Addicted to Womanhood 1

by Zoe Brown

  But when the stories failed to go away, and more and more video and photographic (to say nothing of pornographic) evidence began to accumulate, the world slowly started to take a little more notice. Journalists and geneticists tried to debunk the rumors and (largely) failed. Veracity was established in a fairly high-number of the reported claims, but no one at GENTECH could readily explain this unexpected side effect to their ‘Aphrodite’ drug. None of the other combination drugs had similar effects – ‘Adonis’ did not turn women into beautiful men, for example - and it took some months of research before scientists working for a competing company managed to locate the specific gene sequence responsible for the unexpected side-effect. By then, the public relations storm had already hit.

  As might have been expected, the first reports of the unexpected side-effect’s actuality came from transgender women who were surprised and delighted to discover the drug’s effect upon their ‘Amab’ bodies. Trans women across the world quickly began buying up the drug in large quantities, and many ordered extensive supplies of it from online wholesale suppliers. After that, less-decidedly-trans individuals, many of whom, though, had questioned their gender identities at some point in the past, as well as other individuals who were either just curious about or else turned on by the idea of taking a temporary walk on the woman’s side of the aisle, began to try it as well. Gradually, the wider world began to wake up to the existence of a new, game-changing sexual enhancement drug on the open market: not just transgender women, but also cis men could now take ‘Aphrodite’ and temporarily experience life (and especially sex) as a beautiful young woman, on a temporary basis, for a… not-completely-insane price.

  Honestly… it should have been a game changer. ‘Aphrodite’ should have opened a door onto increased empathy and greater understanding between the sexes, and it should have fired off hundreds of conversations about the malleability and fluidity of gender identity and the oppositional vs. cooperative roles that self-determination, genital assignment, and societal expectation play in gender identity formulation – but it never really got the chance to do any of those things. Instead, as stories about young men experimenting with the drug began to go public, to the shock and surprise of relatively no one, conservative reactionaries came out hard against the new ‘Sex-Change Drug,’ and, spewing fears that its debut could lead to ‘a breakdown of societal norms’ and ‘widespread perversion,’ demanded that it be pulled from circulation and banned. Many countries, districts, and municipalities (Russia and China obviously, but also including the U.S., Mexico, Canada, and the EU) legislated against the drug or classified it as a controlled substance, to be subjected to further testing and evaluation before it could potentially be released back onto the market as prescription product for transgender women to use – under a doctor’s supervision and at ten or twenty times the cost. But in its eagerness to avoid further public backlash after the disastrous debut of their Imagine Yourself product line a few years earlier, GENTECH went a full step and a half further under public pressure and halted production of the drug entirely in December 2015, disposing of their existing stock and taking it back to formula, despite the pleas of transgender women (and other happy customers who were enjoying their new, gender-bending adventures). ‘Aphrodite’ was not returned to the market again until a year later, after the uniquely gender-bending gene sequence that had created its unexpected side-effects was isolated and removed, effectively killing ‘The Sex Change drug’ as a legal product.

  And yet while GENTECH and its competitors returned to their business-as-normal existence after the controversy passed, the original gender-bending-drug formula was leaked onto the streets by unknown parties looking to make a quick fortune. A host of quasi-legal, off-the-books pharmaceutical operations that made knock-off ‘generics’ of various Temporary Cosmetic Enhancers immediately began production on a new, black-market variant of the original ‘Aphrodite,’ and started pushing it to the streets in the spring of 2016 under a new name, one more cognizant of what it was intended to do: Werewoman.

