I fell into a deep sleep, utterly spent, after she left, but I woke up again around four in the morning. Two utterly surprising thing had happened in a single evening. I didn’t know which was the bigger surprise. I’d had a little experience with anal play over the years, but nothing even close to what had just happened. Giving someone a finger or two, or taking them, was nothing by comparison. She’d stretched my ass bigger than any pussy and then she’d been inside me. I’d felt her fingers moving. It made regular intercourse seem like shaking hands.

So this was what they called fisting. I’d thought it was just a rough gay sex thing, something brutal, like the name implied. In reality it was nothing like that at all. It was the most intimate moment I’d ever shared with another person. And I wanted more. I thought about when it would happen again and felt the sexual tension building.

My mind turned to the other surprise. I was wearing a stretch lace teddy with a snap crotch; I unsnapped it and touched my cock. It was limp. I was aroused and I was limp, somehow. The arousal was a general thing, a mood, not focused in my cock like in the old days.

The door opened. No lights were on, but I could see the outline of my wife, wearing her big bathrobe. She sat on the side of the bed. She touched my knee and ran her hand slowly up till she reached my crotch. Her hand found the unsnapped teddy.

“Good. You saved me the trouble..”

I rolled my hips back, presenting myself to her. I felt the coolness of lubricant, first on the outside and then deeper and she worked in the lube with one and then multiple fingers. I spread my legs wide, opening myself as far as possible. We were both in a hurry. Within a few seconds she had worked in four fingers; I was still well stretched from the night before. I sensed when she was ready; I pressed down at the same time she pushed in. I felt my ass blossom as I pressed; she slid smoothly inside. The wonderful feeling of fullness was back.

“God, that feels so good. And it didn’t hurt at all.”

“You were awake when I came in,” she said. “What were you thinking?”

“About that I came limp.”

“I don’t think you know how much that turns me on. Any woman can make a hard cock come. I can do it with a soft one.” She wiggled her fingers just a bit.

“You can indeed.”

“And it doesn’t matter. You’re not allowed to have intercourse anyway, As long as you get release, what’s the difference?”

“I think . . . I ought to be upset about it but I’m not.”

“That’s good, because there isn’t anything you can do. It’s a side effect.”

“The estrogen?”

“And the pills to block the testosterone. They shut down your testicles.”

“Doctor Spector told you that? When?”

“We talked on the phone. I keep him up to date.” She pressed a little deeper; I gasped with pleasure. “He said this is normal after a month. Actually, you held out longer than most men. They must have made a lot of juice.”

“So, I’ll be this way till we stop?”

“Oh, yes.” She slowly opened her fingers. “How’s that?”

“Like heaven on earth.”

Very slowly, she began working me, going deeper inside me by fractions of an inch, gently reaching around and exploring me. Her other hand ran over my body, checking my limp cock from time to time, but gradually focusing on my nipples. “They’re sensitive now, aren’t they?”

“Is that the estrogen?”

“People think you give a man a shot of estrogen and the next morning he looks up looking like Dolly Parton. Hormones are hormones. It takes the same amount of time for a man to grow breasts as a woman. It takes years. But they get sensitive quickly.”

“You’ve learned a lot.”

She moved her hand a bit, as if reminding me that she was in charge. “This was my idea, it’s my responsibility.”

“What else is there to know?”

“Mmm. That I really, really like fucking you with my hand. I could get used to this.”

“It’s like nothing else.”

“And that I really like your limp dick.”

“You’re okay with it?”

She chuckled. “I made it that way, didn’t I?” I felt that her face was coming closer, and then I felt her take my cock in her mouth. It had been years since she’d done that. I was so small, there was room left over. I felt her run her tongue over it, circling the head, slowly and then faster.

“You’re trying to see if it can get hard, aren’t you?” By way of answer, she began raising and lowering her head slightly, trying to get some response. Her hand moved a little deeper, too. I felt closer to coming, but no closer to having an erection. Her mouth on my cock was pleasant, but that was all. Nothing compared to the waves of pleasure that her hand was giving me.

If she failed to get me erect, it was not from want of trying. She did everything you can do with lips, tongue, gums, and teeth to my cock; she did them lightly, firmly, slowly, quickly, and nothing happened. At last she let go. “Looks like it’s not going to be any good to a woman.”

