Addicted to Womanhood 1

by Zoe Brown

  As soon as the doors were locked, and the blinds were shut, I relaxed, tossing my attaché case onto the top of my desk. I wouldn’t need that anymore this weekend. My smartphone followed it a moment later. Laughing with nervous exhilaration, grinning and rolling my shoulders back, I pulled the small plastic baggie filled with little pink pills out of the inner jacket pocket of my long coat and then dumped the coat on top of the attaché case, my eyes fixed on the pills in my hand.

  Werewoman.

  I shook one of the pink pills out of the baggie and into my palm, and then tossed the rest of the baggie on top of my coat. Taking a deep breath in an effort to calm my excited trembling, I stared at the pill in my hand for a moment and just grinned, licking my lips. This is going to be so fucking sexy, I thought to myself, laughing out loud again, and so much fucking fun! My mind was filled with images of beautiful, sexy, feminine curves; my breathing was beginning to come in pants, my chest heaving. Shit, I want this so badly. I thought about what was about to happen to me, what I was about to become. I thought about Amy Cho again, and I felt myself growing hard in excitement and arousal. In a few minutes, I knew, I’d be every bit as lovely as she was.

  Maybe even more so.

  "Here we go..." I murmured excitedly, holding up the pill in front of myself and flashing a smile and a wink at the glossy, grey-cast masculine reflection that beamed back at me from the computer monitor sitting atop my desk. Then I tossed the pill into my mouth and swallowed it.

  If only the employees I’d rushed past on my way to my office this afternoon had any idea what exactly was about to happen in here, this Friday afternoon, after a long week of work. What would they think of their hedonistic, thrill-seeking playboy of a boss then? What would they feel about me if they knew that the consummate corporate charmer of financial profit, tireless seeker of sexual pleasure, and power-pursuing magnate that they had worked under for so long now craved above all else the chance to spend a weekend as a soft, sexy young woman with supple curves and long, flowing hair, being charmed, pleasured, and pursued himself?

  … or rather, herself?

  ✽✽✽

  Timestamp: Monday, Third of September, 2018. Twenty-five days ago.

  The weeks following my… well, my ‘coming out’ to Violetta (for lack of a better term) paradoxically seemed to both fly by and slow to a crawl at the same time. Having confessed my secret desires to someone I could trust, someone other than a Werewoman, someone who understood and who didn’t think that I was crazy, or a freak, or a pervert, I initially felt great relief, and the pressure – the sense of immediate need to take one of the Werewoman pills and to transform myself into a beautiful, sexy young woman – lessened. It was as if confessing my sexy, secret desires to someone else was almost as satisfying as masturbating to them. Oh, but I did masturbate again, though, pretty much every night of the week after seeing Violetta. I masturbated about transforming myself into a hot, sexy young college-coed, I masturbated about doing so and then getting dressed up by Violetta in some sexy, sensual lingerie afterwards. I masturbated about going out, trawling for guys, with an even-hotter, younger Violetta at my side, the gal pal I’d never had, I even masturbated about us being fucked by a pair of hot, handsome young studs while lying side by side together in the same hotel bed. I masturbated a lot.

  But other than that, time flew by at first after my ‘coming out’ talk with Violetta. The pressure I’d been feeling for weeks, ever since Jade had first introduced the idea of gender-bending to me, and since Brianna had off-handedly asked me whether I was interested in trying it out myself, the pressure to give into my fantasies, my desires, it almost went away.

