how she seems perfectly confident in her ability to kill bigger, stronger men. I think about Janine, and her imploring me to be flexible, to bend and not break. Sorry Janine. I have bent enough. I am shorter, weaker and hairless. I have breasts. I have a girl's plump ass. I have smooth legs. My arms are thin. My hands are small and delicate. My nails are long and red. My hair is a golden blonde mop full of curls that flows to my shoulders. I can barely recognize my face, but I can still see me in the mirror. I'm not going to lose that. I've bent far enough. I'm going to run, claw, bite and gouge out eyes if I have to. I will bite off balls if need be. I'm going to fight like a rabid Kat. I'm no Kitty. I have claws. I'm almost looking forward to it, showing the world, showing the government, that I'm not some weak sissy to be pushed around. I'm not an obedient slave. I am Kat. So bring it on, you testosterone-filled monsters. We'll see how strong you are when I kick your balls up into your lungs. The bigger blues go after Dirk, both at once, like idiots. I don't know what they were before they got to the house, but Dirk used to be an athlete, and a championship-winning wrestler. He easily steps aside and shoves one into the other, knocking them both to the floor into a pile of muscles and grumbling. The smaller one, Lawson, comes after me, his hands outstretched, going for my throat. I do something I doubt he's expecting. I grab his right hand and instead of trying to push it away, I pull it toward my open mouth. I bite on the soft flesh between his thumb and index finger. I bite hard, trying to get my teeth to cut into the flesh. They do. I'm like an animal trying to draw blood, and that's exactly what I taste, rusty iron and salt. He screams a deep masculine howl. I almost smile, but I'm too busy trying to rip the flesh from his hand with my teeth. His left hand slaps me hard. I see stars but I don't loosen my jaw. He hits me again, this time with his fist. I get dizzy and stagger backward. The world is spinning. I scamper away from him back to the wall. He is looking at his bleeding hand. His face is contorted in pain. Blood streams onto the floor, making a puddle. I still taste it in my mouth, the blood of my enemy. The milker, she is to my right, lying there like a docile cow. Our eyes connect. I have a feeling she wants to tell me something. Her eyes are pleading with me from behind that mask. I don't know what she is trying to say. Behind her and across the room, Dirk and his two assailants are trading blows. Fists fly and land. Dirk is taking two hits for every one he lands. There is blood pouring out through a cut above his eye and out of his nose. He won't be able to take much more. The milker. Why is she is here? Why did they want us to drink from her? The milk. Something is wrong with the milk. Something is in it. Something horrible. Lawson comes at me again, fury in his eyes. He's mad. He's going to hurt me this time. "Wait!" I shout at him. He stops, glaring at me, his hand still bleeding. I can see my teeth marks and the torn flesh if his hand. "I'll go," I say. "I give up." "You do?" he asks, sounding confused. "Yes," I say. "But I'm so hungry. Let me drink first." "No!" he shouts. "Go now!" I ignore him. I stumble to the cow, lower my lips on to her nipple. The milk is sweet, so delicious, but I don't drink. I fill my mouth. Lawson is right behind me. His hand is on my shoulder, he gets a strong grip. I grab his wounded hand and squeeze. He shouts again, his mouth wide open. I lunge toward him, my mouth close to his, almost like I am going to kiss him. Instead, I spit the milk into his mouth. He chokes and gags, but he swallows some. "Oh my god, that's so good," he says, licking his lips. I knew it. There is something in the milk. I look at the milker's face. I swear I can see a smile in her eyes. "I'm not going anywhere," I say. "Drink all you want. Aren't you hungry?" "Yes," he says. "I'm starving. I need to eat." He goes to the milker, taking a nipple into his mouth and begins to suckle like a new born babe. Poor Lawson. He seemed like a nice guy before The Games. I wonder what I've done to him, what that milk has done to him. "Hey cunt!" a voice shouts behind me. I turn. Oh no. Dirk is unconscious, his body slack in the arms of his attackers, blood dripping from his face. His attackers also look abused, red gore dripping from their eyes and lips. They are holding Dirk above the mold. They are ready to push his face into it. "You know what to do, cunt," says Walker. "Now bitch," says Blake. I walk to the mold. What choice do I have, really? I look at Dirk's handsome face, now ruined, deep bruises blossoming under his eyes, his nose smashed, one of his front teeth missing. I wish I could tell him I'm sorry I failed him, but he is unconscious. I hope I can make it up to him one day. I look into the mold. I see the face in there, the inside-out face. I bend over, put my face into the crystal face, feel my nose, lips and forehead make contact with the glass-like surface. It's cool, almost relaxing. Then it grows hot, and my face melts into it. I pull away but can't move. The pain is acid and razor blades and fire. I can't scream. Darkness. Chapter 46 MY NAME IS JANINE AND