Gender Studies
#3 of The Colony
Continuing my Colony story arc, Almost exactly two months later than I hoped to have it up. I really tried to have this fininshed before June 16th, but life just got in the way. So, a little belated, here is the third instalment.
Disclaimer blah- this is basicaly porn. If you can't legaly rent/purchase porn, don't read it! On the other hand, it's not as though I've got a guy Vinnie checking Ids.
Gender Studies
Mirabelle stood watching the airlock hatch, waiting on the ship's newest crew member. The Ships Physician didn't usually meet new arrivals, but Michael was rather a special case. Due to "unanticipated outcomes," the medical community's euphemism for a royal screw up, during his transformation, he had not only been changed from a human into an anthropomorphic fox, but from male to female as well. The Colonization Project, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to get him off-world, and therefore out of reach of the legal system, as quickly as possible. Thus the job of explaining the facts of life to the new femme had fallen to Dr. Mirabelle.
With a hiss of pneumatics, the door swept open. Standing in the entrance was a foxgirl. She looked shorter than the height listed in her medical chart implied. If you didn't look carefully, Mirabelle mused, you could almost mistake her for a muscular young man, her breasts small enough to pass for big pecs in the right light. Just my type, thought Mirabelle. Look at her. She's terrified. Indeed, standing there, eyes wide, darting from one point to the next, huddled in upon herself, Michael was the picture of a terrified child. Mirabel walked up to her.
"Michael, right? I'm Dr. Mirabelle, the Ship's Physician. 'Cmon, you and me are going to have a chat." Wide eyed, Michael fell in step with the doctor as they began walking away from the docking 'lock, and into the heart of the ship. Mirabelle continued speaking, "as the ships physician, I know about what happened. We're going to talk about that. The only other person on board who does is Captain Enoch. Nobody else, not even your supervisor knows, and we'd like to keep it that way for the time being. So, lets leave our physiological, psychological, and physical questions aside for the time being, and why don't you ask me about anything else. If you don't feel like talking, I can. Or we can walk in silence, whatever you prefer."
Michael looked at the slightly taller doctor. The last week had been a whirlwind of tests, physical therapy, more tests. The people at the Medical Station had avoided her like the plague, speaking to her as little as was possible. The experience had left her numb. More to the point she was pretty sure that they had messed up her brain somehow. Her thoughts, emotions, they didn't seem to work the same anymore. On the other hand, Dr. Mirabelle had said more words to her at once than everybody else put together since the... accident. "So, I understand that we have matter conversion here, is that right," she asked.
Ok, small talk it was, then, Mirabelle thought, with a sideways glance. Big talk was coming later whether Michael liked it or not. "That's right. Every cabin has a replicator in it which re-creates matter at the molecular level. the replicator is voice activated, and there's not much you can't get out of them. No drugs, no alcohol, but just about any food or drink."
"Can't the replicators reproduce drugs? They're just chemicals."
"Well, yes they are capable of reproducing anything with a molecular structure. Certain compounds are blocked. Sort of like web filtering, or parental controlls on TV." Mirabelle deliberately neglected to mention that the replicators in the medical suite were able to replicate anything that the computer could be convinced was "medicinal."
Michael mulled over this information for a moment. "So, if anything can be replicated, why aren't there any replicators on Earth?"
Ahh, the innocence of youth. "Well, the answer is more political than anything else. What would happen if, for example, the shipping industry was rendered useless?"
"All the people who work in it would be out of a job," answered Michael, with a furrowed brow.
Mirabelle replied, "that's right, and the people who work in factories to make things. The people who work in oil refineries, because if we can replicate gasoline, we don't need them any more. The pharmaceutical industry, because replication would mean that they wouldn't be able to charge $300 a dose for their latest medicine any more. Etcetera, ad nauseaum, ad infinatum. Replication would put too many people out of work. If nobody's working, then nobody's paying the light bill, and while replication is obscenely convenient, it is also obscenely power intensive."
This led Michael to a new line of questioning. "So how do we power it here on the ship?"