  But only ‘almost.’ It took a few days, and I did get a lot of productive work done during those days, basically the whole week, really, masturbating frantically behind my desk when no one was with me, or alone at home after a long day’s work, masturbating to fantasies about turning into a twin of one or another of the beautiful, sexy young women who worked for or did business with my firm, imagining a budding pair of beautifully soft, milky-white breasts blooming into my hands as they forced their way out of my chest, or my ass suddenly filling out and rounding into a sexy, pert bottom like one of those I’d seen in a skirt earlier today at the office… Or I’d fantasize about me, as a woman, being bent over one of the desks in the office while some hot, muscular young stud on the payroll railed into my wet, willing pussy. I confess I even fantasized about Brendan, once, one afternoon in the middle of the week, after noticing him chatting to some of the office girls over a box of donuts one afternoon. He was handsome, with broad shoulders and a firm, muscular body, and he had soft-looking lips, a full head of well-conditioned black hair, and big, vulnerable eyes. I could see why all the office girls were so into him, and he seemed to enjoy their interest, smiling kindly and graciously basking in their attention, although he didn’t return any of the flirtatious overtures that were directed his way, or share significant eye-contact with any of them. I caught myself wondering then, what kind of woman it would take to get Brendan to actually engage, and that led to further wondering about whether my gender-bent alter-ego might be such a girl, and to naughty, definitely-taboo fantasies about how much delightful, deliciously mischievous fun it would be to crack that cool, calm, collected, business-like exterior and get my Executive Assistant really hot and bothered over girl-me.

  But all the fantasies aside, I managed to stay focused on my duties for most of that week. Taking a little ‘executive time’ for myself now and again, I managed to keep my head clear and in-the-game, and as the week drew on, I even made plans to resume some of my usual activities. A beautiful young starlet (the twenty-eight-year-old romantic female lead of a recent hit movie) with whom I was vaguely acquainted was in town, and friends of the both of us managed an introduction over drinks on Thursday evening. Drinks led to dinner, and dinner led to the not-surprising revelation that the young woman in question knew exactly who I was and was hoping that I might be amenable to including her in my weekend plans. This I was, so without much further ado I booked us both tickets for a flight to Venice for the weekend (the young woman had confessed that it was a dream of hers to make love in a gondola while floating lazily through the sunken city), and wrapped up my business affairs on Friday.

  It was that weekend, however, when I realized just how persistent and intense my new desires were becoming. Because for the whole time that I was away with the beautiful young starlet, canoodling between the sheets with her, or dining with her, or talking with her, or making love to her in the back of a gondola that was being guided through the canals of the city by an extremely charitable young Italian man who had just moved up a whole income tax bracket for the year, I could not stop thinking – for even one moment – about how desperately I would have rather been her in any of those moments than myself. How much I wished that I was the one with my legs splayed in the back of some gondola, being pleasured by a hot, handsome man like myself, how intense my fantasies about putting on one of the skimpy, sexy pairs of lace panties that she left on the floor of our hotel bedroom, imagining my cock melting away into my pelvis and turning into a vagina as the rest of my body changed to match…

  As soon as I returned from my weekend getaway, I retreated back to the safety of my loft, dialing up Violetta and confessing the intensity of my need to take a pill. To transform. To become a woman. How frustrating it was to spend a whole week with one of the most lovely young women in the world, and to be able to think of nothing other than how desperately I wanted to become her, to live the life that she was leading, to be able to feel what she felt, to have the body she bore, to know what she knew.

  “Why not do it, then?” my sleepy friend asked me yawningly. “Just get it over with, if it is driving you to such distraction?”

  But there wasn’t enough time left that evening, I told my friend. There were less than eight hours before the morning, and if I transformed now, I wouldn’t turn back in time for work the next mor
ning. But I lied, and I believed she knew that.

  “Ashton, darling, you are the CEO of your own company,” my friend patiently explained to me, as if I didn’t already know that, “you can take a day off if you want to.”

  But I didn’t want it to be that way, I explained to her, more truthfully that time. I didn’t want my first experience with womanhood to be a mad scramble for self-gratification at the expense of true satisfaction. I didn’t have any clothes to wear as a woman yet, it was much too late to go out to the shoppes and buy some, and almost equally too late to go out looking for someone to take me home and fuck me the way I so desperately wanted to be fucked.

