The Woman My Wife Turned Me Into Forever

Months have passed since that night in Madame Lutecia’s parlor, and I still find it difficult to pinpoint the exact moment when I stopped being myself. There was no blow, no conscious decision. It was a slow descent, a tide that rose while I slept until it covered me completely. Esteban no longer exists. Now I am Estela, and I am writing this not as a remorseful confession, but as the record of a woman who learned to desire what she never believed possible.

What began as an innocent night out became the trigger for my metamorphosis. Carla, my wife—now my mistress and my companion in this twisted life—guides me with a mixture of possessive love and domination so subtle it hardly feels like an order. The hypnosis did not end that night. Madame Lutecia visits us every few weeks to “reinforce,” as she puts it, the suggestions that infiltrated my subconscious without my realizing it until it was too late.

My daily routine is a fabric of constant submission and pleasure. I wake every morning in our enormous bed, wrapped in a pink silk nightgown that brushes against my oversensitive skin. That sensitivity is no accident: it is the hormones Carla gives me disguised as vitality supplements. My body has truly changed. My tits grew with the treatments and then with a couple of surgeries in which they fitted me with the largest implants the doctor dared recommend. My hips widened. My voice grew higher through practice and vocal exercises Madame recorded for me to repeat every night. Between my legs, almost nothing remains: what used to be my cock has shrunk to a soft little thing kept caged most of the day, and behind me I have an ass Carla took charge of training month after month until she left it open, elastic, always ready for whatever she feels like putting inside me.

I look at myself in the bathroom mirror while I do my makeup—red lips, smoky eyes, just like in the dreams I later understood were real memories—and feel a wave of arousal rise up my back. There is no going back. My mind was rewritten to long for this femininity, and the worst part, or the best, is that I no longer want to recover what I lost.

The day begins with service. I prepare breakfast dressed in a French maid’s uniform over black lingerie and nylon stockings I do not even remove to sleep. Carla comes down to the kitchen with her hair still damp, kisses my neck, and whispers the two words that have become the center of my world.

—Good girl.

Good girl. Those two words melt me more than any caress. My body responds before my head does, like a dog recognizing its owner’s voice.

Sometimes she rewards me right there. She shoves me against the cold countertop, yanks up my maid’s skirt, and pulls my panties down to my knees. I hear the click of the harness buckle, the wet sound of cold lubricant dripping between my ass cheeks, and then the thick pressure of her silicone cock forcing its way into my ass in a single thrust. She digs her nails into my hips and fucks me against the tiles without mercy while I bite my forearm to keep from screaming. With her other hand, she grabs my hair and pulls my head back.

—Tell them you’re mine—she pants into my ear—. Say it out loud, slut.

—I’m yours, Mistress, I’m your slut, I’m your little woman—I repeat in a broken voice as every thrust opens me wider, as the cage between my legs tightens and drools against the countertop. She does not stop until I come without touching myself, a thick, humiliating spurt that falls onto the kitchen floor and that she later makes me lick up on my knees, still with the harness inside my ass.

I work from home as a virtual assistant, but my breaks are not rests; they are reminders. From her office, Carla controls a small device I carry inside me, a vibrating plug she inserted when I got up and will not let me remove until nightfall. Every vibration in the middle of the morning forces me to bite my lip in front of the screen so I do not scream, to squeeze my thighs together, to feel the imaginary cunt tightening that I already experience as my own. If I ever try to resist—a fleeting echo of the man I was—all it takes is one sentence from Madame, one of those she planted inside me, to return me to wet, trembling obedience, my ass throbbing and my mouth open, waiting for orders.

***

The afternoons are for socializing. Carla introduced me to a closed circle: her friends and the trans women from the parlor, who are now my sisters in this new life. We meet in private homes or at Madame Lutecia’s parlor, where group sessions deepen what each of us is. I learned to move gracefully in high heels, to cross my legs, to tilt my head when people speak to me, to flirt with men Carla first invites as a game and then as a habit.