Mirabelle caught herself rolling her eyes. All this information was covered in briefings that the poor girl had never gotten. It wasn't her fault. "The ship is a ramscoop. A giant magnetic field sweeps interstellar hydrogen into a fusion plant. The plasma generates strong magnetic fields, which we convert into electricity, and use to propel the ship." They stopped outside the door to the medical suite, and Mirabelle announced, "here we are. If you're still curious, you can look up most of what I've been telling you on the ship's Wiki, because once we get settled, I'm going to be teaching you all about you. Go on in, and make yourself comfortable." Mirabelle walked through the door, which shut behind her. With a verbal command from Mirabelle, the door locked. "We don't want anyone walking in on us," Mirabelle explained as Michael settled herself into a comfortable chair. Mirabelle studied the young science team member for a moment before hopping up to sit on the corner of her desk.
The doctor had been dreading this moment, but there wasn't any amount of delay that would make this conversation any easier on either of them. "Alright kiddo. Lets start with basic hygiene. As a male you probably didn't pay too much attention to your junk. Well, as a female you're going to have to pay a lot of attention. If it gets itchy, and your discharge looks like cottage cheese, you've got a yeast infection, something you never really had to worry about as a boy, and you'll need to come and see me. If you take off your knickers, and it's low tide at the wharf, you've probably got vaginosis, and you'll need to come see me. If you have trouble controlling your bladder, or it burns when you pee, you may have a urinary tract infection, and you'll need to come and see me. Oh, and always, always, always wipe front to back. Luckily, you'll not have to deal with pap smears, as the transformation process eliminated any cancerous cells. Bad as everything I just told you sounds, it doesn't have anything on menstruation." At that she had to stop to laugh at the horrified look on Michael's face. "Relax. You don't have to worry about that either. What you have to worry about is worse, in a way. In approximately 21 days, you are going into heat, chicka."
The idea of menstruation was unnerving enough, but estrus? Really? Michael's mind went back through everything he'd heard about the new furs, and dredged up a scrap of gossip, "I thought they had a drug to stop that from happening?"
"We sure do. It just doesn't work until you've cycled least once, and is dangerous if you haven't. That, as much as getting you used to your new body, is why there is a six week 'reorientation' period after transformation. We all, and by we all, I mean every female that's gone through the transformation, save you, went through our first heat landside, sequestered from the males." Mirabelle unconsciously shifted her position on the corner of the desk as she recalled her heat. " I went through it myself, and I'll tell you it's... intense."
Michael didn't know what to say. "Wha... What... What do I do," she asked weakly.
Mirabelle understood Michael's confusion. She stood up from her desk, and moved over to lean against one of the counter tops, "Well, you'll come and see me daily, and I will be monitoring you for the signs that you are about to start. We'll catch it just before it starts, before you start putting out pheromones, which you will, in spades. You'll be confined to quarters for a week, and spend it masturbating more or less constantly. Wash all your clothes, all your bedding, because the pheromones will soak into them, and then come and see me, and I'll give you your first dose of Estrovil. After that, you'll see me once every three months. I'll make sure your plumbing is in order, and give you your next dose." Mirabelle stopped speaking for a moment, and allowed this latest piece of information to sink in.
Once again, Michael was struck by the change in her thought processes as she tried to figure out how she felt about this.. Her emotions felt so different from what she was used to as a male, she couldn't untangle them. "Doctor, I've noticed that I don't seem to think in the same way any more. Did they screw up my brain in the bargain?"
Mirabelle's heart went out to the vixen. Leaving behind your friends and family to explore the final frontier was bad enough, adding to it having to deal with a completely different body chemistry must be unbearable. She admired how strong willed the girl across from her must be, just to face each day. "The differences you are noticing are going to be the result of the radically different body chemistry you have now. Add to that the fact that the male and female brains are wired in fundamentally different ways and there you go. Since you bring up your thoughts, I have to ask, you're not having suicidal ideation or thoughts of harming yourself or others? Voices in your head that aren't you? Seeing people, or things that nobody else sees?
"No nothing like that, its just that my emotions are... just... so different. They feel different, you know? Actually you probably don't. I think I'm fine, mentally, just not used to it yet," Michael said ruefully.
