The New One
A Vignette
By Maryanne Peters

I had come home from the party early. Walt had been talking to some of his business buddies and I was bored.

“That’s okay, sweetie,” he said. “You go home and slip into something nice and I will be along shortly.”

I took our limo and told Pedro (our chauffeur) to go back and wait for his master, not that I said that word. I don’t even use the word in relation to myself anymore. I hadn’t used “Daddy” for a long time too. It seemed inappropriate. After all, we were married in all by the legal sense. He was in love with me, and I (in my own way) loved him

I picked out some nice underwear – something that showed off my beautiful breasts, grown only by hormone therapy. Something with a see-through front so that he could see my trimmed bush, and the vestige of a penis, and only a penis, beneath it. I douched my pussy and lubricated a little, just in case he felt like some action when he got home. He was old, but he was fit and kept a jar of blue pills in his bedside drawer.

I lay in bed and read for a while. I had taken to reading romance novels on my Kindle. I used to think that it was my sense of romance that had helped us in our relationship. I had come to think of it as being based on love, not on sex, and certainly not on money. If I had been a gold-digger when it started, romance had changed all of that.

I heard him on the stairs and I rushed to the mirror. I needed to check. My hair was perfect and my makeup still fresh from the party. I gave myself a wink as if to say that sex was bound to be the way this evening would finish.

But then I saw him enter and to my shock, he was not alone. I snapped my head around to see who this was, the stranger who would enter the bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. Johnson.

It was a boy. You might not have thought so because of the blonde wig and the low cut sleeveless white cocktail dress revealing a hopeless attempt to creates a cleavage with wired strapless bra. He could have been me, years ago. He was just as pretty, but still had the hard edges of androgen about him. If he was on estrogen, it would have been only a few months – softening takes time.

Walt could see the look of shock on my face, already turning to rage.

“I can explain, darling,” he said. “This is Crystal …”.

I keep a pistol in the toy poodle on the dresser, and for a moment I thought about pulling it out and waving it about. It would just be to make a point. It was not loaded. The point being that I was annoyed and entitled to shoot an intruder. But instead, I just turned and stared. What kind of a name is Crystal anyway? It sounds like a truck stop whore.

“She is in a similar situation to you, sweetheart, or as you were once…”.

I suddenly thought that it might be his own hair. There was plenty of it, but no styling, and the body was hairless and showed the early signs of hormone softening. I looked at him accusingly. It was apparent that I had decided not to speak. I would let my eyes scream at him.

“She just needs a place to stay … an environment where she can develop … perhaps with your help.

Watch my screaming eyes, you bastard!

“Look, I will show her to the spare room,” he said, through shaking lips.

Men find it hard to deal with feminine anger on this scale. I was having a hard enough time managing it myself!

“Come along Crystal, let me show you where you can go.” He shuffled over to her and guided her back to the door.

Straight to hell, as far as I am concerned.

He came to bed only seconds later. He slipped off his clothes and sidled towards me. I slapped him on the hand very hard. No sex for you, you prick! As much as I wanted it, he needed to know who was running this household, and it certainly wasn’t him. He just pays for it. There is no place for a new one.

The End
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The Image is something from Priscilla called “the Johnsons are home” but to me the look back from the mirror was pure jealousy. Isn't it incredible that AI can throw up these things, like the monkey watchmaker?