  No, I told Violetta, explaining my reasons both to her and to myself, finally understanding just what it was I truly wanted as I put it into words for my friend. I wanted to wait for the time to be just right. I wanted to plan a whole weekend around my first transformation, prepare for it, have clothes ready for me (at least a few) when I made the change, and the money ready (in a form my female alter-ego could access) so that I could buy more. I wanted to have reservations at a nice, fancy resort site somewhere singles went to play, somewhere on a beach, where the opportunity to lounge about in a sexy bikini would not be off the table because of the lateness of the season. I would need ID for all of that, a real ID for the fake me, in the name of my female alter ego, but with my connections that shouldn’t be too hard to manage. Oh, and I wanted a ride, too… something sleek and sexy… something that would get me where I was going, but get me there in style…

  Chapter Eighteen

  Timestamp: Friday, Twenty-Eighth of September, 2018. Now.

  Back in my office, in the present, moments after swallowing my first little pink pill, I took a deep breath and strode across my office to a mahogany cabinet set against the interior wall (a finely constructed furniture piece that matched my desk), adjacent to the drink bar, and unlocked it. Inside, stashed next to a small collection of expensive wine and liquor bottles, was a woman’s stylish black leather backpack, nearly full. Pulling it out of the cabinet and setting it on the top of my desk, I stuffed the baggie of pink pills deep inside of the back pouch, struggling with the punched-hole leather straps for a moment on account of my shaking hands.

  I knew from my previous experiences with other Werewomen – Brianna, Jade – that I only had a couple of minutes after taking the little pink Werewoman pill before I would start to feel its effects, and I wanted to be in my private elevator, headed down to the garage level, when that happened, so it was in something of a rush that I switched both my email and smartphone vacation messages on and then shut down both phone and computer systems, setting the phone back on top of my desk just before hurrying across the office towards the elevator, backpack in hand.

  Trembling even more now than I had before I’d reached the office, I pressed the thumb of my right hand on the call button and then made a small "Mmm..." sound in the back of my throat as I felt a warmly sensual glow beginning to suffuse my body. Werewoman’s transforming effect began to take hold of me, crawling across my skin like a warm wet blanket, sending shivers of arousal up and down my spine. It felt wonderful, as though my whole body had been sensitized into a giant erogenous zone, and a set of soft, tender hands were caressing all up and down my frame. The hard cock straining inside my trousers twitched with excitement.

  Ding.

  Slipping through the elevator doors once they opened, I dropped the backpack onto the padded-cushion bench in the rear and reached up to loosen the tie around my neck. I was breathing heavily already; in the reflection of the elevator doors I could see that my cheeks were flushed, and my body was warm with arousal and anticipation. I groaned, running a hand through my short, silver locks and then trembled all up and down the length of my body as another wave of the sensual, warm sensation rippled over and across my skin, and then slowly began to squeeze my body in on itself.

  “Unnhhhh…..” I groaned as the elevator began its descent. I felt as though my body were in the grip of strong, sure hands that were pressing in upon me, preparing to mold me and reshape me as if I was so much clay, but rather than feeling any pain, I felt only pleasure instead. Deeply sensual, deeply erotic sexual pleasure. The geneticists behind the original ‘Aphrodite’ formula and the Werewoman street drug that had replaced it had cleverly programmed their pills to deactivate the body’s pain receptors and to over-charge the body’s tactile and sexual pleasure centers as they prepared to reshape their users’ bodies into their desired new forms. In the place of the pain of bones snapping apart and reshaping themselves, of muscles tearing and reknitting themselves, of flesh stretching and pulling itself across my body, I would instead feel a surge of warm, sensual erotic stimulation accompanying each and every change that was made to my body. Could anyone who was not a Werewoman themselves even imagine the kind of erotic rollercoaster ride that I was in for? I’d witnessed the event thrice before and I still had only the faintest idea of what level of intensity to expect.