  Werewoman became an overnight sensation in the underground TCE market. The illicit knock-off drug promised its users the same sorts of sexy, delicious gender-bending adventures and experiences that ‘Aphrodite’ had done, but there were a few tweaks that were built into the street-version that were designed to heighten its intended new purpose as a sexual-encounter-enhancement drug as well: the transformation that had taken between two and three, maybe three-and-a-half minutes with ‘Aphrodite’ was lengthened to a slower, more sensually-appreciable and voyeuristically-slash-exhibitionistically-minded five minutes, give or take. It hit the body hard and fast, and quickly moved the transforming individual from a male to a more classically-female form, but then lingered teasingly over the final stages of the transition from sexually-male to sexually-female genitalia, allowing transformees the chance to enjoy their shifting genitalia with partners of either sex not merely after they changed, but also whilst they were still changing. Moreover, the most popular new ‘street’ formula of the drug was designed to include an age-reversing component as well: now not only would Werewoman turn a man into a beautiful woman, it would now turn a man – of any age, even advanced old age (though that was considered extremely unsafe, as bodies past the age of sixty-five or seventy had difficulty sustaining the energy levels and biorhythms of a much younger-seeming individual, even on a temporary basis) – into a beautiful, sexy young woman (still that specific kind of sexy, a very glamour-model, pin-up-girl kind of sexy) in her early-to-mid-twenties. A few street-variations provided for transformations into thirty-something ‘Goddess-Werewomen,” forty-something ‘MILF-Werewomen,’ and “Cougar-Werewomen” (for fifties on up). There were even a few variants that included the sorts of controversial ‘ethnicity-altering’ formulae that had briefly cratered GENTECH stock, back in the day, though these were nearly three times again as expensive as the vanilla, cum-and-go-as-you-are variants.

  As an unlicensed, underground ‘knock-off’ that was very sexy, very illicit, and very in-demand in some circles, the many different variant strains of Werewoman could be sold very lucratively in baggies of 30 pills for (for the baseline formula) around three thousand dollars. Nine thousand dollars would purchase enough the drug to last a single user a month – without the user ever having to change back into a man between doses. Each pill promised users eight hours as a beautiful, libidinous young woman per dose; increasing the dose additively extended the duration of the experience. Along with numerous other TCE knock-off and unlicensed products, Werewoman was sold on the streets by pushers, dealers, underground club suppliers, ‘mobile apothecaries,’ and online by offshore websites based in countries that had no regulations against the sale of knock-off drugs.

  Almost as soon as it hit the streets, Werewoman reignited the gender-bending subculture that had been quick to emerge in the wake of ‘Aphrodite’s’ original debut. Only now, given the drug’s socially taboo nature and potential illegality (laws varied from place to place), that culture moved out of the public eye and into the underground: shady clubs, smoky bars, rowdy on-campus ‘greek’ parties, and other places where people came together to consume a variety of legal and … less legal substances in the name of fun and recreation. As might have been expected, the drug’s newly-illicit nature heightened interest in it, and a number of young people experimented with Werewoman in the months following its appearance on the streets, some of them so that they could explore their own gender identities and sexualities, some of them just out of curiosity or because they were dared to, and some of them just so that they could have a hot, sexy, naughty adventure as a member (albeit a temporary one) of the fairer sex.

  There was a quick and loud backlash against this underground gender bending experimentation by men who felt that their masculinity was being threatened by the drug and its promises that it could turn even the biggest, manliest, most macho of men into a beautiful, sensual, curvaceous goddess with a bottomless appetite for sex (as well
as some women who believed the drug made a mockery out of their womanhood). A popular twitter trend off and on for several months was #RealMenDon’tGirlDope, but as time passed even some of the men most firmly ensconced in their machismo began taking an interest in Werewoman, not because they wanted the experience for themselves, but because they harbored secret fantasies about banging their best friend as a chick, or about taking some of the extraordinarily gorgeous gender-bending ‘Werewomen’ who enjoyed using the drug home with them from the club. Illicit smartphone apps began emerging that advertised pubs, bars, concerts, and clubs where men could expect to meet gender-bending Werewomen. Some men even fancied striking up relationships with the part-time women, offering them incentives to keep taking the drug and remain female more or less indefinitely on it (except for unavoidable responsibilities such as work and school), while participating in a relationship with them. These ‘incentives’ ranged in form from love to money to security to glamour to luxury to travel and to comfort. Many of the young gender-bending Werewomen resisted such offers, interested chiefly in the temporary high they got off of becoming women and enjoying a night of sensuality and femininity every once in a while, but many others were tempted into giving such arrangements a try now and again.

