Mature Content

Dune: Paul Atreides Feminization - Part One [TG] by Transviscera

Mature Content

Dune: Paul Atreides Feminization - Part Two [TG] by Transviscera

Mature Content

Dune: Paul Atreides Feminization - Part Three [TG] by Transviscera

All characters 18+

"Ah, there is my Muad'Dib. It seems my desert mouse knows how to hide from me," Chani called across the sietch. Paul felt his stomach sink. "Come here, little mouse."
The problem with prescience is knowing what was coming, and being a prisoner to such prophecies. With resignation, he stepped forward. He hadn't taken two steps before she held up a hand.
"Ah ah, a man walks. A mouse crawls," she laughed, her tone at once teasing and utterly serious.
The fremen men were watching this familiar exchange from the ledges of the sietch, their hard, desert-scoured faces peering closer. Paul clenched his jaw, sensing this as a pivotal moment in history. Two divergent paths lay before him - one golden and one distinctly... pink. In one future, he was to become the Lisan al Gaib of the fremen, their Messiah, and lead a jihad that would see the deaths of 61 billion people and the sterilization of 90 worlds.
Or he could crawl along a different path, and sit at the feet of Chani's throne as her little mouse.
61 billion lives... Or degrade himself... 61 billion... Maybe that wasn't so many in the grand scheme of things... right?
With resignation, he sank down on his hands and knees. The stillsuit was shaping him the more he wore it. Designed for a woman, it forced his body to retain water and fat. Granting him the shame of a good, fertile fremen woman, those life-sustaining stores accumulated on his breasts and ass, and he felt the weight of his soft, swollen chest shift to hang beneath him, swaying as he crawled across the sietch floor to Chani's feet. The fremen turned away, appalled at a man they had once believed to be their messiah, now an object of lust and derision, though a few men moved nearer to watch.
Chani ran a hand through his hair. "That wasn't so hard, was it, muad'dib? Who is my good little mouse?"
Sixty one billion lives... Paul could see every face through his prescience. And the three simple words to avoid all their deaths. He ground his teeth.
"I... am... mistress," he intoned sullenly.
The words echoed around the cavern, forming the final nail in the coffin for the messianic mythos of the Lisan al Gaib. If only the Missionaria Protectiva were here to witness their centuries of hard work going up in smoke, Paul thought in bitter amusement.