textfiles/sex/EROTICA/N/nature.txt

Nature's Call to Duty
1994 Dream Weevil

You remember a time when it was all different.  When men and women were 
considered "equal"; and your grandparents or great-grandparents tell you 
of days when it was quite the opposite.  And you wonder, from time to 
time, whether or not this is progress-- an accident, or the way Mother 
Nature had intended it all along?

Everyone has the fear, from time to time-- of never meeting someone of 
the opposite sex.  You first questioned yourself when you noticed that 
others your age had girlfriends already, some married, some beginning to 
build families around themselves.  For you, those were cruel, hormone-
driven times, times when, had you not wished yourself a man, you not 
been a man, you would have cried from the loneliness.

And then you met her, and you were glad-- so very glad-- that those 
times were over and would never return.  Her body so strong and sleek 
and her hair so wonderful and a voice that picks you up every time you 
hear it, even over the phone.  And you slowly untangled yourselves from 
the anxieties of that first meeting, and soon could talk with increasing 
freedom, and it wasn't long after that until the first day that she shed 
out of her clothes before you, and you could touch her in places you 
always hoped you might, and you felt how warm and soft and wonderful she 
was.

Soon enough, sex was easy; you had it all the time, her body familiar to 
you; and, to your surprise, your own body more familiar to her than it 
had ever been to you; the touch of her fingers able to change your mood, 
or to silently persuade you to get her another glass of water.

You loved the fact that she was becoming so free with you.  She started 
teaching you of things that only a woman would know--   letting you know 
with secret, special messages that her period was coming, and soon you 
knew her cycle as well as she did.  She would discuss, or share 
anything, nothing embarrassed her; she'd leave the bathroom door open at 
all times.  When she was sitting on the toilet you watched her, and she 
spread her legs so you could watch her pee, and you did.  And, to you, 
it was no casual interest-- you got down on your knees, putting your 
head between hers, to get a look at the beautiful, golden waterfall that 
her body had always hidden from you.  And she spread a bit wider to let 
you get closer, and before her bladder was even empty she noticed 
something you didn't: your erection.

Then she knew who, and what you were, and although it hadn't quite been 
her expectation, she was pleased with it.

She was less available than usual for the following week; doing some 
research, bringing home some books that she wouldn't let you read, at 
least yet.  The following weekend, she asked you to lie down-- face up-- 
on the middle of the bathroom floor, which was cold because she had 
removed the rug.  You weren't quite sure why you complied with her, why 
you didn't ask; inside, you were hoping, maybe, that she'd do what she 
did.

When she walked into the bathroom and put one foot on either side of 
you, you knew what was coming, even if you didn't believe it.  You were 
fascinated by what you saw; the dark recesses between her legs, the 
furry patch just in front, the underside of her breasts, even the bottom 
of the foot which lifted over you as she straddled you.  Then you were 
awestruck by the shape of her body, as she lowered herself down, how the 
curve of her back was so smooth  as it continued to her creamy bottom 
and to the underside of those legs.  She's not a frail woman-- those 
legs, muscles tightened to hold her in her squatting position-- are so 
big, so strong!   Although she's fit, you were impressed at how 
substantial the female body is-- especially from this point, where you 
feel so small.  And her pussy!  You can smell it from here, so close, 
right over your chest.

The thought is so strong-- if only she'd move back a bit, you'd caress 
her so gently with your tongue that she'd explode right away--

Then the fateful realization: she's entirely motionless, and the room is 
silent.  Something is happening above you; some of her muscles 
tightening, others relaxing, her shape changing ever so slightly as all 
of her safeguards are released.  The point of no return; she has the 
same posture, the same attitude, the same expression that she has-- when 
she's starting to go to the bathroom.
Only she's not sitting on the toilet.

You panic,  but can't move-- you don't know what to do-- and then it's 
too late: her pussy lips burst open, and yellow liquid falls and 
splatters and sprays towards you, and when it gets there it's hot and 
tingly and almost slimy.  You open your mouth to say something-- you're 
not sure quite what, and she tilts her hips forwards and sprays it into 
your mouth and nose, your hair and eyes and chin, and then the other way 
until she gets your cock and your legs, and then straight down again, 
direct from her pussy to your sternum, making her puddle bigger and 
hotter until, finally, she is done.

