The final ejaculation

You force your eyes open, staring down past your heaving breasts to where the last vestige of your masculinity clings to existence. The nub that was once your penis trembles violently, no longer than the tip of your thumb, surrounded by the soft folds of newly formed labia.

"It's convulsing," you gasp out, your feminine voice cracking. "Like it's trying to—oh god—"

A sudden, wrenching spasm tears through the tiny remnant and you watch in horrified fascination as a thin, watery fluid spurts weakly from the tip. Not semen—something paler, more dilute, like your body is flushing out the last chemical traces of testosterone.

"The final ejaculation," Miss Velvet announces clinically, though her voice carries an edge of breathless excitement. "Your body is purging itself. Clearing the ducts before they're restructured."

The sensation is utterly devoid of pleasure. No arousal, no building tension, no release—just a pathetic mechanical expulsion that makes you want to look away in shame. Another weak spurt, then another, each one smaller than the last.

"It doesn't even feel like anything," you whisper, tears streaming down your feminized cheeks. "It's just... dying. Emptying itself out."

"Because it's not an orgasm, sweetness," Miss Velvet explains, her gloved hand coming to rest on your inner thigh. "It's a biological flush. Your prostate is expelling its contents one final time before it transforms into your Skene's gland. This is your cock's death rattle."

The tiny nub gives one last feeble twitch, expelling a final translucent drop, and then begins to collapse inward with terrifying speed. You feel it pulling back into your body, the sensation like watching something get sucked into a drain.

"It's disappearing," you sob. "I can feel it going—pulling inside me—"

"Watch," Miss Velvet commands. "Watch your penis cease to exist."

The flesh compresses with agonizing slowness, folding into itself as nerve endings migrate and reorganize. Where once there was a distinct male organ, now there's only a small bump at the apex of your forming vulva—barely visible, achingly sensitive.

"Gone," Miss Velvet breathes reverently. "Your cock is completely gone, Candy. What's left is your clitoris beginning to form. And now comes the real agony."

As if on cue, a searing bolt of pain explodes from that tiny concentrated point—eight thousand nerve endings compressing into a structure the size of a pea.

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