Everything Will Be Explained Tomorrow: 3 / 3

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

When I woke the next morning, I took a shower. I checked my male equipment: the bat and balls were still intact. Of course, I didn’t expect them to fall off or disappear during the night, but it was nice to have physical proof that I was still a man. As a test, I played with myself and quickly grew a respectable erection, so I ticked that checkbox as well.

On the other side of the ledger, my skin and hair felt softer, and I was more aware of the scent of the soap, the shampoo, and the environment in general. None of which proved anything, since it was a purely subjective measure. Also, if my hair was changing, I reasoned, it would change in the follicle. New hair growth would be different, not the whole shaft that had already pushed its way out of my head. And yet, it seemed to have changed.

When I joined the others in the common room, waiting for breakfast, Harvey greeted me with a nod, and observed, “Everybody’s pretty quiet today.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I agreed. As Harvey had noted, things were quieter. The atmosphere had changed. While we got our breakfast, took our seats, and ate, it was impossible to miss the difference. It wasn’t that anyone was down or depressed or sad. In fact, everyone was happy, smiling, sunny. There were conversations, but they were “indoor voices,” not the exclamations, shouts, and jibes that usually characterize a group of men. The general vibe was gentler, softer. When I tried to describe the difference to myself, two old jobs of mine came to mind: the first was a very male-dominated office, where most of the crew had played college football or some other muscular, competitive sport (like hockey). There was a lot of jostling, sharp elbows, playful punches, and aggressive ribbing.

The second was an all-female office, where I was the odd man out. Although there were occasional outbursts of emotion, for the most part it was a softer, kinder environment — at least on the surface. It took several weeks before I began to understand some of the darker undercurrents — and that understanding only came because one of the women explained them to me.

In any case… it appeared we’d switched from being powered by testosterone to being guided by estrogen — to put it broadly.

In spite of what I could feel and see, I didn’t want to accept it. I’d already decided to keep Rufus’ information to myself — at least for the time being. There was no point in causing a controversy over something I could still manage to not believe.

From then on, every day, crew members came in groups of five or six to conduct one-on-one language lessons. Rufus came with the first group, and he started off by telling me, “You and I have a handicap that we need to work against, and that is the fact that I speak English. During these lessons, and as much as possible outside the lessons, we should only speak Rassena, our language.”

He had a book with him — I’d seen similar language-learning books on Earth, where there are unambiguous pictures accompanied by appropriate foreign words. It was immersion learning; learning the language the way that children do. The script was strange; the letters looked like they’d been printed backward, but rather than start with the alphabet, or even words, the book began with phrases.

The very first day, we were all able to say such things as Do you have any pencils? and Let’s go together! After lunch, we watched a twenty-minute video program in which people acted out various social situations to teach us where and when to use typical phrases, like “excuse me” or “I’m sitting here” or (one that gave me a fit of coughing) “He is my son; she is my daughter.”

After dinner, we were shown a Rassenian movie, which was our first introduction to life on their planet. We unconsciously absorbed words, phrases, and pronunciation while we were distracted by — well, by everything! The clothes, the buildings, the implements, the things they did…

… and we had no way of asking questions except by learning more of their language. Evander and Rufus refused to speak English (except for a quiet word here and there).

We all made surprisingly rapid progress.

From the second week, we had twice-daily writing lessons, as well as lessons in what I guess you could call deportment. Apparently, Rassenian culture is a bit more formal than ours — at least, on the surface.

We also left Earth food behind and shared the same diet as the crew. It wasn’t bad — but it was certainly different. There were unfamiliar tastes, and spices that took some getting used to. Still, it seemed healthy, satisfying, and nutritious.

We were allowed to roam freely in every part of the ship, and were given light duties.

In other words, we were kept busy — and we wanted to be kept busy. Being busy made it easier to remain in denial about our physical and psychological changes.

I’m not sure when exactly we began the transit from male to female. There must have been some initial steps while we were still eating the Faraway herb, but it wasn’t until the day after the recar em bo ceremonials that we began to notice differences. Differences like softer skin and hair, loss of body hair, lighter and higher voices, narrowing waists and widening butts.

Even so, those changes were relatively easy to ignore, if your mind was determined to not accept them. I remember seeing my father, in his last years, growing fatter and fatter, and claiming, as he tried to squeeze in behind the steering wheel, that someone had moved the seat too far forward. In his mind, he was still as slim as he was at 35.

The only mirrors we had access to were in the bathroom, so it was there and in the showers that we checked ourselves. A handful of men continued to shave their faces until the end of the month — though there was no need.

