A Second Life – 1

Introduction:
Well, here’s one from Cathy and I and Cathy’s stepfather. Cathy and I started it then he added a lot of the stuff about the old man’s memories – an old guy who thinks he should have been a girl. In our SF fantasy he gets both that wish and the implicit one. He doesn’t want to be an 82 year old woman. He wants to be a young, gorgeous babe. By the way “Otis”, Cathy’s stepfather, is only 58, so even he is only guessing what goes on in the mind of a really old man.
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Chapter 1: Another Life
I woke up slowly, not having any idea why I was now a female. The breasts would have been hint enough. They were firm and shapely. The kind I’d always adored most of my seventy years living on this world as an adult male. But I was laying flat on a bed or padded table. It wasn’t until I sat up some hours later that I would fully experience the force of gravity reminding me that I now definitely had mammary glands, nice squeezable ones.
The first indication was my missing genitals. I can’t say I was terrible upset because I was very heavily sedated. And besides, my body no longer felt like it should have genitals, at least not male ones. I could hardly lift my arms. But even without touching myself I could feel that I was now equipped with a cavity.
A man walked in the room, a young handsome man, strong looking. I knew, even without noticing his uniform, that he was a male nurse.
I think he said hello but my hearing was still very poor. The man laid his hand on my waist and massaged my belly a little. It felt good. And for some reason my new female body liked being touched by such a sexy male. Until Max touched me, I had not noticed my own nudity.
Phoenix had discovered right from the beginning that sexual eroticism was the best way to revive a sleeper. It was a fact that interested the press and spawned many a cheap romance tale of oldsters waking up in young bodies and falling in love with their nurses. The silly thing is it’s true, happens every time and hardly merits a story. It’s just good medical practice. The other thing is that these nurses hardly ever have mutual sex with their patients. Within a short while Max would start giving me the first of many orgasms. But by the time I could do for him what I wanted to do, I would no longer need his help and he would be working with a new female patient.
I knew about Phoenix. Everyone did. The company was the first and still most successful of those offering un-aging. The process was expensive. Some said unnecessarily so. With population pressure always a problem, recycling oldsters was just another way of adding to the burden. Making it affordable to everyone would make it a significant problem. The government had come up with a compromise. Tax it of course! The rich could afford a second chance, the middle class if they saved. The actual numbers who managed to pony up the fee where not so great. They added insignificantly to the added burden of new babies each year. And starting life again as an already educated adult meant a lot of resources were saved by not needing to educate newbies. Of course, training was often necessary if the person actually expected to work as a professional of some sort, even in the field he had been in fifty years earlier.
People who emerged from the tanks were legally the same age as when they entered. The process un-aged you. It did not un-grow you. It could do that, but tests with animals had shown you only get one chance to mature. If you took an eighty year old woman and regressed her back to a ten year old, she would start aging slowly, but would never mature, never reach adolescence. Most humans do not want to spend a second life time in the aging body of a child. So Phoenix was careful to stop at a point where maturity is completed and aging barely started. For females this left the woman seemingly about sixteen, for males around nineteen.
After my wife and son died together in an accident I had little to live for. I’d been retired for twenty years and was bored with my life of leisure, especially living it as a lonely old fart some eighty-two years of age. What Phoenix offered wasn’t what everyone wanted, even those who could afford it. Marge and I couldn’t afford it so we never had to make a choice. Then there was just me, and my son had this big life insurance policy he’d started in his thirties when he thought he was getting married. Since the girl had gotten cold feet, it turned out I was his only heir. No parent wants to inherit money from their child! I felt like killing myself. I remember wondering at one point if Phoenix was a way out of my misery. But it was only a passing speculation as far as I could remember. Apparently I was the one in three who had significant “short term” memory loss, because I had no memory of ever actually changing my mind and contacting the company. The last thing I could remember for sure was my birthday when I turned 82. Not having either my wife or son there had been especially depressing.
But waking up in the body of a luscious sixteen year old girl, it was hard to let myself be depressed. Martin Hess was some other person who had died a lonely old man. Man? That was the one thing that I could find no theory for. Phoenix didn’t change people’s sex. It only made them younger!
It was hard to communicate with Max. I could hardly talk. Even my whispers sounded like grunts, though that was an improvement from twenty minutes earlier. I could now hear and understand him when he said something. But communication was all one way. The second time he told me his name I understood him. But when his talented hands moved up toward my breasts, I lost interest in everything other than that delicious feeling. It had been so many years since I’d had an erection I could hardly remember being a functional male. And it had been many years before that since the last time a woman had given my penis this kind of attention. My wife had never liked sucking or fondling my member, though she had enjoyed intercourse into our late fifties. I was about forty-five the last time I’d paid a professional to give me a hand job. AIDS hadn’t been cured then so she wasn’t about to suck me. Anyway, I don’t remember her hands on my penis feeling anywhere as good as Max’s hands on my new overly ripe tits.