I remember my first public outing with a clarity that embarrasses and excites me at the same time. A tight dress, perfect makeup, walking through the center of the city with Carla’s arm linked through mine. Men looked at me, and where I would once have felt panic, I felt a shiver of desire someone had planted inside me without asking permission.

That night, back at home, Carla shared a lover with me. A broad-backed man with enormous hands was waiting for me in the living room when we entered, sitting in the armchair with his fly already open and a fat, thick, veined cock sticking out above his belt. Carla gave me no time to do anything. She pushed me by the shoulders until I was kneeling between the man’s legs and whispered:

—Suck him. Slowly. Show him what you’ve learned.

I gripped his cock with both hands, felt it pulse beneath my fingers, and then put it in my mouth as far as I could. He groaned, grabbing my hair, and began setting the pace, fucking my mouth without care while thick strings of saliva fell over my new tits. Carla sat in the armchair opposite, opened her robe, spread her legs, and began stroking her cunt with two fingers as she watched me and dictated in a low voice.

—Deeper. Pull it out and suck his balls. That’s it. Now again, down your throat, like I taught you.

I obeyed every word. When the man lifted me, turned me around against the little table, and shoved that enormous cock into my ass in one thrust, I screamed so loudly that Carla laughed. He drove it all the way in, his hands squeezing my narrow waist, while I held myself against the marble with my tits hanging down and flattening against the cold. Every thrust tore a high, feminine moan from me, one I no longer recognized as coming from me.

—Ask him for it—Carla said without raising her voice, biting her lip—. Ask him not to stop.

—Don’t stop, please, don’t stop, fuck me, break me, do whatever you want to me—I begged in a voice I no longer recognized as my own—. I’m my wife’s slut, I’m your slut, fuck me harder.

He came inside me. I felt the hot spurts filling me, felt him pull out and a thick stream run down the backs of my thighs. Carla stood up, spread my ass cheeks with both hands to get a close look at what her lover had done to me, and then forced me to kneel and suck his cock clean. I did it while looking at her, my eyes watery from the smeared mascara and my mouth full. She smiled.

With time, my life expanded beyond the walls of home. Carla enrolled me in feminine etiquette classes taught by Madame herself, where I learn to kneel elegantly, to use my mouth to please, to keep a certain control device on as a symbol of what I am now. The hormones softened my features until I became unrecognizable in old photographs. Carla kept them all; she says she likes comparing the tense man I was then with the relaxed woman I am today.

***

Weekends are something else. Parties at the parlor where, to my surprise, I am the center of attention. Carla’s friends use me with their harnesses, the trans women teach me feminine tricks while they fuck me, and the men Madame selects join in one after another, filling me in a way no toy can match. Everything happens beneath the slow swing of Madame Lutecia’s pendant, that golden pendulum which, as soon as it begins to sway, shuts off the part of me that still asks questions and leaves only the part that feels awake.

Carla never goes far on those nights. Sometimes she films from a corner, “for our memories,” she says. Other times she joins in at the end, pushing aside whoever happens to be there to claim me as hers in front of everyone.

—She’s mine—she announces with a smile that allows no reply—. She always has been.

There was one Saturday I remember with particular clarity, because it was the night I understood how much I had changed. Madame had invited three men and two of my sisters from the parlor. The pendulum had barely begun to move and I was already on my knees on the carpet, offering myself without anyone telling me to. They yanked off my dress and left me wearing only my nylon stockings, heels, and the leather collar Carla fastens around my neck before every party.

One of the trans women, the tallest, stood in front of me and pulled a long, very dark, semi-hard cock from her thong, bringing it to my lips without saying a word. I opened my mouth without resisting. She shoved it into me all at once until I felt her balls against my chin and my nose crushed against her shaved pubis. She fucked my mouth unhurriedly while another sister knelt behind me, spread my ass cheeks with both hands, and began eating my ass, her tongue pushing inside me as far as it could, wetting me and preparing me.