“Not till I stop the treatments.”

“It makes me feel a lot better, knowing you’re this way.” She started working her hand. It was like electricity coursing through me. The center of my world was that hand and every movement ran through me like electricity.

“Better?” I gasped.

“Safer. And in control. Now I can do things and not worry.”

“Things?” I felt the sperm spurting out of my limp cock.

“Oh, you’ll see. You’re going to need a new name. You’re not a man anymore. From now on your name is Suzee. I think that’s a good name for a maid.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The next six weeks or so were a happy time. I lost another ten pounds. I was starting to see some progress with the electrolysis sessions. My law work went well, I made good progress with my drama coach, and I was beginning to master the art of makeup. My hair was going to take a long time to reach a female length, but it was growing in thicker and fuller than I remembered—a side effect of the estrogen, she said. There were other side effects as well. My skin had softened, and I could feel my clothes starting to fit differently. I was losing muscle mass in my neck and shoulders and adding fat to my butt and thighs. My pants were looser at the waist and tighter in the seat. There were no erections anymore, and sometimes it seemed like my testicles were not as large. Certainly they were getting drained enough—perhaps the main thing I remember from those days was how many times I came. I don’t know if it was discovering fisting, or the fact that I was limp, but my wife was voracious. Nearly every night, and often in the mornings, she fisted me till I came. As time went by and I was stretched more, she explored me further, going deeper inside me. We found that I needed less lubrication and I could tolerate more vigorous penetration. I became like an aroused woman; she would part my legs, use a dab of lubrication for safety’s sake, and slide deep inside me. Each time the experience was more intense. And I learned what she meant about being happy that I was impotent. She would tell me to masturbate as hard as I could, While I did she would tease me, telling me she was naked under her robe, parting it just a bit to give me a glimpse of breast or thigh, telling me how wet she was. And then, when I stayed limp, she would talk about how it was a shame she was wasting her time with me when there were men out there with big cocks. And the taunts always brought me to climax, even though it was a limp one. She would watch as I spurted and then tease me all the more. A few times she followed up on the masturbation sessions by blindfolding me and sitting on my face, grinding herself against me till she came.

She used the stretching of my anus as a punishment tool as well. If I made a mistake, like forgetting an errand, she wouldn’t get mad, she would simply say, “Suzee, fill the bottle,” and I would have to bring her the enema bulb filled with clear water. I would have to face away from her and lean forward and grasp my ankles. She would pull down my panties and insert the nozzle. Then she would ask if I knew why she was doing this. I would have to answer that I was being punished for my own good so I could be a better maid. She would slowly squeeze the bulb till it was empty. Then I would be allowed to leave. But even though the amount of water was small, my anus would no longer shut completely. After a few minutes, when I moved or turned in the course of doing my chores, I would start to leak. I would have to change panties and sometimes my uniform. I wasn’t allowed to expel it and get it over with; I had to let it dribble out.

Clear water was used for ordinary mistakes; on the occasions when I was deliberately disobedient, there were two other punishments. If we were home she would say, “Suzee, fill the bottle with soap.” I would have to add a generous portion of dishwashing liquid in the bulb; and after she had injected me I would have to put on Depends. They would stay on overnight. If I displeased her in the morning, she would force me to drink a big glass of Epson salts and then send me to work in Depends under my suit. I tried hard not to displease her.

There’s a saying that nothing good ever lasts. What we had didn’t last, and the problem started with me.

I’d always been of two minds about all the formal dinner parties she wanted. The idea of serving as the maid was exciting, of course, and as my appearance changed I began to think it was possible I could pass. But I had my own career to think of as well, and as the time to start the party routine grew closer, it became clear that I could not do both.

I remember clearly the night I told her that we would have to scale back her party schedule to three or four. It was a Sunday night, as I recall. It was in her bedroom, after her evening massage. Twelve was simply not practical. I explained my reasons and she listened patiently. To my surprise, she didn’t argue or try to convince me. She simply said she could see how I felt and she would think about how we could cut back on the schedule. We had a good session of fisting that night—they were always good—and I went to sleep at peace with the world. It was a relief to have that problem off the table.