I'm in Simon's suite. I'm shaking, my hands trembling, my stomach vibrating, my mouth filled with bitter bile, my heart pounding. Simon is the advisor from State 14, the advisor to Sam and Pie, two of the strangest contestants in this year's Games. Two doors down is the advisor from State 18, lying quite dead in a pool of blood. The man was going to rape me, so I shouldn't feel anything but grateful to Simon, who shot the man three times with a silenced gun. I thought he was going to shoot me as well. Who rescues sissies? I thought the man surely a maniac, perhaps a terrorist with the intension of killing all the advisors. Rumors of terrorism have been swirling around these Games like the smell of death around a week old corpse. Yet it really was a rescue, a rescue that resulted in the death of a man. I did not wish the man to be dead, or even to be harmed. I just wanted to leave the room. He was intent on raping me, and I was consigned to my fate. I would be raped, just one more humiliating reminder of what it is to be a sissy in this world, and then I would leave. That's not what happened. Instead, Simon came in the room and killed him. Simon thinks he did me a favor. Just like a man, he thinks his act of violence somehow makes him a hero and deserving of thanks. He seems to not understand the repercussions. I'm a sissy, and now I'm involved in a murder. I will be punished far more severely than he will. He will be put to death, painlessly. I'll be tortured first, as a demonstration to other uppity sissies. I will be raped by insane inmates in an asylum. I will be tied down and fucked by animals, dogs, horses, and bulls. I will be dismembered, a piece at a time, my cock being the last thing to go, which I will be forced to eat before they finally end me. That's how sissies are punished by this country, by this government, by this president. We are not humans. We are less than animals. Simon doesn't get that. He seems to be confused as to why I'm not relieved, and instead looks more terrified. I tell him to shut up. I tell him I didn't need rescuing, and I don't need his pity or his comfort. I yell at him. I call him names. He sits calmly, takes it, listens to my sissy temper tantrum which of course ends with my crying into the pillow on his bed. Sissies cry a lot. I got used to it. "You will go through none of that," he says. "All that is about to end. The revolution is starting." He explains it to me, the plan they've been cooking up in State 14 for decades. State 14 is all about high tech. The state is known for its lovely beaches, mild weather, dozens and dozens of high tech labs, fed by the government's best technology schools. It's sounds implausible, unworkable and a little stupid. I don't believe him. "You fight tech with tech," he keeps saying. "That's the new war. Whoever has the best tech wins." "No one has better tech than the government," I say. "Just look at me." I stand. I'm still in 5-inch heels and tower over him, almost six feet of femininity, big breasts, plump ass, a woman's body with the cock of a man, all created with government nano technology and government mind- altering treatments. I've been created and programmed like an android. The person who I was, the man, was merely the clay from which they worked, the raw material. "Nanos are just tiny machines, like germs," he says. "They do what they are told. They can be tricked and confused. And they can be defeated by superior tech, tech the government doesn't have." "What tech is that? What could you possibly have that the government doesn't?" "Chromosome tech. Tech that can change humanity at a molecular level." "What the fuck are you talking about?" "Nanos are simple machines. They look for switches to turn on and off, switches that cause growth and shrinkage, switches that turn on and off the production of hormones. That's all they do. With chrome-tech, we can change all the switches so that the nanos can't tell what is on and what is off." "I don't know what the fuckedy-fuck you are talking about. All I know is that once they find that body and then review the surveillance vid, I'm going to be dragged away to dungeon to be raped by dogs." "Then we will start the revolution a little early." "You are crazy." "Will you help?" He wants me to be a rebel, commit a few more crimes, treason, conspiracy...I'm just a sissy. All I want is to get my boys out of the house, and I'd like to see Kip returned to manhood. And I'd like to help Tex. "I want a couple things," I say. "Please." "Like what?" "If we are caught, you shoot me in the head. I don't want to end up in a dungeon. I want dead. You understand? Swear it." "I swear. If we are caught, you will go first, and then I'll be right behind you." "And second, you need to help Tex." "Who is Tex?" "He's a friend. I'll explain." Chapter 47 I HAVE FAILED, UTTERLY FAILED. My name is Lawson. I am from State 12. We are a proud people. Our men are strong, disciplined, and focused. We strive to live in beauty and harmony. We are warriors, yes, but also poets and artists. We recognize balance in all things. We see a need for peace and war, the male and the female, life and death, yin and yang. We are considered foreign to the rest of the country. Our people are the most different