had often been whipped and had lusted for that agonizing, exquisite
humiliation, those who had whipped her were not yr vulgar wife
beaters but velvet coated actors and curly haired painters as well as
revolutionaries and workers, the whips had been real leather and
when her back and ass were shredded and blood began to form puddles on the floor, the whip handle had often as not been stuffed up her cunt or ass. now as an androgyne she had renounced all that, she
was proud of the fact that in her soul whips did not speak to her. oh
yes, there were occasional fleeting seconds—moments even—of
desire that verged on need, yes, sometimes the muscles in the pit of
her stomach did tighten and she did lust for the lash of the whip, not
to mention the whip handle, but she was secure in her conviction
that she who was now an androgyne would not regress to being a
mere woman, it would take, she knew, more than one man could
offer to make her into a woman again, it would take, she knew, a
concert hall filled with thousands of people, her bare-assed naked on
stage shackled in wicked chains, being whipped by, dare she say it,
Jean-Louis Trintignant, before she would even be tempted in a
serious way.
bertha had changed physically as well, as a woman she seemed to
be all breasts and ass. indeed, if other parts of her body existed, they
went unremarked by the world at large, now as an androgyne her
breasts had diminished while her belly had grown, her belly was now
a giant luminous mound, glowing, exquisitely sensitive to every
touch, even to every thought of touch, a finger on her belly was the
instrument of ecstasy and a tongue brought on multiple orgasms
that were as vast and as deep as the universe, stars quaked and comets exploded when her belly came into contact with an electric vibrator.
her nose, of course, had grown, it had grown and grown and
grown, sometimes it hung, weak, limp, sweet, beautiful, sometimes
upon the passing of a gentle wind, a grazing cow, or a wood nymph,
her nose would stiffen and enlarge and become engorged with blood,
it was not very pleasant when this happened in the company of ordinary men and women with their hidden private parts and endless sources of shame, but when it happened in the presence of other androgynes, she herself would touch and fondle it. limp or stiff, her nose would roll over arms and into armpits, explore ears that opened
up like flowers, juicy and moist and yielding, find its way between
toes and rub itself against calloused heels, seek out with gentle insistence the backs of knees, immerse itself in puddles of saliva under the tongue and the rich resonances of slick assholes, vibrate and
heave, and finally come to rest on a nipple, touching it just barely,
then, as bertha lay exhausted, her lover would touch her belly and so
they would begin again and continue and replenish and deplete and
invent, and then begin again.
berthas hair of course had changed too. as a woman she had violated it without conscience—cut it, lacquered it, straightened it, curled it, even shaved it from her legs and armpits and pulled it out
from between her eyes, now as an androgyne her hair rose and fell
with the light, the wind, it danced between her legs, it reached
toward the sun in rich profusion from every part of her. each hair
was an antenna, sensitive, alert, one hair, like a new filling, could
send an icy thrilling chill through her whole body or warm her like
whiskey and Ben-Gay. her pubic hair flowed, billowing, curling,
