Chapter 72: The Harsh Reality
The air in Lilith’s backroom always held a specific weight, a mix of old velvet, silicone, and whispered secrets. Today, it also carried the sharp, clean scent of antiseptic. Becca practically bounced on the balls of her feet, her hazel eyes wide with excitement as she faced her older sister.
“Well? What do you think?” Becca asked, her voice a blend of pride and nervousness.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her loose, cotton shorts and pushed them down, just enough. The tan line of her slender hips was interrupted by a neat, perfectly healed strip of skin, smooth and empty. Her scrotum was gone, leaving a vulnerable, simplified landscape above her 14cm flaccid length.
Anya, leaning against a glass display case of vintage vibrators, felt her stomach drop. She took a slow drag from her vape, the sweet cloud doing nothing to cut the sudden taste of dread. “I think you went to a back-alley ripper, Bec.”
“No! It was the Gloss. Super trendy,” Becca said, pulling her shorts back up. She missed the flicker of pain in Anya’s eyes. “All the models are doing it. Clean lines, you know? No more awkward bulge in skinny jeans. It’s very chic.”
“Chic.” Anya repeated the word like it was foreign. She pushed off the case, her red hair a fiery cascade as she shook her head. “Oh, honey. Chic. Right. Did this chic clinic mention what happens next? Or were they too busy taking your creds and talking about aesthetic purity?”
Becca’s confident smile faltered. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the testosterone, Bec. Or the lack of it.” Anya’s tone was deceptively light, almost sing-song, as she began circling her sister. “The little balls you just tossed in the biowaste bin? They weren’t just decoration. They’re the factory. Without ‘em, your body’s got nothing to run on. No fuel. The engine sputters and dies.”
“I don’t… I feel fine,” Becca insisted, but a wrinkle of worry appeared between her brows.
“You feel fine now,” Anya chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Wait a few weeks. The mood swings’ll hit first. You’ll be crying at pet food ads. Then the fatigue. Then…” She stopped in front of Becca, her green eyes locking onto her sister’s. “Then the little guy downstairs decides to take a permanent vacation.”
Becca’s hand instinctively fluttered to her crotch. “It still works. I got… excited on the ride over. It did its thing.”
“A farewell tour,” Anya said, nodding with mock solemnity. “It’ll do that for a bit. A few sad, half-hearted attempts. But soon, it’s just… luggage. A cute little noodle that won’t take orders from anyone, least of all you.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know what they call a girl with a pretty, useless dick?”
Becca swallowed. “What?”
“A sissy.”
The word hung in the thick air. It wasn’t said with malice, but with a brutal, clinical precision that made it worse.
“That’s not… I’m not…” Becca stammered, her face flushing.
“I’m not judging!” Anya held up her hands, backing away and flopping onto the velvet chaise. “Some girls are into that. Tiffany loves her setup. But Tiff chose it, after a whole world of hell. She made peace. You? You did it for a trend. You wanted to be chic.” She let the word dangle again, corrosive. “So now you get to be a chic, impotent sissy. Hope it was worth it for the jeans.”
Becca’s bravado finally crumbled. She sank onto a leather ottoman, her slender shoulders slumping. “It’s not permanent, though. Right? I can get implants or something?”
“Hormone implants, sure. They help with the mood stuff. Maybe give you a whisper of a libido. But the wood? The standing ovation?” Anya shook her head slowly, watching the reality sink into her sister’s features. “That’s a one-way street, baby girl. You paved it yourself.”
Silence stretched, broken only by the distant hum of the shop’s neon sign. Becca stared at the intricate pattern of the Persian rug. Her fantasy—the vanilla, gentle fantasy of making love to a girl, of being inside someone—seemed to evaporate before her, leaving a cold, hollow shame.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered, her voice small.
“That’s the fucking problem,” Anya sighed, the anger bleeding out of her, replaced by a weary empathy. “No one reads the terms and conditions. You see Tiff, you see Claire, you see all these girls living their lives and you think it’s just… a style. It’s not. It’s a body. It’s your body. And you just put a permanent limiter on it.”
She stood up and walked over, sitting next to Becca on the ottoman. She didn’t hug her; their relationship wasn’t like that. But she nudged her shoulder with her own.
But she nudged her shoulder with her own. “Look, it’s not the end of the world. You just adapt. You get really, really good with your hands and your mouth. You lean into the other stuff.”
“I wanted to fuck someone, Anya.” The words burst out of Becca, raw and unvarnished. “Just, like, a normal time. Not all the kinky shit you and Tiff are into. Just… connection.”
Anya barked a laugh, though her eyes stayed soft. “Normal? What’s that? Tiff’s got a cute little button and a contract, I’ve got a pocket clit and a rewired ass. Claire’s out there making gaping porn and loving it.” She exhaled, the scent of vanilla vape mixing with leather. “There’s no normal. There’s just what works.”
Becca’s gaze dropped to her own lap, a frown of intense concentration etching her face. The plush velvet of the ottander felt abrasive against her thighs. She was chasing a phantom sensation, a memory of morning wood, willing it back into existence through sheer stubbornness.
It was a stupid, desperate thought.
Then a familiar, almost forgotten warmth began to stir in her groin. A twitch. A flush of blood that felt like a minor miracle. Her breath hitched. She watched, mesmerized, as the soft fabric of her shorts tented, slowly lifting into a definite, undeniable ridge.
A wild, relieved laugh escaped her. “See?”
Anya followed her gaze. Her expression didn’t change.
“It works!” Becca insisted, her voice climbing with giddy triumph. She looked from her own erection to her sister’s impassive face, the hollowness from moments before flooding with a defiant, vibrant hope. “You were wrong. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
She stood up, the movement confident, the weight and presence between her legs a perfect anchor. It was proof. It was a future. All the dark, clinical predictions evaporated in the face of this simple, physical truth. She smoothed her shorts, the outline prominent and proud.
“I’ll be totally fine,” Becca said, nodding to herself, the decision solidifying into fact.
Anya just watched her, taking another long, slow pull from her vape. She held the smoke in her lungs for a moment, her eyes unreadable in the dim, cluttered light of the backroom. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost lost in the hum of the shop.
“Yeah,” she said, watching the oblivious hope solidify on her little sister’s face. “I’m sure you will be.”