looking. Our skin is caramel, not white, not brown. Our eyes are almond shaped. Our hair is always black as are out eyes. We have our own customs, our own ways. We obey the government, but in a fashion that suits us. We take part in The Games even though we were not a rebel state. We were not part of the country during the war, but we were on the wrong side, and we too were affected by what happened. The genetic bombs erased the women. The choice was between joining the country or cease to exist. As the inhabitants of an island, several hundred miles off of the west coast, our race would have died out. We needed breeders, and once we signed onto the government's contract, we had them, many of our men volunteering, sacrificing for the good of our people. Today, our island is populated by men, sissies and breeders, and each group adheres to strict rules, living in balance, in peace. I have broken those rules. I have lost my manhood. I took the teat of a milker, drank deeply, and it did something to me. It changed me. I am ashamed. As a man, it was my duty to maintain my manhood or die trying. Like a weakling, I drank. I was hungry. My body was growing stronger, muscles building. The little ones inside me - mainlanders call them nanos - were building me up, turning me into more of a man. This was expected. That is what is supposed to happen. Along with that comes the hunger. Hunger for food. Hunger for sex. Hunger for violence. I've trained my entire life to handle these feelings. At my school we are taught to meditate, to accept, to remain strong yet peaceful. That's what life as a man means on State 12. Yet, one taste of that milk, and suddenly I could not control myself. I needed more. My body screamed out for it. I suckled on her breasts like a newborn baby. I could think of nothing else, just the sweet taste of her milk. I was weak. I was not worthy. My sissy partner, Hadyn, now Heather, has sacrificed so much for me. In The Games, it is the sissy's duty to do everything she can to help her man win. She willingly takes the sissy path, knowing it will mean an end to her manhood. That is what she trains for, and does so willingly, even happily, for the good of our people. I have failed her, failed my island, failed my family, and failed myself. The milk. Something was in her milk. It happened so fast. The hair that was growing on my body is now gone. I am smooth again, as I was when I was a boy. Even my man hairs, the patch above my root, are gone. My chest now has milk-givers, small yet, but there, and growing, plumping out, fattening. The muscles that were so defined just a few hours ago are now slack and soft, smoothed over with padding. My hands are smaller. My feet are smaller. I walk down the hallway, this endless hallway of this cursed house, and I feel so small, so weak, this body foreign to me now. I am naked and have to stop myself from looking down. It's like looking down at a young girl's body, except for my root which is smaller now. Shall I fight on, struggle as a sissy? Shall I try to regain my masculinity? Will a night or two in a blue room build me up again? I wish I could find Heather. I wish I could talk to her. Someone from my island would understand, would know what to do. What is the honorable thing? I begin to feel something else. There is a tingling, deep inside me, just behind my bung. It's a new kind of hunger, one I have never felt before. Oh no. I have a new need...a need to be filled. This is another demon's gift of the milk. I truly am becoming a sissy. I am no longer a man. My shame is complete. The collar vibrates. That is what it does before it gives me new clothes. I am thankful that I won't be naked anymore. The cloth spreads down, dressing me, taking form. Oh no. Please no. I'm wearing the same outfit as Heather was, but this one in light blue, a mockery of my status as a blue. My shoes are black and shiny, with a tall heels and a strap over my instep, just the like the shoes sissy gurls wear to school. The white socks go up over my calves and end in a blue satin ribbons, tied in a bow. My smooth thighs are exposed from my knees almost up to my bum. The light blue satin shorts cover my private areas, but just barely. I notice how round and pronounced my rear is now, and also how small the bulge in the front of my shorts is. I'm getting smaller. Soon I will have nothing there. The top is a sailor's blouse, cut low in front where a big sky blue satin bow hangs. Just above it are my budding new breasts, now being pushed up and put on display by a bra the skinsuit has seen fit to give me. This is the uniform that sissies wear in our pleasure houses. The nautical theme comes from the fact that our sissies often service men in the Navy. Whether the sissy sailor outfit is a mockery or a salute to sailors, I cannot tell you. I want to cry. I do not. I keep walking, now slower because of the tall heels. I can feel the eyes of my island upon me, and I feel their shame. A door to my right opens. Finally. Maybe a place to hide? I walk in. There is a mirror across the room, an old fashioned stand up mirror in a wooden frame. I walk to it. I look into the mirror and see a sissy in light blue satin, just another gurl who works the pleasure houses near the docks. I