  This is the world in which our story takes place.

  Chapter One

  Timestamp: Friday, 28th of September, 2018. Today.

  Come on, already. When will this interminable day end??

  It was 4:38 in the afternoon, Friday afternoon, and the secretly-arranged, first-time erotic adventure that I had scheduled myself for the upcoming weekend filled all of my mind. It was driving me to absolute distraction.

  “... and, ah, our projections indicate that, um, shares in NEXTSoft will … hmm, ah, continue to appreciate throughout the course of Q1 and likely into Q2, although there is a, ah, possibility that …”

  Barbara Markham’s awkward tedium haltingly tripped and stumbled its way through the Market Projections presentation, but the specifics of what the woman was outlining kept slipping from my mind, as much as I battled to keep my attention focused. Part of the blame, certainly, rested on the woman’s delivery. Although she was as sharp as a tack when it came to her numbers, as CRO for my San Francisco-based Rhodes Multinational Holdings, the greying and bespectacled forty-seven-year-old Markham was a public speaking disaster, continuously vacillating between boring her audience with overlong presentations and stumbling over the finer points within her remarks. She was, in fact, so utterly terrible at delivering presentations in a coherent and intelligible way that it was only the sheer scope of her genius with the numbers aspect of her position that allowed me to justify keeping her on as my CRO. Contradictions, retractions, restatements and the like rendered her spoken remarks nearly incomprehensible, but fortunately the printed reports that went along with the floundering oration more than adequately came through where verbal delivery failed.

  My attention drifted yet again. Reluctantly, I yanked it back.

  Glancing discreetly around the Executive conference room, I could see that most of my other senior managers were similarly struggling to remain attentive during Markham’s remarks. In fact, the way Burkle was slumped back in his chair, with his head down, ostensibly reading along with the presentation, the man might have been asleep. That made me feel a little bit better, but still, I had to shoulder the greater responsibility for my distracted state myself. After all, six months ago I would never have found it this hard to concentrate on the Chief Revenue Officer’s projections for the financial prospects of my Fortune 500 Holdings Company. Six months ago, I had been a shark, single-minded and driven beyond the point of obsessing over every last, minute detail that Markham could manage to squeeze into her ninety-minute Friday afternoon presentations, looking for the slightest edge that could push my company’s earnings over projections and beyond the reach of our competitors: up, up, up into the stratosphere. Six months ago, I’d have been interrupting Markham’s disconnected rambles with a stream of laser targeted questioning, dragging the length of the meeting out to over two hours, well beyond the official end-of-day (to many of my employees’ unspoken annoyance, I was sure.)

  Today, on the other hand, I was largely silent, especially as the meeting drew on closer to the end of the work day. Instead of fixedly obsessing over the financials, I fidgeted noticeably in my seat, and my hands faintly trembled beneath the table with an excited case of nerves. My subordinates were not blind to these details. Several times this afternoon I had caught (out of the corner of my eyes) one or another of my senior executives sneaking a peek in my direction, seated as I was at the head of the conference table, no doubt wondering what was keeping their normally-hyperattentive CEO and boss from weighing in on either the presentation or the reports, and why I seemed so restless in my seat.

  Hah, I thought. If they only knew. I smothered a smirk, feeling a surge of deliciously taboo thrills at the idea, though I hastily suppressed them. Tantalizingly brief daydream images of the sensual and exciting weekend that I hoped lay in store for me flashed through my mind, and I shoved those thoughts away as well. Beneath the table, I felt myself starting to get hard inside my slacks, but I stubbornly resisted the sensation. This wasn’t the time to lose myself in fantasies, no matter how stimulating they might be. A few slow, deep breaths and a couple of quick mental refocusing exercises later, the stiffening receded, and my body relaxed once more. Pleased with myself, and with my self-control, I sat back in my chair again and scratched the underside of my chin. I took in another slow, deep breath, and remained in control. Now was not the time for naughty desires.

