Part One:
Part Two:
Part Three:
I take the tub of FemOil and pour a long stream back and forth along his shoulders. He leans forward so that it trickles over his chest, not back.
The skin looks loose around his chest today. Partially deflated. It doesn’t last as, maintaining a detached, clinical air, I take handful of oil, reach around and cup his breasts, slowly carressing and working the femoil into them. They swell and rise like dough within a few minutes, filling out the skin taht has grown lose since the last application and then some. I try not to dwell on whether the increase is the redepositing of fat or *shudder* a build-up of milk. Hyperlactation is one of many potential side-effects listed.
If he’d known he was being upgraded from pills to FemOil, a potent cocktail of every feminizing agent pharmaceutical science could throw at the male body, he might have decided against the implants now that his silicone-enhanced chest was developing so rapidly. After the chemically-induced female puberty had done it's work, he's due to receive a Double Dose of cleavage.
I knead him gently, keeping a close eye on his development, knowing to stop the instant the skin over his breasts starts to look tight. I notice his breathing deepening.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
“N-no.”
It’s then that I notice his nipples pressing against my palms, hard and engorged, as I knead him. His face is flushed deep red with humiliation. My hands falter, unsure whether to continue. Does he want me to stop? He hasn’t told me to. Acknowledment seems worse than pretending it hasn’t happened. I resume, the minutes passing in excrutiating silence. He knows I noticed, and I know he knows I know, but we’re trapped in the charade as we both pretend to ignore his physical response to his breasts being pawed and groped.
It's only when I stop and move around him to work on his thighs, that I realise just how aroused my touch has made him. He moves quickly to hide the tiny atrophied thing between his legs that had once been his penis but I catch a glimpse before he tucks it between his thighs. It was normally a flacid, pointless nub since the FemOil treatment. Now it was standing fully erect.
“It’s just a natural response,” he squeaks, voice catching in his throat.
“Yeah,” I mumble back.
“Don’t… don’t read too much into it.”
“I wasn’t.”
He hangs his head in shame as I lather his thighs, speeding through the process, almost splashing oil on myself.
“Nearly done. Just the back part left,” I state with relief as we approach the finish line.
He leans forward onto his hands and knees, arching his back and thrusting that thick, swollen peach into the air. He pulls his little dick forward to move it out of the way, clamping his thighs together tightly around his miniature erection, concealing it from view and trapping it there. I try not to stare at the soft mound of his crotch. With that thing tucked away, the illusion of womanhood is almost complete.
I glaze each cheek with dollops of oil. His ass is so much bigger than I remember it, the meat of his buttocks so much more tender as I begin to work the oil into the muscles. It had been a scrawny, bony thing when he had his first treatment and had required half the time to cover it in its entirety as it now takes just to treat each heavily bloated, rounded buttock.
In my haste to finish, my massage is not as gentle as it could be. If anyone were to watch us, it might appear more like a cruel grope than anything else. All I want is to finish, but my callous mistreatment excites him more than I know.
His breathing grows ragged. His thighs work against one another, teasing the encapsulated manhood between them.
“Mmmhn, such strong hands.” His voice is a breathy moan. “You’re so nghrough with me.” I pull my hands back. “No, I like it,” he groans, his thighs rubbing together faster, setting his ass-cheeks jiggling. “I like it when you're rrrough. Don’t stop. Ngghfeels so good.” He thrusts his body backwards, forcing the meat of his feminised ass hard against my hands. “Nggh harder. It feels so good when you play with me with your strong, manly-”
He twists his head and we make eye contact. He freezes like a gazelle caught in the headlights as realisation sets in. His provocative posture, back arched, ass thrust towards me like a bitch in heat, desperately begging to be mounted by a hard male cock, falls immediately, freeing the hard, throbbing nub between his thighs.
“I… I’m sorry…” he blurts helplessly, holding his gown against his crotch to hide his shame. “I… I need to use the bathroom… I’m so sorry…”
He’s in the bathroom for a long time. When I check on him, pressing my ear to the door, I hear only his frustrated whimpers as he desperately massages his worthless cock for any semblance of release for the arousal pent-up within him. He sounds almost frantic.
As randy and lecherous as the FemOil has made him around my male friends, he's never once lost control, become more like a frenzied animal in heat than the man I knew. For him to make a pass at his own son is unthinkable. Something must be seriously wrong.I wonder if the oil he ingested is to blame.
I knock, concerned. "Everything okay in there?" I call through the door.
There is a long silence. I can hear his ragged breathing. "No," he says at last, his voice a defeated whisper. "I need you to help me."