As a young man I’d always been interested in the question of who enjoyed sex more. Partly I sort of wondered if I was really a man myself. Somewhere inside I maybe wanted to be a woman. I loved heterosexual sex, the idea of male and female genitals locked together, the feel of myself inside a woman. But I always longed to know what it felt like for her to have me inside her vagina, or on those few occasions, inside her heinie. When I had fantasies, I was the female being ravished by one or more very male studs. But being the male in real life was still much better than not having sex.
I often wondered if I would like a homosexual relationship. But I was never tempted to find out. I could fantasize about being a sweet young girl having her pretty ass reamed. But I didn’t think I wanted anything to do with a man who’d find my hairy old ass attractive. And I didn’t feel any temptation myself to fuck other men, even young attractive ones.
Toward the end of the twentieth century they had developed sex change operations, with some interest in the male to female direction. I never heard much about women being given artificial penises, but the creation of an artificial vagina was practiced. Breasts were relatively simple. Give a guy girl hormones and “she” grows breasts, functional ones. With about the same prep as a regular woman who hasn’t had a baby, these breasts can be made to lactate. That part sounded interesting. Imagine having a man suckle my nipples and taste my abundant milk? Certainly orgasmic! Apparently the hormones also made “her” body less hairy and often improved “her” head hair.
But the vaginas they made didn’t sound so good. They cut an incision in the muscle, cut your penis in half and insert it inside out into the hole. This gives you nerve endings inside so you can feel something inside this cavity. But would it feel like you were a woman getting laid? Without a cervix? No womb? And probably not even the right feelings, just stupid feelings. I couldn’t believe it would be worthwhile. And what man would want to fuck such a klugey cavity? “Her” anus would probably be much better.
One thing I didn’t need Max to tell. However it had happened, what now opened up between my thighs was the real McCoy. I knew there was all the right equipment there inside this very female body. I didn’t know if I could conceive and give birth, though it felt like I could. It certainly felt like, with this body, I could have fun trying to get myself knocked up. Boy could I have fun! My life long fantasy, being a young, attractive female with eager men making love to me! I just knew I’d do for all these future men what women had rarely done for me, what women rarely do for men.
Most women like to make love by having sex. Men like to have sex and make love. The difference is women like my wife, Marge, don’t really want sex except to have babies. The rest of the time it’s just something men want to do. Marge always wanted to “just cuddle” especially after we were beyond the baby making stage. Every time she suggested it I felt like I died a little. It made it abundantly clear how little she’d cared for sex itself. And what every man wants, me included, was a woman who craved the sex itself along with the love making.
We have this fantasy, we men do, that there are women out there who crave sex the way we do. We don’t ever meet them, except maybe on the street in the red light district. But you never know if she’s just pretending. And many of them don’t even bother pretending. During my long marriage, in my thirties and forties, I occasionally paid for sex so I could enjoy some variety. It was never anywhere as good as the few affairs I had when a horny neighbor would fuck me only because she wanted me to fuck her. Those few times were always the best, doing it with a sexy woman who had no other reason for having you inside her vagina except that she wanted you there. And one of them wanted it in her fanny almost as much as in her pussy! Anal sex with a woman who liked anal sex! Marge did it a few times when we were first married and never learned to like it.
In my thirties the prostitutes were simply a diversion, putting my penis inside the vaginas of different women. The few really interesting experiences were again with neighbors, bondage, anal sex, fellacio. Cunnilingus too. My lovers always liked that. But the whores who wouldn’t suck my dick would let me eat them. They always seemed mildly surprised when I did it but didn’t tell me not to.
In my forties, my interest in whores became even less demanding. I wasn’t having affairs. My wife was one of the few women I’d ever been in bed with who didn’t want me to eat her, though it became necessary as she got older if we didn’t use KY. I longed for a woman who would spread her thighs in pleasure when I went down on her. Fellacio from professionals was still out, but hand jobs with lubricant was fine. So I’d do coitus with my wife about once a week and about once a year I’d pay a whore to touch my erection with her fingers and let me kiss and lick her vagina, which surprised most of them. I never bothered to explain to them that I was getting enough missionary sex from my wife. I think I was forty-five the last time I paid for a hand job.