Our changes were never discussed openly. It was only in ones and twos that we spoke to each other, furtively asking whether our faces seemed narrower, and our legs more shapely. I have the feeling that each crew member had some guidance on how to help their “pupil” see and understand what was happening to them.

Still, it wasn’t until the end of the second week, when my genitals began to shrink, that I shared with the others the things that Rufus had told me.

I expected angry responses. I feared there would be emotional collapses. There were neither. Everyone I spoke to accepted my explanation. They nodded, taking what I said less as news and more as confirmation. They seemed prepared to hear it, and my saying it aloud simply turned it into a public matter shared by all. The men seemed already resigned to their fate.

Harvey put it this way, “I’ve been seeing myself turning into a woman for a few weeks. Now that you tell me this… well, honestly, I’m relieved. I thought I was losing my mind.”

As I said, my genitals shrank. Again, my impressions are entirely subjective; I didn’t have a ruler or photographs, but once I noticed my equipment had gotten smaller, the loss accelerated. I seemed to lose 50% of my manhood each day. At one point I asked Rufus for a hand mirror, because I could feel things getting pretty complicated down there. He obliged me by producing one on his next visit, and handed it to me with a huge grin. “I could take a look down there, if you like,” he offered. I blushed so deeply that he waved his hand, dismissing his offer. “It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll just leave you to it.”

By the end of the third week, all the anatomical infrastructure was in place down below, although it was rather flat and didn’t seem ready for use. My breasts, on the other hand, were two good handfuls.

“I think I need to start wearing womens’ clothes,” I informed Rufus.

“Your wish is my command,” he replied (in English), and the next day produced three pairs of underwear, three dresses, and a pair of shoes. I was surprised to see they had two-inch heels.

“This is something we learned from your people!” he informed me with a laugh. “We also have three-inchers, If you feel so inclined. No pun intended.”

“Can’t I wear flats?” I protested.

“Oh, no!” he cried. “If you could see the effect on your ass and legs, you wouldn’t ask such a question!”

“Do the women on your world wear heels?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Heels are reserved for special women, like yourself.” Then he moved in close to me, put his hand on my ass, and tried to kiss me. I turned my head away, and he didn’t press it, though his hand remained on my butt. I think it was a test. His chest was touching my arm. I could feel his breath caress my neck and shoulder. And his hand was there, warm, waiting to see what I’d do.

By the start of the last week of the transformation, I found that I was all woman. I needed to sit to pee. I needed a bra to keep my breasts from bouncing all over. My hips and butt seemed exaggeratedly large, although Rufus pointed out that my hips were no wider than my shoulders. “And your butt,” he declared in English, with obvious satisfaction, “Your butt is a national treasure.”

The final week solidified all the changes. My labia grew full and plump. My breasts were firm and high. My legs were shapely and slender. My hair was soft and fine.

Rufus came to see me after lunch. “This is the last day of the transformation,” he told me. “I’m supposed to wait until after dinner to see you and give you a gift, but neither of us like to stand on ceremony, so… will you come with me now?”

He took me by the hand and led me through the ship, until we finally arrived at his cabin. “It’s lucky that a ship this size provides each of us with a room of his own,” he said. We entered. He closed the door. He had me sit on his bed, while he took the chair from his desk and sat facing me.

“Here it is,” he said. “Your gift.” He took from his desk a beautiful crystal glass, shaped like a small snifter, and he placed it in my hand. Then he opened a drawer and took out a small stoppered bottle that held about four ounces of a clear liquid. With a smile, he opened the bottle and emptied it into my glass. “Drink up,” he said. “Cheers!”

“What is it?” I asked, suspiciously.

“Yes, what is it? That’s a great question. This is another ritual element. The man gives it to the woman, the woman drinks it. On Earth, you’d call it Love Potion No. 9.” He laughed at that, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“Is it an aphrodisiac?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “Not at all. It’s a love potion. Supposedly, if you drink that cup, you’ll fall deeply in love with the next person who kisses you.”

“And does it work?”

“The women on my planet say it doesn’t. In fact, among my kind it’s regarded as highly traditional, but kind of corny. On the other hand, I’ve spoken to our exo-biologists, the ones who studied the Faraway. Anecdotal evidence suggests that female homo sapiens are likely to be susceptible. And now that you’re a female homo sapiens, we could generate some anecdotal evidence of our own. What do you say?”

What do I say? To myself, I say that I’ve come this far. I was handpicked from the multitudes on Earth to be turned into a babymaker, and further selected by the handsomest, nicest of my kidnappers. I hadn’t resisted anything they’d done to me so far — not that I had much choice. Still, I had to admit, I hadn’t resisted anything.