Mirabelle studied Michael's body language and facial expression, trying to decide if she was hedging, or holding back. What she saw there was a young adult, just barely out of college who had been through one of the weirdest experiences of their life. Was still going through it, for that matter. Michael looked so small and defenseless to Mirabelle that she wanted to pick the vixen up and tuck her in the pocket of her lab coat.
While Mirabelle's mind wandered, Michael thought of something else, which was of no small concern. "What about... you know. Umm... sex and stuff? I mean, am I going to be a lesbian, or what ?"
"That is one of the great debates in psychology right now," said Mirabelle, with a chuckle. "How much of sexual orientation is learned, how much is the result of physiology? Will you want to be with males? Will you keep your desire for females? Or will you wind up somewhere in between, equally comfortable with either sex? We'll just have to play it by ear." And I'll just have to keep an eye on you, because when I write up your case study, you are going to make me famous. You don't realize it, but you are going to settle the nature vs. nurture argument once and for all.
Michael made a moue, and glanced down at the floor, "of course this is all assuming I ever want to have sex again, anyway. Right now, I don't even want anyone to look at me, much less..." Michael couldn't go on as her voice cracked, and tears began to dampen the orange fur on her cheeks. It all became too much, and the trickle became a flood, her chest hitching as Michael allowed the enormity of what had happened, and how fundamentally his life had changed to finally sink in.
Hopping off the corner of the desk, Mirabelle walked over to the russet furred girl, and kneeled. Orange and white fur met the smooth, grey skin of the delphinic doctor, as she embraced the sobbing vixen. Mirabelle's hand began stroking the soft fur on the back of Michael's head, "hey... hey... Don't worry sweetie. Hush, it's going to be ok." Mirabelle lost herself in the scent of fur, the feeling of it sliding against her palm, and the warmth of the girl pressed against her bosom. She knelt there, until gradually Michael stopped crying.
The embrace broken, Mirabelle wordlessly walked over to her desk, grabbed a box of kleenex, and offered it to Michael. After she had a chance to clean herself up, she said, "Michael, I understand why you feel the way you do. I want to offer some advice on how to get over that. You may not want to, but I need you to listen with an open mind, and really try what I'm about to suggest, ok?" Michael nodded wordlessly. Mirabelle walked over to the replicator and requested something that Michael couldn't quite make out. There was a hum, and a light, and the replicator produced about a pint of a dark brown liquid in a bottle. "Go back to your quarters. I'll post you on the sick list for today. Since you are Science, and all we're going to do today is the ship's shakedown cruise, you aren't really needed. When you get there, you are going to drink exactly three shots, one right after the other, of this 'medicinal' rum, no more, don't forget your tolerance is lower now." Mirabelle handed the flask to Michael. "Now, I'll bet that you haven't really looked at yourself since the transformation, right?"
"That's right," replied Michael, wondering where this was going.
Mirabelle continued, "I'm not surprised. Reminds you of what you've lost. But you can't see what you've gained, either. Michael, you are a beautiful woman." She interrupted Michael as he tried to protest, "No really, I mean it. Go back to your quarters, get naked, and look, really look at yourself. Let yourself see your new form, all of it. You'll have a hand mirror in your suite. Use it. I want you to look at every inch, from head to toe, from back, to front. If you feel up to it, rub one out too. If you don't, drink another shot. The alcohol is to lower your inhibitions just enough. Like it or not, you are stuck like this, and before you have a sex life, you have to know what feels good, so you can tell bad sex from good. I'll bet, even though you've been a woman for a solid week, you haven't beaten your clam yet, have you?" Laughing at "beat the clam" in spite of her self, Michael shook her head. "Thought not. It's a good idea, though. I very much doubt that you will be up to having a partner to help you with your heat, so your going to have to take care of yourself. Take it from me, you are going to want to know how to get off before then, girl, because if you don't it's going to be frustrating as hell. If you think of anything you want to ask, or talk about, write it down. I'll page you and let you know when to come see me tomorrow, but until you go on duty at two bells yellow I don't want to hear that any one's seen you.