 
She didn't get up right away.  She looked down upon you, but it wasn't 
the same look; something about the relationship was different.  She 
smiled, though, feeling a tingle in her loins she had never felt before.  
She let you soak in her piss as the last few drops fell away from her.  
Her pussy looked down upon you, too; and it was proud of what it had 
done-- reduced a strong, full-grown man to a puddle of girl-piss.

She let you wash up-- yourself and the bathroom floor-- yourself.    Her 
scent didn't seem to come off.  And though you didn't speak of it, 
things weren't the same.  Her chemistry was inside you; the bond between 
you as strong-- if not stronger-- than ever.  But you weren't equals; 
you served her, you served that pussy that pissed all over you.

She did it again-- in the bathtub, underneath her in the shower, before 
she started making you drink from her.  And you did, placing your mouth 
right up against that all-so-smug pussy, taking cues from the touch of 
her fingertips as to when to approach and when to swallow and when to 
lick her dry.

And you both thought it was great fun, even when she teased you.    You 
didn't even really need that touch; you knew what her body needed, and 
were always there to please it. When you were at that huge, outdoor 
concert and you teased her about how _you_ had remembered to use the 
bathroom before leaving the house, and how long that line was for the 
women's porta-potties was, she took you aside and touched you on the 
back of the neck, and then her skirt surrounded your head, and then 
_her_ bladder was empty while yours was suddenly full, and you were in 
more of a panic than she had been; and she only laughed-- harmlessly-- 
when you had _your_ accident with pee that was originally hers.

You finally overheard what she knew you to be, as she talked with her 
friends:   "my pussy slave."  Although she could have easily sunk you 
into deep, permanent humiliation-- you would have done anything for her-
- she didn't.  Her friends had their own pussy slaves.  It was the new 
way; it was progress.

Finally, she took your sperm, and conceived a child  She was more a part 
of you than you knew-- her piss, her hormones, her desire flowing 
through your arteries, changing you.

You tested her control only once, over something stupid.  There was no 
contest.  The force of her thought could drop you to the floor, and when 
she pissed into you this time it was stronger than ever, stinging, 
flowing right to your brain as she washed the resistance from you.  And 
then you could not ever imagine disagreeing with her again.

As her belly swelled, her chemistry changed, and her pussy ensured that 
yours did, too.  When you pointed out how her breasts were growing, she 
pointed to yours; immature organs just now freeing themselves from your 
chest hair and any masculinity  you might have had.  Your nipples were 
clearly swollen.  You nearly freaked out.

"Pregnancy hormones," she said.  "That's what supposed to happen.  
Otherwise, how would you feed our baby?"

You stared in the mirror at yourself, brushing your fingers over your 
chest, noticing how more of the hair fell away.  She could not possibly 
be serious.  You wondered, however, if it made sense; if this is what 
she meant when she told you how the old stereotypes were no more.  You 
even stared at yourself, in profile, trying to determine if any of these 
changes were showing.  You tried to will the swelling away; to ignore 
it.  It was too late.   Freed from their testosterone-induced dormancy, 
awakened by the hormonal messengers given you by your pregnant mate, the 
breasts fed on your energy, swelling, stretching outwards, preparing.

With only two weeks to go, she brought home a "surprise" for you.  It 
was a bra.  You resigned yourself to never go outside again; you had 
already found it near-impossible to hide these breasts, the size of a 
teenage girl's.   In another week they had swollen to the size of an 
adult woman's, and then, as your milk glands prepared to function, they 
grew to the size and weight that only a nursing mother would have.  She 
is pleased at that; pleased that you'll be able to stay home and care 
for the baby while she pursues her career and gets ready for the next 
pregnancy.

And here you are: holding her hand as she bears down for the second 
stage of labor, feeling her effort.  She tells you that many of the 
changes will be temporary; that your bosom will 'probably' diminish 
after the baby is weaned, that your dormant sex organs will reappear, 
someday, when she needs them.  And the pussy, the one that enslaves you 
to this existence, waits to bring another master into your world.