The man i used to be

He looked at her, eyes wide, mouth agape and was about to argue, when he realized she was right. It was like he had just broken out of a dream and realized where he was. He stared at her, humiliated, and dropped his eyes to look at his pathetic excuse for femininity, the falseness of it all, but he had indeed "crossed over". His fetish had claimed him. He wasn't really a slave to her as much as he was a slave to his fetish. She was only the deliverer, the messenger. If he walked away from her, he walked away from his fetish. And that, he could not do.

"Oh my God," he said out loud, and went back to cooking the eggs.

"It's Goddess," she explained, "and make my fucking coffee and bring it to me on the deck. I get grumpy without my coffee."

His calves ached like hell, his waist was cinched and locked, his "breasts" bounced heavily in his bra. He would have breast implants next year. His penis stirred in his girdle. Oh my God, oh my God, he thought, and he said, "Yes ma'am. I'll get it for you right away Goddess."