God! Almost forty years ago! No wonder I can’t remember it well enough to compare it to the tit squeezing Max is giving me. And here you’d think I could actually make the call, having been a man and now finding myself a young woman. I suppose if I’d just been a young man I’d be able to make the judgment call. But I know my life long prejudices are clouding my feelings. I always believed a woman could potentially enjoy sex more than a man, though I could never understand why they were so often reluctant to do so. Anyway, I am convinced that what I’m feeling is much better than what would be experienced by a male body in this situation.
Max has just asked me something which I didn’t quite understand. I hope he was asking me if I wanted him to be a bit more intimate in his fondling. Whatever he asked I smile because I think I will love anything he does to me.
He is now massaging my legs. It feels wonderful, especially my thighs, even when he isn’t brushing up against my crotch. I even like what he keeps doing to my feet! But now he’s cupping my genitals. My pussy lips cupped into the palm of a beautiful man. I never expected this. I never expected having pussy lips though I’ve often had them in my daydreams. I don’t miss my penis at all, because I’m not even remotely a male any more and don’t even have any residual feelings, only memories. I remember caressing women this way. Did any of them enjoy it as much as I am right now?
My legs are starting to get a little strength in them and my first act is to spread them as much as possible, which is only slightly. But Max can see what I’m doing and trying to do. He’s a professional doing his job. But I can see he enjoys his job and enjoys seeing a girl show her pleasure as much as she can. It’s funny. I’m at least 82 years old. But I feel like a shy girl of sixteen in the hand of a masterful seductor, a man I want to please more than anything.
I can feel the warmth where his hand touches me. I can feel the joy down there as he explores my intimate places. His finger is inside me. It feels good, like he’s massaging my insides. If I could roll over I might be tempted to do so and see if he’d do the same for my anus. But I think he will anyhow when he gets to it.
My whole body needs massaging and Max is attentive. Not all his time is spent squeezing my breasts, feeling inside my crevice, or fondling my fanny. So much time is spent manipulating my limbs and neck and face and feet that I am all the more appreciative when he returns to one of my erogenous zones. This is a sexual massage at its best! If I’d woken up a man the nurse would have been an attractive female.
Max seems so personally interested in my sex. His fingers are constantly inside enticing my interest. He’s now had me on my tummy several times and done the same in my anus. My body is still so disconnected that I cannot fully feel my first few orgasms. They seemed to happen in remote control. My pussy feels happy, then suddenly I’m convulsing down there, twitching in the dance of love. Yet up here in my brain I am only aware of what’s happening, but not taking a part. Each time, however, the feeling become more general, more wide spread. The fourth one seemed to reach my nipples. I could see and feel them swelling up with pleasure. When the feeling gets all the way to my brain I think I will finally know the best part of being a female!
Max will stay with me for about twenty hours. Then he will have a two day break before his next patient. He tells me this is because he gets tired giving, and receiving, so much pleasure. The first massage lasts about an hour and only stops after I have experienced several full body orgasms and shown that I can move my head and limbs.
For about an hour we just talk, with me still lying on my back. I am naked, of course, and would have myself no other way being here with my lover. Max knows how I feel and constantly reinforces my feelings with appreciative glances at the parts of my body. There is no reason I should not want him to look where he has been fondling me. In fact, I much prefer he does. During this break, like a good masseur, Max maintains some body contact, holding my hand, or resting his fingers somewhere on my body. He is not always touching my pussy lips. But he has done this so much that anywhere he touches me feels like he’s still fingering my privates. I would have this never end, even if it meant never getting up off this bed. But my fee did not include paying for Max for the rest of my life. Nor would he want to stay here. He’s a nurse, not a sex provider.
With only slight difficulty I can now form words and ask questions. But it is much harder to talk than think. I want to know how much memory I’ve lost. But I simply ask what day it is.
“January 17, 2087” is his answer. I turned 82 in 2085, and 83 last fall and remember nothing about it. The Phoenix process takes about two months before they wake you up. But around fourteen months seem to be missing. Some time during that year I apparently decided to go ahead and pay for the operation.
“I used to be a man?” I meant to ask why I was now a woman but that wasn’t necessary. Max knew what I meant.
“Yes. I’ve never encountered it before, but I have heard of it happening. I’m only a nurse and the doctors will explain more fully. Do you mind being a woman?”
“No, love it.” I managed to squeak out.