wonder if I can shatter this mirror and use the shards to cut my wrists. Can I do that before agents burst into the room and stop me? "Lawson?" says a high, bird-like voice behind me. I turn. It's Heather, once Hadyn. She has grown more beautiful. She will be a wonderful breeder. She would have born me strong, healthy sons and I would have enjoyed making them. I will not have that privilege. But I will, just once, enjoy her beauty as a man. "What have they done to you?" she asks, tears welling in her eyes. I go to her. I don't speak. I don't want to hear what my voice sounds like now. I kiss her, my soft lips onto hers. I wrap my arms around her, feel our breasts press together. She kisses back, passionately. My tongue slips into her mouth. I feel like a man again with a pretty sissy melting into my arms. I feel my root stir. It still works. There is still man in me. I want to be in her, to stretch open her pleasure and release myself into her, to impregnate her. She runs her hands down my body to my bum, squeezes it. I feel the hunger back there too. I am two people a now, a man who wants to fuck and a woman who wants to be filled. Both of us want Heather more than anything. Our costumes disappear, leaving us naked except for our black schoolgirl shoes. The collars are always so helpful. Her breasts are large and heavy now. I suck on one of her nipples, and taste milk again. This time I don't care. Do with me as you will. This is my last moment as a man, and I will taste her. She moans happily, just like a woman. She lowers herself to the ground, spreads her legs, giving me a long look at my future. Her pleasure is perfect, a plump, welcoming slit with a small tuft of hair at the top of it. "Fill me," she says. "Take me. Be my first." I lie on top of her and kiss her again, my tongue going deep into her throat, she sucking on it gently. My cock is smaller, but is still there and hard enough to split a coconut. I slide it into her and she screams with pain and delight. "I didn't know it would feel like this!" she says. "I didn't know! I didn't know!" I move in and out of her, ramming her, feeling the pressure building, my root ready to grow into her and create life. "Yes, Lawson, yes!" I reach up and pinch her right nipple, making it hurt. She moans even louder. A drop of milk runs down the side of her beautiful breast and I lick it clean. "You should know how that feels," she says. "It's one of the perks of having these things!" She pinches my right nipple. I can't think anymore. My brain turns off, erased by a mixture of plain and pleasure that runs through my body like an electric current. I release into her, spurting and spurting, giving it all, every last drop of manhood left within me. She cums as well, bucking and moaning and pulling at my now long hair. I collapse on top of her, our bodies fused together, two sissy girls, almost twins, one with a cock one with a pussy. We are asleep when the agents come to take us away. Chapter 48 THE PRESIDENT WATCHES HER VID SCREEN with great expectation. The sissy, Kat, has had her face in the morphing mask for ten minutes now. She should be almost done. The girl is passed out, her body slumped against the pedestal that holds the mask. The thin little body looks almost completely female, smooth skin, ripe tits, round ass. She is a delicious gurl. This is such a good plan, the president thinks to herself. This will surely prove the superiority of the government. This will prove my complete control. No man will resist me if he wishes to remain a man. Perhaps, the title "president" is wrong. President makes it sound like I might lose an election, like I serve at the will of the people, when that is not true at all. They serve me, and in return I tend to them, take care of them, give them the things they need. They are inferior and only I know what's best. She looks down at the sissy on the floor, Dollydonna. This sissy is yet another bit of perfection, her face made up perfectly, so girlish and sweet, pink wet lips, rose blushed cheeks, violet eye shadow. The gurl looks 12 years old, though in reality she is 18. She is another nano experiment, this one meant to age the subject backwards. It's working, and it's amazing. Dollydonna is painting the president's toe nails a deep blood red. "I'm an empress, not a president, isn't that right, Dolly?" she asks. The poor gurl looks confused for a moment, then answers cautiously in a squeaky little girl's voice. "Madame is all things and no title is suitable for her power," Dollydonna says. "You have a way with words," the president says. "I will have to remember that." She returns to the vid screen. Kat is beginning to stir. Wonderful. It's time to see the results of this latest experiment. Kat stands, then pulls her face out of the mold, standing up straight, looking confused and sleepy, as if waking up from a long nap. Her face...it is perfect...so perfect... The president is thrilled. Chapter 49 My name is Kat. I can't really go by Kip anymore, can I? I pull my face out of the mold. There is a sucking sound, like a spoon being pulled out of a jar of jam. Then the mold returns to its original state, that of carved crystal, solid as glass, cool to the touch. My face feels numb, but there is no pain. Perhaps