Michael was confused by the unit of time, "two bells yellow?"
"Once you get done with your self-exploration, before you go to sleep, look up timekeeping. Now go!"
Smiling for the first time, Michael stood up, "yes doctor," and walked into the door.
Mirabelle planted her face into her palm. "Shit, sorry. Unlock, please." The door slid open.
Michael walked out into the corridor and belatedly realized that she had no clue where her quarters actually were on the ship. Reaching down, she pulled a simple looking rectangle of black plastic out of a
holster at her hip. As little as they had taught her about her life aboard, the folks at the Colonization Project Medical Station at least had the courtesy to instruct her in the use of the Portable Wireless Interface. The PWI connected to the main ships computer through a wireless network present in every part of the ship. It had hundreds of uses, but right now she needed it to be a map. Speaking in a clear voice, she requested it to guide her from where she was now, to her quarters. Obediently, the device began displaying an arrow, and she headed off in the direction it indicated. As she approached a corner, the arrow swung to indicate the turn. So intently was she focused on the arrow, that she was almost knocked over by a squirrel who came bursting out of a door into the hallway. She was in quite the state of undress, and Michael caught a flash of panties as she whirled to yell at someone in the room.
"No way Thomas! Forget it! There is no way I am letting you near me with that! Fuckssake, what do you think I am?" She turned to look at Michael. "Watch out for that one girl," she said just before she whirled and ran off down the hallway.
"Tanj, not again!" A horse with a bay face stuck his head out the door to the cabin, just in time to see the squirrel's tail as she disappeared around a corner. He looked at Michael and sighed, disappearing back into his room, the door closing behind him.
Wonder what that was about, thought Michael. She shrugged, and walked the rest of the way to her cabin. After entering her quarters, she looked around. Her quarters consisted of one general purpose room, with a desk, cabinets, counter top, and bookshelves. One wall of the room was mirrored, most likely to give the illusion of more space. The other room was the bathroom, which had a stand up shower, vanity, toilet. Her belongings had been brought up, and after doing a quick survey of the items that came with her cabin, she found the hand mirror that Dr. Mirabelle had mentioned in the bathroom. She tossed it on the bed, dialed up some soft, relaxing jazz on the sound system. Quickly looking up the procedure for ordering out of the replicator, dialed up a cold glass of cola, and a shot glass. Pouring a shot into it, she raised to her glass, and tipped the heavily spiced rum down her throat, and quickly chased it with the cola. After repeating the action twice more, a pleasant warmth began to spread out from her stomach. Her thoughts began to feel like they were wrapped in cotton wool, and she thought about what the doctor had said. Beautiful? Ha, we'll just have to see about that, she thought.
She took up a position in front of the mirror, and removed her shirt. She let it fall to the floor, and took her first real look. Her eyes traveled along her fur, across the shoulders, noticing the white collar of fur that dipped into her bra, across the tops of her breasts. The contrast of white and orange. It was quite lovely, she had to admit. Her breasts left something to be desired, she thought. Barely out of a A cup, she thought they would look more at home gracing the chest of some girl just out of middle school, not a grown woman. She twisted her arms behind her, awkwardly groping with the fastening that she had not quite grown used to yet. Eventually, however, she bested it, and it joined her shirt. Wow, she thought, maybe I don't have a spectacular rack, but my fur looks great. The orange against the white, the black of my "gloves", and on the tips of my ears. The small, pink areolas just starting to harden in the air of the cabin. She felt the first stirrings of desire, then, the first stirrings in her virgin loins. She was a virgin, she thought to herself. All of her old experiences had disappeared with her manhood. This was completely new territory, territory she would explore. And why not? She hadn't asked for this, but it was up to her to make the most of it. She ran her hands over her chest, lingering on her nipples, and gently squeezed both breasts. She felt her knees weaken. They were so sensitive! It would be amazing to feel the slippery, rough wetness of a tongue running over them. Over her body her hands roamed, feeling, really feeling the softness of her fur. Lower her hands traveled to the waistband of her pants. Hooking her thumbs underneath the waistband of her pants, she slipped them down, and with an offhand kick, shuffled them off to one side. almost loosing her balance as a rosy alcoholic glow began to suffuse her thoughts and perceptions. She looked at herself again. She had lost a lot of mass during the conversion, but yet... there was beauty there. An economy of form. Nothing over the top, nothing that just blew you away from the first glance, but on the other hand, there weren't any major flaws there either. The result was not a perfect 10, but then Michael hadn't been that before she changed. Michael ran her hands along her body again, and turned around so she could see herself from behind. She was still getting used to peeing sitting down, she hadn't really noticed her tail, except as something that got in the way, and knocked things off counters and tables. By god, it was stunning. Orange and black, bushy and lush, she flipped it to and fro. For almost five minutes, she watched, entranced. Hmm... time for... time for another drink, she thought, muzzily to herself.
