My son was staunchly childfree, something which was frequently a point of contention between him and his mother. He was happy to live the carefree bachelor life while my wife was eager for grandchildren. One day that had a blazing row, my wife insisting that he find a good woman and start popping out children, while I stayed impartial as always, which only angered my wife further whenever she tried to drag me over to her side.

“It’s none of my business what he does with his life!” I protested.

If she wasn’t a cosmetic surgeon, that might have been the last of it. The gin-and-tonic she poured for me that night had a curious taste to it, I thought in the moments before I passed out.

It was weeks before the anaesthetic wore off, the induced coma they'd kept me in leaving me as vacant and wooly-headed as the blonde, barbie appearance I'd been surgically crafted into.

I awoke weeks later once the anaesthetic finally wore off as the clinic nurses stripped the surgical gown from my bimbo body and began to dress me in whorish garb. My tits sloshed as the nurse propped my weak body against the pillows, lifting my feeble arms to stretch a baby-pink shirt over my chest. My wife stood over the hospital body, smiling down at me.

“Wh…what have you done to me?” I croaked, my voice high and hoarse from the tightening and feminisation of my vocal chords.

“Perhaps you’ll consider it your business now…” she said. “One of my clients was a female-to-male transexual, which left me with a number of spare organs.” She stroked my exposed midriff. “There was just enough room to fit his uterus inside of you.”

“You mean I’m-?!”

“A fully-functional woman, yes,” my wife beamed. “You even had your first period while you were sleeping. You’re fertile and ready to go.”

“But WHY?!”

She pointed to the writing adorning my tits. “‘Baby girl’. That’s what I want. It’s a reminder for you, my little breeder. If you ever want me to make you a man again, you'll bear me a grandchild in that new womb of yours."