some kind of numbing agent was applied. I touch my face and it feels the same. My nose is still there, my eyes, my teeth. I haven't been deformed, I don't think. There is no mirror, so I don't know what I look like. Why keep that a secret from me? Am I on TV right now? Is the entire world watching me? Why not give me a mirror then, so they can get a reaction shot? That seems like it would be good TV. Yet, here I am with a new face I cannot see, ready to give them a highlight moment that the talking heads will talk about and the game makers will brag about, and there is no mirror for me to gaze into so I can be shocked and stunned. I suspect I truly look like a blonde bimbo now, something from a sex toon with big eyes, plump lips and a tiny nose. Typical. Stereotypical. Predictable. I touch my nose. Still feels normal I suppose. Smaller? Maybe a little. It's hard to tell. PONG! "Gift for Kat!" says the female computer voice. I so much prefer her to the announcer. I'd like to kill the announcer one day. No. Even better. I'd like to sissify him. That would be fun. A small square opens in the ceiling, and down comes my gift via a wire. My gift looks like a set of head phones. I pick them up front the floor after the retractable wire drops them. Yes, it is a set of headphones. Am I supposed to put them on my head? Does Janine want me to hear something? There is a tag on the left headset. It reads: "Milking breeder hypno training." I don't think these are for me. These are for... The milker is still here, lying docilely on her table, her big breasts full of milk, her big red aureoles almost demanding to be licked and sucked. She smells wonderful, and I'm getting hungry. I can't drink her milk, that I understand. But these head phones, why would Janine give them to me? I suppose she wants me to place them on the milker. I walk to her, look down upon her. She is restrained and I see no release, not for her arms or her legs, which are spread, making her ready to be fucked as well as sucked to anyone who walks in the room. Poor girl. I look at her plastic face, look into her eyes. They are pleading, trying to send me some kind of message. "Blink once for yes and twice for no," I say. She blinks once. "Did the government do this to you to punish you?" One blink. "Do you know Janine?" One blink. "Is she your friend?" One blink. I don't want to ask this question, but I have to. "Do you wish to be dead?" One blink. Sigh. Now I know why she sent me these headphones. I place them on the milker's head, covering her ears. I hit the on switch and a little green light appears on the right head set. The milker closes her eyes. She is listening. Soon she will be asleep, and when she awakes, I think she will be happier. I hope so anyway. ### My name is Tex, but now it's Bessie. I'm going crazy. I'm tied down, my tits filling up with milk. My cunt is wet. I'm so horny. I want to die. I'm not supposed to be like this. This isn't me. I'm a big strong man. I ride horses. I fuck women. I do hard work. I can live in the desert for weeks without so much as a sleeping bag. I have wrestled cougars. I have climbed mountains. Now I'm a cow, a big ol' fat cow with teats full of milk. All I want is to die. Why can't someone give me that? That girl, that pretty girl, what does she want? She wants to talk, but I can't talk. Wait, she wants me to blink once for yes and twice for no. Okay. I can do that. Can't she cut me free? I'll answer her questions. Yes. The government surely is punishing me, and yes I am truly sorry. I will do whatever they want if they will set me back to the way I was. Yes. I know Janine. Pretty little sissy. Good legs, great girl. Nice to talk to. Is she being punished to? I can only imagine what they did to her if they did this to me. Yes. She is my friend. I did the like the gurl. As sissies go, she was nice to have around after the fucking was done. Can't say that about all of them. Yes. Damn it. Yes, I would rather be dead than be like this. Being in the wrong body is torture, just shear torture. What is she putting on my head? What a second, sweety, tell me what you are doing... I hear something. Sounds like the ocean, waves breaking on the shore. I've never been to the ocean, but I've seen vids. It sounds nice. It's making me sleepy. Yes, I could use the sleep. There is a voice, I can barely hear her. She sounds nice though, a right pretty voice she has. She is talking to me... - Sleep, sleep, sleep. You are drifting away, feeling so good and happy. You lose track of time and no longer care. You are floating, no worries, no pains, no pressures. You are relaxed completely, and you feel wonderful. You love your new breasts. They are beautiful, so sensitive and full. They contain life. That is your special gift. You create the milk of life, and you love to give it... - The voice goes on and on, and I love listening to her. I drift off to sleep. End of Chapter 49 End of Part Twelve To Be Continued later in January Don't forget to leave a review! Thanks! 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/ I am on Twitter here... https://twitter.com/nancyrosetv You can also read my full length novella The Trainer here... http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DZ3396Q Hugs, Nancy