1 comments/ 16825 views/ 3 favorites The Big Hurt By: rikkitampa2014 "The medicine I'm prescribing," the doctor explained, "has two rather significant side effects: possible genital shrinkage and gynecomastia. Like many steroidal-class drugs, this one has the potential to shrink one or both of your male sex organs. Some experience a significant physiological change over a short period, others see virtually no change over long periods of use. It depends on many factors." "What's the other thing?" I asked. "Sounds nasty." "Gynecomastia, a Greek term, is breast growth in men. Again, some take the drug for years without seeing any real significant changes in their boobs, while others can experience a radical change in a matter of weeks. I'm not a betting man but, frankly, based on my experience with this drug, I would say the second scenario is far more likely than the first. Sorry. "The difference between the two side effects," the doctor continued, "is that genital shrinkage is irreversible while gynecomastia can be corrected surgically. That's not something we could do for you here in prison, but it's something you could take care of when you get out." The doctor stood up. "Any questions?" "Do I have a choice?" "Not really. Not if you want to survive." I shrugged. Would could I say? "Look on the bright side," the doctor said, leading me to the exam room door. He was smiling. No, grinning. "This will make you very popular with the prison population." He gave my lower back, my very lower back, a pat. "How are fixed for condoms?" "I'm good," I said. Two weeks later I was standing naked (well, pantied) in front of my cellmate and protector Jo' "Big Hurt" Lewis, the former heavyweight and convicted murderer, when he exclaimed, jumping off the lower bunk: "Holy Christ! You got titties!" And over he came to maul the soft, sensitive little things with his bear claws. (In a previous life Jo' had gone by the name Hakim "Bear Claw" Hussein Bakiri. This prior to his conversion to Christianity.) After a month on the drug I had genuine A-cups, just like my first wife Karen (it took her 21 years to accomplish the same feat). After two months I was pushing B-cup size. The transformation was swift and amazing! And the doctor had proved prophetic. I was proving very popular with the other prisoners. Every one, it seemed, wanted to cop a feel. Especially in the showers and, behind closed doors, in the Conjugal Visitation Area I had been assigned, as part of my prison work duties, to keep clean. "Your tits are bigger'n my wife's!" I got that a lot. One day in our cell, sitting on his bunk shortly after topping me, Jo' pushed his well-worn Bible aside and said to no one in particular, head shaking: "This shit ain't right." "What shit?" "You, motherfucker!" Defensively, I began working my panties back up. (My wife, bless her, had been so kind as to comply with my request and send me several pair of her laciest microfiber panties in a "care" package. To tuck under my pillow at night, I explained in my email to her. "As an ever-present reminder of you." As with many things in my prison life, it had been Big Jo's idea.) "What about me?" I asked my cellmate. (He always got the blues like this following ejaculation. Whether deep in my hole, deep down my throat or on his own washboard belly.) "We should be makin' money off this shit, man!" "How?" pretending I had some idea of what the hell he was talking about. I didn't want to rile him, after all. "Charge for yo' titties, man!" an angry Jo' declared. "Charge these fuckers fo' coppin' a feel!" It made perfect sense. In theory. I was every man's dream, whether they would admit it or not. I was officially a she-male now. Tits and a dick, though an ever-shrinking one. And my world, my present perverted universe, consisted of some 900 sex-starved criminals. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for many of my fellow inmates. Who wouldn't pay? In the immortal words of Gary Gilmore, let's do it! Besides, what sex-starved inmate, gay or straight or inbetween, wouldn't want to squeeze a pair of soft, pliant, motherly tits? It was one of life's instinctual imperatives, or so I had read in a prison library book. So I swung around in my wife's panties and sat next to Jo' on his lower bunk and we hammered out a schedule. Of payments. Since money is hard-come-by in prison it had to be reasonable. Beyond reasonable. We settled on the following: $5 for a five minute feel; $10 for a feel and blowjob (I thought this low); $25 for a feel and fuck (with me on the receiving end, of course). The problem with this was that many—most—desired the third option but lacked the requisite funds. Which led to countless early attempts by inmates to force themselves upon me. After which a steaming Jo' hunted them down in the corridors and beat their faces in with his beef roast-sized mitts. Let's just say there were no repeat offenders. Jo' and I split the proceeds. I thought this only fair. He was the idea man. Besides, out of his share he paid off a guard and got me a new wig, a makeup kit, bottles