The Diagnosis

1,003 Days

You had never been a picture of health. You weren't going to give the malicious disease a name. And it wasn't going to define your story, not the pain, not the treatment. When you were in high school, it had struck the first time, oddly enough in both of your testicles. You had to have them removed. You thought for sure you'd be ostracized from your friends, and probably need to drop out completely. But you and Amanda grew closer, as you took solace in painting, one of her hidden pleasures as well. And your love blossomed.

There was even a solution to your love life. You wore testosterone patches, which enabled you and Amanda to have a normal sex life. You'd need a donor to have children, but to have a functioning cock around your blonde Goddess was solace enough.

And then it returned, in your pancreas. The doctor wasn't optimistic. But you didn't want to focus on the negatives -- your story would one of positives, where ever and how ever you could find them. The one thing that did cause you to despair was the doctor told them that the malady was going to feed on your testosterone -- so you'd have to cut that off. You'd have about three days of a normal sex life left, and then you'd have to eat pussy and use toys on Amanda for the near future.