Masculinity’s Last Breath Chapter 1: Flattened Flesh, Fractured Self
The dim glow of Eugene’s single bulb flickers against the peeling wallpaper of his apartment, casting long shadows that stretch like skeletal fingers across the floor. He stands in front of the full-length mirror propped against his wardrobe, his reflection warped slightly by the aged glass. His bushy brown hair sticks out in every direction, his thick-framed glasses slipping down his nose as he exhales sharply through his nostrils. The package in his hands is small, unassuming—just a plain brown envelope, the kind that could hold anything from a birthday card to a death threat. But Eugene knows exactly what’s inside. His fingers tremble as he peels back the flap, the sound of tearing paper too loud in the silence.
The gaff slips out, a stretch of soft, flesh-toned fabric with reinforced seams, designed to do one thing: erase him.
Not all of him—just the part that makes him a man. His cock twitches at the thought, already half-hard, betraying the mix of shame and excitement churning in his gut. This is what she wants. Ms. Amelia’s voice echoes in his skull, smooth as whiskey, sharp as a blade. You’ll wear it. You’ll get used to it. And when the Alpha sees you, he won’t see a man. He’ll see a pretty little sissy, just like I do.
Eugene swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
He strips off his high-waisted trousers, the suspenders dangling at his sides like defeated soldiers. His cock stands pathetic and eager, the head already glistening with a bead of pre-cum. Pathetic. The word burns through him, but it only makes him harder. He steps into the gaff, the fabric cool against his thighs, and then—pressure. A firm, unyielding squeeze as he tucks himself back, his balls retreating upward, his cock forced flat against his body. The sensation is strange, almost painful, but the humiliation of it sends a jolt straight to his groin. He adjusts the straps, tugging until the fabric clings like a second skin, smoothing out the bulge that once defined him.
His hands shake as he runs them over his new shape—flat. Smooth. Like a girl.
A laugh bubbles up in his throat, high and nervous. What the fuck are you doing, Eugene? But the question is rhetorical. He knows. He’s been dreaming of this for months, ever since Ms. Amelia first whispered sissy into his ear like a promise. He turns sideways in the mirror, lifting the hem of his button-up shirt to inspect the results. His hips look narrower like this, his posture softer. The faint scar on his left cheek—earned from a childhood tumble into a rosebush—stands out starkly against his flushed skin. He touches it absently, then lower, his fingers brushing over the gaff. No cock. No balls. Just… nothing. The emptiness is intoxicating.