There was no change in our new routine the rest of the week. The sex was great, my confidence in my ability to pass increased, even the electrolysis seemed less of an annoyance.

And then Thursday came.

She came home that evening to find me on the sofa, having my first drink in months. She looked at the glass and at me. The look on my face stopped her. Instead of asking why I was off my diet, or not in my uniform, she just asked, “What’s wrong?”

I took a pull at my drink. It burned going down. “I got fired today.”

She sat down and touched my arm. “Oh my God; what happened?”

“The managing partner called me in. He was very angry. He said there had been rumors about me being a pervert. That he was afraid that the staff was going to be uncomfortable, or that we would get sued for tolerating perversion in the workplace. He said they couldn’t stand for it.”

“Perversion? What was he talking about?”

“I don’t know how, I thought I was careful.”

“Careful?”

“He said that the rumors were that I was wearing women’s underwear to the office and flaunting it. And that they wouldn’t tolerate it. If it was true I had a choice of resigning on the spot or being fired.”

“I can’t believe that they knew! Or that they would handle it that way. You didn’t do anything.”

“He said there were lots of rumors, kiddie porn, all sorts of things he wasn’t even going to discuss. But that the proof that I was a pervert was the clothes. Only a pervert would wear women’s clothes, he said.”

“What did you say?”

“I was in shock, of course. I didn’t know what to say. Then he said that he wasn’t 100% sure he believed the stories. That I had been a good associate.” I swallowed. “That I was on the partnership track and they would hate to lose me if there was any chance it wasn’t true.”

“That’s good. But why wasn’t that good enough?”

“He said that he knew he couldn’t make me do this, but if I wanted to prove my innocence, if I would just take off my jacket and shirt there in his office, that would be all the proof he would need. They valued me and wanted this over with.” I took another sip of my drink.

“Honey, I’m so sorry how this turned out.”

“If I’d taken my shirt off he would have seen that he was right.”

“Could someone have seen the bra straps? Did you have your jacket off?”

I snorted. “It’s summer in Pennsylvania. It’s ninety degrees sometimes. Sure, I’ve had my jacket off. And if it was hot enough to take it off, I guess it was hot enough to make my shirt sticky.”

“I guess it only takes one person to notice. Did he say anything about your appearance? Your skin being smoother, getting thinner, your hair longer, anything like that?”

“No, it was just about the underwear. But you know, maybe somebody noticed that, too.” I put down my drink. Looking at the table, I felt myself starting to cry. I felt so sad and overwhelmed. I didn’t have it in me to feel angry or resentful. I just let the tears come. I didn’t know what else to do.

She cradled my head against her chest. “There, there,” she said. “It’s going to be all right. I know you’re upset and that’s natural. Just let it go,” she murmured. “This is the estrogen, you know,” she whispered. “It makes you emotional.”

It was comforting to have my face buried against her. I felt safe. “The estrogen?” I asked through my tears.

She patted the back of my head. “When men are upset, they get angry. Women cry. At least sometimes.” She rocked me gently. “Did you think all the changes would be on the outside?”

I was still sobbing. “I’ve—I’ve never felt so—like there’s this huge wave breaking over me and there’s nothing I can do.”

“I’ve got a little secret for you, woman to woman. We may have a good cry but we’re tougher than the men. They get upset and they may do something they have to live with forever. We get a good cry and it done, and we move on. Now breathe slowly.”

The tears began to subside. I got my breathing under control and sat up. “Thanks,” I whispered.

“This is going to happen when there are upsetting things,” she said. “Just remember that you’re not going crazy. You just deal with things differently now.”

“It kind of hit me by surprise,” I admitted. “I’m feeling better now.”

“Let’s think this through,” she said. “We have to stay calm. If you were going to have a sex change operation, they couldn’t fire you for that, could they?”

“I don’t think so. I really don’t think the underwear was the issue. It was more like proof that other accusations were true. If they thought I was into child porn that would be enough right there.”

“It’s so unfair. Is there any chance they will reconsider?”

“No.”

She gave a brave smile and took my hand. “Then we have to move on.”

“Yes, we do,” I agreed.

“I have a plan,” she said.