of Nair (not Nair for Men but, whatever, it's the same smelly shit), some stockings and, as things developed, a wonderfully lacy black C-cup bra. Yes, things had nearly reached that point. Or those tender points, I should say. As a former entrepreneur I was ecstatic. It was great to be back in business again! Bribing officials, performing illegal acts, evading taxes...Plus—and here's the kicker—as the prison's only bona fide she-male I was enjoying a unique and incredibly varied sex life. This sure beat banging an overweight, indifferent school teacher twice a week, if I was lucky. Then the hammer fell. Our state's new incoming governor (not that I could vote for him) decided to make good on his law-and-order campaign pledge to empty our prisons of non-violent white-collar criminals (like me) in order to make room for drug offenders. I was offered early parole. I literally cried on Big Jo's muscle-popping shoulder at the news. Later, following what would turn out to be goodbye-sex between us, a resigned, bluesey Jo' said, meat-hands folded between his knees, "Gotta do it, man. Gotta go." "But--" "Bible say, If the door of opportunity knock, gotta walk through that motherfucker." (It does?) It did not take long for my newly acquired domestic life to take a wrong turn. The first time my long-suffering, panty-depleted wife saw me naked in the shower she declared: "Christ! They're bigger than mine!" Later, dejectedly, she asked: "How long do you have to keep taking this drug?" "Forever, I guess." "Jesus! You'll have double-D's before it's over!" (Did I detect an air of female jealousy?) "I guess we won't be taking any long walks on the beach any time soon," she said. To which I replied, in my swimming head: Thank God! And what is this mania with long walks on the beach, anyway, and having a good sense of humor, and going to flea markets? And...Fucking shoot me! She looked at me slyly, my wife: "What did the other prisoners think of you?" "Me?" "You. With that big pair." (She wasn't referring to my balls, that's for sure!) I probably blushed. I don't know. "Nothing. I was kept in solitary." "You told me in your letters you had a cellmate. A--" "Yes but he was—is—a devout Christian." Whew! I was sweating. Felt like I'd just tunneled under a barbed-wire fence into relative freedom. Which came, inevitably, less than two months later when we agreed to split up and I took an apartment, having retrieved my stash of pre-prison dollars from its hiding place thirty paces due north, and ten due east, and three-feet deep in the firm earth (I broke two spades borrowed from my—and now my wife's—garage) in the woods behind the house. (The money has a musty smell, but it still spends!) I wrote Big Jo' informing him about my sudden change in domestic circumstances. He emailed back congratulating me on my new-found freedom times two. He also floated the idea of reviving our "bizness." Which he would "run" long-distance from his prison cell. Jo' argued that "people on the outside" have tons of money (I guess he's never been to a Walmart) and that we should adjust our rates accordingly. After some back and forth (written in code—prison mail is subject to "inspection") we settled on the following: $25 for a feel, or, in Jo's terminology, "the She-male Exxxperience;" $75 for a feel and a BJ, "a She-male Deluxxxe" (and a rate, I might add, I found far more agreeable than in prison—it was my mouth, after all, and throat); and $125 (which I lowered from Jo's suggested $150) for a feel and a fuck, or "the She-male Exxxtravaganza." (I wasn't too sure about Jo's last euphemism.) Jo' requested fifty percent of the proceeds. I countered with ten. After much haggling we settled on twenty. I could live with that. It was like tipping a waiter at a restaurant after a well-served meal. In return I would be assured of Jo's continued protection if anything ever "went south." It almost immediately did. Forgetting that rules in civilian life are pretty much diametrically opposed to those in prison, I committed the cardinal sin of touching my latest trick's significant sex organs before he, whether above or below the belt, groped mine. He backed away from my hand. Reached into a pocket. Pulled out a gold badge. Vice. I was fucked. Not so much on the alleged prostitution charge, which is only a misdemeanor in our state (the new governor is trying to change that), but because I had violated my parole. It was back to prison. It was back to digging a hole in the woods by borrowed flashlight in the middle of the night. "You gotta help me, baby! One last time..." Jo' pulled some strings (cash exchanged hands, in other words) and got me reassigned as his cellmate. That was one version of events. The other was that Jo' had murdered his cellmate (my short-term replacement) in a dispute over an animal-cracker snack. Whatever... One early morning I stood before Jo' in my contraband ex-wife's panties and with my D-cups drooping down and exclaimed: "Just like old times!" To which the Big Hurt, glowering at me from his lower bunk, replied: "Twenty percent my ass!"