Chapter 5: First Female Pee
The silence after our grim pact was brittle. The agreement to “work around” our biology felt like trying to hold back a tide with a spoon. Almost immediately, a new, more urgent signal cut through the lingering shock and the traitorous dampness in my underwear.
A deep, internal pressure. A fullness low in my abdomen, insistent and undeniable. It wasn’t arousal. This was simpler, more base. My bladder.
“Oh, no,” I whispered, my thighs instinctively squeezing together. The motion made the skirt ride higher, the thong dig in, and sent a fresh, confusing jiggle through my hips and chest.
Sabrina looked up from her brooding examination of my knuckles. “What now?”
“I need to… you know.” I couldn’t say it. The words felt childish and humiliating.
Her expression shifted from annoyance to a kind of grim understanding. “Right. Well. Go.”
It was the permission that broke me. This was my apartment. My bathroom. But nothing about this was mine anymore. Getting off the couch was a lesson in alien physics. My center of gravity was too high, nestled in my chest instead of my gut. When I pushed myself up, the soft, heavy weight of Sabrina’s breasts swayed forward, pulling me off-balance for a second before the sports bra cinched them back. I had to widen my stance, feeling the shift of my new, wider pelvis, the rub of my thighs against each other beneath the skirt.
Walking was a nightmare. Every step sent a bounce through my chest, a restrained jostle that the bra transmuted into a constant, compressed awareness. My ass, this new, prominent shelf of flesh, had its own momentum, a side-to-side sway that felt exaggerated, performative, even though no one was watching but Sabrina. The skirt’s hem flirted with the tops of my thighs. The small sneakers felt absurdly dainty, slapping lightly against the tile.
I waddled, there was no other word for it, to the bathroom. The binary-patterned shower curtain was a mockery of order. I closed the door but didn’t lock it. The concept of privacy had evaporated.
Facing the toilet, I was paralyzed. I stared at it. The mechanics were all wrong. A lifetime of muscle memory was useless. I fumbled with the skirt’s zipper, my fingers—smaller, nails painted a chipped black—feeling clumsy. I pushed the skirt and the thong down in one awkward bunch, the cool air hitting my bare thighs.
Sitting down was a surrender. The toilet seat was colder than I expected. The feel of it against the backs of my thighs was strangely vulnerable. I braced my hands on my knees, took a breath, and willed my body to do what it needed to do.
Nothing happened.
My mind was a wall. The command wouldn’t translate. The system was different. There was no aiming, no familiar angle. Just an open, waiting emptiness. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the sensation of my own soft stomach pressed against the top of my thighs, the brush of pink hair over my shoulder, the dizzying perfume of my own shampoo.
Finally, a release. It wasn’t a stream. It was a warm, unchecked trickle. I had no control over its start, its direction, its sound—a quiet, intimate patter that was utterly foreign. I could only sit and let it happen, a passive vessel. The warmth spread, a tactile confirmation of a process I was entirely detached from. It was the most helpless feeling I had ever experienced.
When it finished, I just sat there for a moment, drained. Then came the next hurdle. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper. The action of reaching between my own legs was shockingly intimate. I wiped, the paper dragging across flesh that was not mine, following a procedure I’d only ever known from diagrams. My mind tried to detach, to treat it like cleaning a lab specimen.
But then my finger, fumbling, brushed against something.
A tiny, specific point of nerve-rich tissue.
It was like touching a live wire.
A bolt of sensation, electric and unbearably sharp, shot up through my core. It wasn’t pleasure. It was a raw, neurological scream, an overload of input from a sensor I didn’t know how to process. My whole body jolted, a spasmodic flinch that made me gasp. A secondary wave, hot and pooling, followed the initial shock, settling back into that damned, traitorous dampness between my legs. The arousal was back, instantaneous and fierce, a physiological echo of the accidental touch.
I froze, breath held, eyes wide, staring at the binary code on the shower curtain until it blurred into meaningless noise. My heart hammered against the constriction of the bra. The cool air on my exposed skin now felt predatory.
A knock on the door made me jump. “You okay in there? You’re taking forever.” Sabrina’s voice, filtered through my own vocal cords, was laced with impatience.
“Fine,” I croaked, the word strangled. I cleaned up mechanically, my movements robotic. I pulled the thong and skirt back up, the damp fabric a chilling reminder. When I stood, a fresh wave of dizziness hit me—a combination of the lingering shock, the new center of balance, and the sheer psychological weight of it all.
I opened the door. Sabrina was leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed. She took one look at my face—which must have been pale, haunted—and her annoyed expression softened into something else. Pity, perhaps. Or recognition.
“The whole ‘sitting down’ thing is weird, right?” she said, her tone deliberately casual, trying to defuse the bomb of what had just happened.
I nodded, unable to speak. The echo of that electric jolt still vibrated in my nerves. It was more than weird. It was a violation layered on top of a violation. My body was a haunted house, and I’d just stumbled into a room wired with tripwires.
“Yeah,” I finally managed, my voice thin. I walked past her, the sway of my hips feeling less like a gait and more like a tremor. I needed to get back to the code, back to the cold, clean logic of the problem. But I knew, with a sinking certainty, that the problem wasn’t just in the hard drive on the desk. The problem was mapped into every nerve ending, every unfamiliar curve, every humiliating, helpless function. The solution, if there was one, was buried somewhere beneath this flesh that kept broadcasting its existence in a language I couldn’t speak, only feel with a kind of terrified, visceral literacy.