Although they never asked my consent before making me part of their adventure, I felt that they’d done right by me. They hadn’t abused me or humiliated or harmed me in any way. Now they needed me to save their species, their planet, their culture and achievements, their entire way of life.

What do I say? I looked Rufus in the eye. I smiled and said, “Bottoms up!” and drank the elixir in a quick series of gulps. I’m glad I was quick — there was something disagreeable in there, something that made me shudder as I handed back the glass.

Rufus’ face was full of concern. He watched me closely as I shook all over. “Woo!” I exclaimed, shaking my head, the way you do when you throw down a shot of whiskey. I straightened up and shouted, “Whoa! Oh my God!”

“Are you okay?” Rufus cautiously inquired.

I looked him in the eye, licked my lips, and told him in a low growl, “Plant one on me, big boy!”

He didn’t need me to ask twice. He stood in a crouch, knocking over the chair in the process, and placed his lips on mine, pressing gently on my shoulders so I reclined on the bed. He kissed me long. He kissed me hot and sloppy. Our mouths and tongues went at it like we were in a taffy-eating contest.

I don’t think I had such an all-absorbing makeout session since I was a teenager. My mind went absolutely blank. All there was in the universe was our kiss, and his hands all over me.

When at last we broke off, we were both gasping for air. He looked into my eyes, and I nodded. I was there for whatever he wanted to give me.

Rufus put one hand under my shoulders and another at the base of my spine, and shifted me up the bed, so my whole body, head to heels, was lying on it. I kicked off my shoes, and together we feverishly fumbled with my clothes until they were undone, open, off me, and lying on the floor.

Then, after his hands roved all over me, stroking me, feeling me, exploring me, exciting me, he yanked his clothes off in a matter of seconds. His erection cantilevered out from his body, bobbing like a long, thick prod.

“Are you ready for this?” he asked, his chest heaving, his muscles twitching.

“I don’t care if I’m ready,” I told him, “I just want it in me!”

In one smooth movement, he set one knee between my knees, then glided his body down so that as he lay on top of me, his cock slid smoothly and decisively inside me. DEEP inside me.

“OH!” I shouted in the loudest voice I ever mustered. My eyes opened wide, and I couldn’t blink for several minutes. He rode me, that’s all I can say: he rode me, pumping his long hardness so deep inside me, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d felt it in my throat.

“I love the way your breasts are jiggling,” he said, and he kissed me softly, then nibbled my earlobe.

Then he whispered, “Let’s try this now: wrap your legs around me. Put your arms around my neck and hang on.” Once I was ready, he got to his feet, his hands cupped under my butt, my arms over his shoulders.

He took a wide stance and started bouncing me up and down, like a pile driver, a sheath for his penis. “GOOD GOD!” I shouted, and actually screamed. I couldn’t help it.

“Can anyone hear us?” I whispered.

“Are you afraid they’ll be jealous?” he quipped.

I won’t describe the blow-by-blow, but I will say it was my first experience of multiple orgasms (and happily, not my last). After my third, I was lying on my stomach, trying to catch my breath.

“Have you cum?” I asked him. “I’m sorry, I was so overwhelmed, I couldn’t tell.”

“No, I haven’t,” he said. “Let’s take care of that now.” With that, he lay on top of me, his hips pressing into my soft derriere. With his hand, he guided his still-rocklike cock back inside me. Then he began thrusting. At first slowly, then faster and faster and faster. I began weeping, I was so overcome with emotion and sexual excitement. Rufus groaned and growled. He lifted my hips and brought me up on all fours and maneuvered me to the edge of the bed, so he could stand as he pounded into me. His hips and thighs bounced off my hindquarters as he drove into me, as if his cock was a battering ram and he were bursting through a door.

At last, I felt him swell inside me, pressing and stretching all my intimate anatomy. I squeezed my eyes shut, gritted my teeth, and tensed every muscle in my body as his cock seemed to swell to twice its size. Then it pulsed, a series of throbbing strokes — maybe a dozen — that gradually slowed and finally stopped. At that, he collapsed on top of me. I felt the weight of him over me. It was glorious.

Then he rolled off, the movement gently sliding his member out of me.

“Wow!” I said. “I’m convinced.”

“You’re convinced, are you?” We both laughed. He kissed me and asked, “You think you might want to do that again some time?”

I trailed my fingertips lightly over his chest and abs for a moment. Then I looked him in the eyes, smiled, and said, ”Recar em bo.”

His eyes popped open in surprise and delight.