Michael poured, and downed another shot, this time without benefit of a chaser. As the heat of the alcohol spread throughout her body, she looked again in the mirror. Unable to resist the impulse, her hands went once again to her breasts. Thumbs teased her nipples, as her fingers gently massaged the breasts themselves. She had never noticed this while going up a girl's shirt as a guy, but there seemed to be little nodes in the breast. When her manipulations hit them just so... Suddenly she noticed a chill in her lower regions. Looking down there, she noticed a dark, damp patch in the crotch of her panties. Had she wet herself and not noticed? She slid her hand down the front of her underwear, and a single finger between the damp lips she found there. As she did, one fingertip slid across her clitoris, and this time, she was truly brought to her knees.
The only sensation she could equate the feeling to was a finger sliding across the glans of the penis she used to have, when slicked with precum. It was more intense than that, though. It felt amazing. She quickly puled her panties off, almost ripping them in the process. She practically ran to the bed, grabbing the hand mirror on her way. Laying down on the bed, she spread her legs, and pulled her knees up to her chest, resting the digigrade heels on the backs of their respective thighs. She then positioned the mirror so she could see her treasure. Her labia majora were black, like the skin of the rest of her body. They glistened with the nectar of her arousal, looking like diamonds on black velvet. Holding the mirror in her left hand, she slid the fingers of her right down, and spread her vulva to look inside. The inside was dark, red with her arousal. Her clit poked out from its hood above her labia minora, a hard nub of flesh. Below that, a pinhole urethra, and the opening of her passage. Curious, she ran a finger around the entrance to her vagina. A slight wave of pleasure swept through her body, far weaker than when her finger slid across her clitoris. She repeated the experiment, and then, slid a single digit inside.
Again she was reminded of sensations from her past life. The finger was an inversion of the sensation of a firm squeeze to her erection, back when she had been male. She began to slide the finger in deeper, feeling the heat of her body, the slick fluids she produced, until she met a membrane blocking further intrusion. I really am a virgin, she thought to herself, recognising her hymen for what it was. Slowly she slid the finger back out, until only the tip of her finger claw, filed blunt was still inside. Then she thrust it back in as hard as she dared. As she did so, she noticed a patch of skin on the top surface, towards her belly. As a male, he had felt this before, but never paid it much attention. Well, it was part of her now, and she was going to find out what it did. When she pressed her finger against it, and rubbed it hard, she found out, as her hips bucked upwards involuntarily. At that point rational thought fled, consumed with the visceral need for release, and she began stimulating that spot with her finger, and her clit with her thumb.
She didn't notice the increasing flow of quim from her throbbing sex. She didn't notice the growing scent of female arousal. She only noticed the all consuming, thought-destroying pleasure surging from her newly discovered organ. With each thrust, with each movement the pleasure built, and built inexorably to the height of her passion, the moment the french refer to as la petit mort, the little death. And when her orgasm finally broke, a wail escaped her lips, and her hips thrust into the air as all thought fled, and by instinct alone, she continued to work her finger, and her thumb, milking her passion to the last.
When thought returned, Michael could feel her uterus still fluttering. Tremors shook her body, sometimes accompanied by a small moan. Her first conscious thought was that it was no wonder that chicks got so pissed when he didn't make them come. After that, a languor consumed her body, and forgetting all about timekeeping, she barely made it under the covers before she fell asleep.