One of the guests approached from behind. I smelled his cologne and felt the weight of his cock resting between my wet ass cheeks. He chuckled under his breath and shoved it in with one thrust. I screamed around the cock in my mouth, a muffled moan that made Carla laugh from the armchair. They began fucking me from both sides, setting a crossed rhythm, both sinking into me at once, both pulling out at once. I drooled over my tits, my mascara running, the cage around my cock dripping onto the carpet even though I could not fully get hard anymore, and it was that loss of control that aroused me most.

Carla marked the rhythm with two fingers in the air, like an orchestra conductor.

—Faster, deeper—she ordered—. Come inside her. All three of you. Leave her mouth and ass full.

And that is what happened. The first man came down my throat and forced me to swallow every last drop, squeezing my jaw with his hand until I smiled at him with my mouth open and my tongue dirty with his milk. The second filled my ass with a grunt, pushing all the way in, and when he pulled out he made me spread my cheeks so everyone could see his semen dripping, see me left open, vulgar, exposed. Then the third came, and then the two trans women, taking turns with their thick harnesses while Carla stroked her clitoris and spoke to me.

—Look at yourself, princess, look at yourself. You’re a beautiful slut. You’re my beautiful slut.

I felt no shame, no fear, none of the old disgust Esteban would have felt. I felt pride. Pride at being desired, at being useful, at belonging, at having my ass full of semen, my mouth sore, and my tits red from being squeezed so much.

When everything was over and the guests had left, Carla took me to the back room, sat me on her lap like a little girl, and cleaned the smeared makeup from my face with a damp cotton pad. She said nothing for a long while. She simply held me while I listened to her heartbeat against my cheek. That silence was worth more than all the pleasure of the night.

But it would be a lie to reduce all this to the body. There is an emotional bond that sustains me when my mind falters. Carla loves me with an intensity I never knew in the years when we were an ordinary married couple. After every session she cares for me with disarming tenderness: hot baths in which she herself washes me between the legs with a soft sponge, removing whatever remains inside with two delicate fingers, slow massages along my back, words of affirmation that are also suggestions, though I no longer care to distinguish one from the other.

—You’re perfect like this, Estela—she whispers in my ear, her fingers still wet as they slide along my waist—. You’re my princess, my slut, my woman. All at once.

And I believe her with every cell of the new body they gave me.

The rejection I felt at first was erased with a watchmaker’s patience. Now feminization is my identity, not a costume I put on. I have started going out alone: I visit lingerie boutiques where the saleswomen treat me like any other customer, choosing lace while thinking about what color Carla will like seeing me in tonight, and sometimes I go on dates she arranges with other trans women from the circle, who guide me through what they affectionately call my evolution.

***

Every so often, a flash of doubt passes through me. Who was Esteban? What did he want, what did he fear, why did he resist so much? The question lasts only an instant. A call to Madame Lutecia and a remote session, with her voice coming through my headphones while I caress my tits and sink two fingers into my ass in obedience to her orders, dissolve the crack before it opens completely. When I finish, mouth open and body trembling, I breathe easily again. I become who I am now again.

Last night, while Carla brushed my hair in front of the mirror, I asked her whether she had ever felt guilty about what she had done to me. She fell silent for a moment, her hands still on my shoulders.

—I gave you what you already wanted and didn’t dare ask for—she replied at last—. Is that guilt, or is it a gift?

I did not know how to answer. Or perhaps I did, and the answer gave me too much pleasure to say aloud. I leaned back, rested my head against her stomach, and let her go on brushing.

My life after the transformation is an ecstasy that never fades, a descent that reached the bottom and discovered that the bottom was warm. Carla and I share everything: lovers, secrets, sessions, Madame’s golden pendulum. Nothing remains of the man I was, and I do not miss him. I belong to Carla, entirely, and for the first time in my life I know exactly who I am when I look at myself in the mirror, with red lips, large tits, and my ass still throbbing from the night before.

I am Estela. I am hers. And I am, forever, her princess.