  “NNnnggg…” With a groan, and while panting from the sensations coursing through my shoulder, I pressed my shoulder against the side of the slowly-descending elevator to support myself as another wave of warm, sensual pressure swept across my body, and dropped my head down towards my chest, arching my back. The squeezing sensations pressing down in on my body began to tighten around me, like a woman’s soft hand gripping around the base of a hard and spurting cock, but here at the start of my change there were strongest in my hands on the top of my head.

  Oh my god, this is really happening! The ecstatic thought shouted through my mind as I placed a hand to the surface of the elevator console and grinned, groaning with the pleasure flooding my sexual receptors as I watched it begin to shrink. There were some very soft, almost-inaudible popping and cracking sounds as my old joints slipped into new, youthful tightness – pop! pop! crack! – while my tough, slightly-wrinkled male fingers and knuckles softened, slimmed down, and seemed to subtly lengthen. The palm of my hand shrank away, my slightly weathered, fifty-year-old skin smoothing out and plumping up with youthful fullness. The silvery-blonde hair on the back of my hand and running up my arm vanished, consumed for raw energy to fuel my transformation. And as my hand became ever smaller, softer, and more delicate, increasingly feminine, a set of glossy, rounded nail tips began to push out from the ends of my fingers.

  ‘Ashley’ was on her way.

  ✽✽✽

  Timestamp: Friday, Seventh of September, 2018. Twenty-one days ago.

  Ashley was the name I’d finally settled on for my female self, at Violetta’s insistence, some weeks after my initial confession to her. Well, it was her choice, really, but ‘Ashley’ had been one of the final contenders on the little list of possible names for my feminine alter ego, so I’d been fine with it – and it actually made what I had been expecting to be a difficult decision much easier for me once I no longer had to make it myself. Out of the list that I’d given her, Violetta had picked ‘Ashley,’ and I had accepted it. ‘Ashley’ I would become.

  After my week long experiment in resuming normalcy (never mind some intense and inappropriate fantasies about some of the men and women in my workplace) ended in disaster when my weekend-getaway with one of the most beautiful twenty-something actresses in Hollywood resulted in me spending nearly all of my time fantasizing about becoming the young woman in question rather than enjoying her intensely charismatic, incredibly sexually-willing, and thoroughly engaging presence, my desperate-sounding late-Sunday-night phone call had convinced my oldest friend that I needed to find an outlet for my desires sooner rather than later, or else I was likely to let them get the better of me one day, and say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing in front of somebody and give the whole game away in terms of my desires and what I deeply, desperately wanted to do about them. Then I’d really be screwed – and not in the fun way that I wanted to be

  I resisted the suggestion to just hurry up and get the whole affair over with, however. As I’d
explained to Vi, that night on the phone together, I really wanted to have everything just right when I introduced myself to my female alter-ego for the first time, so that I could have the full, incredibly satisfying experience that I craved – bikini-dominated beaches, a resort with lots of hot guys and girls around, the opportunity to shop for all the sexy, feminine things I wanted to try wearing, the whole works. Vi had heard me out, and there’d been a smile in her voice when she’d accepted my explanation for why I wanted to wait. “Every girl deserves a chance to have her first time be something truly wonderful,” she’d told me, “but not many really get the chance. Alright, fine, wait. But make some plans, Ashton. Set a date. Keep yourself busy until then, or one night you might just find yourself unable to resist taking one of your little pills and running out somewhere on the town. You might not even feel the need to be careful with who finds out about you. You might come to regret that, darling.”

  So I’d agreed to put together some real plans, to come up with some sort of a checklist for my adventure, and to set a date – something to look forward to, something to hold onto when the desire to take a pill and just run out into the street flashing Ashton Rhodes’ credit cards and getting my male self into a heap of rumor and speculation I had no hope I’d be able to talk myself in the morning was too intense, as it seemed to be becoming more and more every day. After thinking it over for a couple of days, I’d finally chosen the 28th of September, the last Friday of the month. A little less than four weeks away. Enough time, I thought, to get everything ready. Not so much time, I hoped, that I wouldn’t be able to wait.