“Good. One of the things they’ll tell you is that the company is not responsible for what happened. It’s possible you might want to sue, but no one has yet. Apparently this only happens to people who really want it to happen. Probably a very careful study before hand might have predicted it. But since the result is benign there’s no reason to go to such an expense with every customer. You know the basic process?”
I nodded, but he still gave me the cook’s tour. In fact, I actually didn’t really know how the process worked. He didn’t either. But he knew a lot more than I did.
“The cells are purged of poisons, and the body is purged of bad cells, even parts of bad cells in many cases. Aging leaves trash throughout the whole body. Cancer is eliminated. But what is cancer? How does the machinery recognize such cells? How does it examine every cell in your body? It doesn’t. It lets the healthy cells throw out the bad ones, like excess fat cells. Or throw out the bad parts of the bad cells. The other cells vote on what’s good. Apparently, in your case, a majority of your body thought you were supposed to be female.
“This probably included your brain which is why you like the result. I’ve been told that men who change during the process are the most female of females when they emerge. They become every man’s dream girl. We try to keep this out of the general public knowledge to protect your privacy. Otherwise, half the world would be trying to sign you up as a porn star the minute you walked out the door. Our only advice is go slow. Enjoy yourself but don’t make it a point of telling your lovers why you’re such a fantastic lover. A female of a different kind is an oddity. But as long as people just think you’re a regular woman at the high end of being sexy, there won’t be that problem.
“By the way, you’re even more fertile than most sixteen year old healthy girls. Apparently the narrow window of fertility each month doesn’t apply. Unlike other girls, you can get knocked up almost two weeks in every month. So if you don’t want a lot of babies or abortions, you have to take birth control seriously. I won’t even suggest abstinence. The records show that it’s absolutely impossible in a case like yours. You’ll go crazy if you don’t fuck multiple times during each fertile period. Apparently, after going to so much trouble making you into a woman, your body is determined to make use of the fact. I can see from your smile that this whole idea excites you.”
While telling me all this, Max started again fondling my crotch. I guess he’d decided I’d had enough physical rest. I now had almost full control of my legs, at least sideways, and used this to open them wide for him. I never realized it felt so good for the girl when she was just being cooperative. Just opening my legs for him felt surprisingly erotic. And it felt wonderful to be able to open myself up completely, not just a few inches like I’d managed earlier. I would quickly discover in the weeks ahead that offering myself to a man in any way or any position was surprisingly, delightfully erotic, even if he did nothing to me immediately. Just bending over and spreading my buns so he can easily fuck me is almost as good as actually getting fucked. I sometimes start having orgasms just anticipating what I hope will come next. Do other women have this much sensitivity or am I really an “oddity”?
While Max squeezed and rubbed and penetrated, I fell open to his touch. It felt so wonderful to be wide open with his fingers inside me! I never wanted to feel my thighs touch each other, never wanted to leave this bed, never wanted to feel his fingers withdraw from my insides. But I knew this would end eventually. The trick would be to find men who wanted to fuck me frequently. I probably knew more about what men wanted than most regular women. I was sure I could arrange something.
As I thought about it I realized that the insurance money would have been much more than the process fee. When I left the clinic, I wouldn’t have to work for a long time. Perhaps with proper management I could even live indefinitely off my dividend earnings. I didn’t have a marketable trade being forty years obsolete in my previous profession. About the only thing I could think of that I might enjoy doing would be prostitution. I could hardly remember what a whore got paid when I was buying the services. I’d heard that with legalization, health issues finally solved, and the changes in morality making the profession more socially acceptable so that women where now more than ever willing to do it, the price had gone down. But with organized crime no longer involved, the girls got to keep most of the money, taxes being much lower than a pimp’s cut. So the profession paid the girls today a better income per customer.
What would I call myself? Martin could become Mary. But that sounded too goodie. Marie or Maria? I wasn’t sure what I looked like as a girl. Could I pass for Spanish? I would change my last name also. Not Hess. Maybe Hermosa? In Mexico maybe “pretty Mary” would sound presumptuous. But in an English speaking country it would sound sweet and exotic. Maria Hermosa I decided just as I suddenly realized that I was having another orgasm, and this one was turning into a whopper! This time I felt it everywhere, in my toes, my ass, my shoulders, my face, and naturally, my tits and clit. I felt myself arching, pushing my crotch up to meet his fingers, gushing my love juice up to his hand, though much of it falling back on my crotch, the insides of my thighs, and the sheet under my fanny. As I calmed down I realized I’d thrown my arms up over my head. It was the first time I’d moved them more than a few inches. Phoenix knew what they were doing using erotic stimulation to get a girl’s ticker back up to speed!

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