  Soon, though.

  …Another couple of minutes, however, and I once more found myself fighting the urge to drift off into daydreams. Barbara Markham turned yet another page in her lengthy projections report and fumbled with the ‘Advance’ button on the presentation dongle for several seconds while the members of her audience stifled the urge to groan. I tried to remain alert and present in the room, under the eyes of my subordinates, while Markham worked the machine, but it was especially hard this afternoon, and my disciplined patience began to slip. Despite my best intentions, my mind slipped back to fantasies of soft skin, supple curves, flowing hair, satin and lace –

  No. Stop. Focus.

  For the third time in an hour, I glanced at my smartphone’s always-on display, which lay face-up on the table before me. 4:43. Enough already, Markham, move it along. Once again, I shifted in my seat, momentarily tapping the toe of one expensive business loafer against the carpeted floor before I could still the impulse. Once again, one or two looks of furtive curiosity were shot my way. ‘What is with the boss this afternoon?’ ‘Why is he in such a hurry to get out of here?’ ‘What could he have planned for the weekend anyway?’ I could imagine the questions running through all of their busy, busy minds, just as I had picked up on the whispered mystery that had been unfurling around my behavior – not just in this meeting, but throughout the whole week leading up to today.

  In a sharp break from my usual habits, I had not asked any of my assistants to book me a suite, a flight, or a rental car for the weekend; I had not picked up event tickets from any of our corporate clients or responded to any of the dozen-odd invites from the various beautiful and semi-famous women who were always slipping into and out of my life, or at least my bed. I hadn’t even arranged to forward my calls yet! Where was I going for the weekend? What would I be doing? Who would I be doing it with?? It was well-known that the beautiful and elegant Contessa Violetta d’Cardona, celebrated entrepreneur and principal designer of the luxurious and glamorous Catalonian Lingerie Brand Dona Bella, and my twice ex-paramour, was in town, overseeing the launch of her company’s third North American boutique, but even though I’d both publicly and privately spent the past several weekends in her company, neither she nor I had called each other from or at the office all week, and we had made no plans together for the upcoming weekend.

  In the twent
y-one years that I had owned and headlined Rhodes Multinational, my towering behemoth of a financial giant, I had never before been so utterly circumspect with the not-so-private details of my flashily-public ‘private life.’ No one in the office had any idea in the slightest what I was planning to do with my weekend, and it was causing no small consternation to the people who considered it their responsibility to see that arrangements were made for whatever entertainments I choose to occupy myself with. As Ashton Rhodes, founder and CEO of Rhodes Multinational, I was known across the world not solely for the financial acumen that had garnered me a series of extremely impressive and lucrative business deals, leading to the accumulation of a rather large and impressive fortune, but also for the lavish and luxurious, ‘thrill-seeking’ and ‘hedonistic’ ‘playboy’ lifestyle that I chose to indulge in during my downtime. At fifty (A fit fifty, I reminded myself with a hint of pride) I was still celebrated for my bright blue eyes, my ‘youthful and mischievous’ smile, and the full head of silver locks that I’d developed at the premature age of thirty-eight, and which more than one society writer had mistaken for one or another famous actor’s. Society columnists loved to call me ‘a Silver Fox,’ and I had quite capitalized on both my good looks and my charm over the course of my very luxurious, very indulgent life. I’d been making papers ever since I was in my late twenties for taking expensive and indulgent vacations with a few of the world’s most glamorous and beautiful women, partying and clubbing with plenty of the richest and most influential celebrities, spending my massive piles of money on building or buying some of the world’s fastest cars and motorcycles (not to mention test-driving them myself at ludicrously reckless speeds), test-piloting faster and faster jet-powered aircraft, cliff-diving and sky-diving and free-diving and bungy-jumping and white-water-kayaking through thundering rapids; even ultimate fighting (poorly, ouch.) And—once—I even rode an experimental rocket into low orbit and got myself stranded in space for two days. That was fucking awesome.