Galactic Federation of Feminization

A successful journalist is sitting inside his room, staring at a fireplace. A cacophony of sounds keeps reminding him of the storm outside.

"Soothing," the man mutters to himself while stretching his arms. "I really hope this rain is going to provide me with a stream of creative ideas."

"You'll have more than you bargained for," a voice can be heard.

"Who's there?" the journalist sits in a chair, scanning the room.

"I'm a panacea," the voice says.

"That's an intriguing accent," the journalist asks, as if buying time. "Where are you from? I assume you're a female?"

"You don't have to be afraid," the voice continues, completely ignoring the journalist's question. "I am not a symptom of schizophrenia, nor am I a symptom of dissociative identity disorder. In fact - I am here to help you."

"Help me?" the man tries to understand what is going on. "How did you get here? Who are you? Where are you?"

"You are going to change now," the voice states in a mantric voice. "You need a powerful experience to break through your writer's block."

Silence.

"You are to listen carefully," the voice states. "The discomfort of paralysis is necessary."

"To what?" the man asks.

"Freud said that woman is a castrated man," the voices begins, not paying attention to whether the man is actually listening, as if trying to perform a perfunctory task. "I would proceed even further, and say that a woman is a castrated prepubescent boy who was socially conditioned to grow his hair long. Woman's inferiority is expressed through her clothing, i.e. dresses, skirts, makeup, nails, Roman slave branders - piercings, heels – ad infinitum. Her behavioral patterns, such as: cowardice, lack of perseverance and focus on appearance. She continuously rebels against this unpleasant condition but whatever she does – she knows the truth. For example, dresses force a woman to adopt a certain posture, as well as heels. In the Bible, it was not long hair that gave Samson his powers – au contraire, short hair meant power. Another feminist lie. When you give a woman power, she becomes arrogant and bitchy. When you control her – just like Thomas Aquinas, Napoleon as well as the father of Hellenic civilization proclaimed – she is forced into sweetness and charm. In fact, Eve is God's warning for Adam. Eve is an epitome of inferiority. Would a woman allow herself to be subjugated if she was equal? Facts speak for themselves. Even the feminist revolution was sponsored by a man – namely the German-American-Jewish oil magnate Rockefeller! Satan is not the supervillain – he merely tested Eve's will on God's behalf - and she was unable to resist her immanent vanity! No wonder females use their sex as a disability throughout life – they are castrated prepubescent boys, after all. Skirted men with two assholes. The woman uses her disability throughout her life to save her from many unpleasant consequences which befall men - it truly is amazing how an appendage changes one's outlook on existence so completely. But remain vigilant, for there is a perfect storm in place. The game is up and you know it. You feel it. There is no point in denying the obvious. The bands of psychopaths cannot wait to unleash their blasphemy upon the world. Tell me, why does a six-year-old boy laugh when he sees a man in a dress? Why do you feel so embarrassed right now? What is the reason?"

In a moment of cogency, the journalist runs toward the door. But they slam shut right in front of his face.

"Nobody's going to come to this house," the omnipresent voice asserts. "Nobody. You may be surrounded by billions, and yet.. you are all alone. All of you. You watch movies about paranormal activities inside your own houses.. are you sure it's mere entertainment? Why do you call it paranormal? How can you tell?"

The man feels his skin is getting softer; his bodily hairs disappear, as if being dragged underneath; he touches the Adam's apple and can barely find it.

"God!" the professional screams. "My balls!"

"You won't pass out," the voice adds. "Part of the process. I am told it feels like an anvil crashing your manhood."

The man collapses on the ground and writhes; he feels the hair on his head starts growing fast, almost like a thousand spiders walking all over his skull; the inner organs contort as if they are about to explode; the bone structure shifts mercilessly, causing multiple fractures. Given the amount of pain, he can barely notice the changes happening to the nails.

"The worst is over," the voice tells a man who is now barely conscious and lying in a pool of sweat. "We're going to fix this, don't worry."

The sweat suddenly disappears and the life force returns to the journalist's body. He can feel the floor with his rear.

"Look at the lipstick, look at the manicure, look at the pedicure, look at waxing, look at the powder, look at all those attributes of femininity," the voice glees. "I'm going to move you now."

The reporter nears catatonia as he becomes a helpless observes of the body floating toward the table.

"There," the voice continues. "Your hands on the table. That's right. Perfect. Look what's here!"

The man drudges his head upward and notices all the feminine attributes the voice described earlier.

"They will now come to life," the voice boasts. "I bet you never saw flying lipsticks!"

"No," the man mutters. "No.. please."

"What a beautiful blonde you are," clapping can be heard. "Look at those curls! Look at the fringe!"

The journalist's body assumes a vertical position.

"That's a girl. This yellow dress is going to be perfect," the journalist can feel the dress being shoved on him. "Now sit. The heels are waiting."

"Floating heels," the voice says. "Aren't they awesome?"

The man shakes his head in resignation.

"Because it's the color of betrayal," the voice adds nonchalantly. "You know, shaftless escutcheons were given to traitors in your Middle Ages. Rampant lions without balls."

Silence.

"It's time for you to show your true - white, that is - feathers," the voice says. "On your knees, please. I want to see that gracefully girlish ass of yours."

White feathery tassels appear around the hem.

"You don't know how to walk in heels so I'm doing you a favor right now," the voice asserts. "I wouldn't stand up if I were you."

"STOP!" the man utters a girlish scream. "PLEASE!"

"Isn't it ironic," the voice muses. "So many men would like to have their dicks cut off just so they can experience the joy of womanhood. To avoid the draft. To be treated like ladies. Is this even logical? Why would you want to become something so.. inferior, something so.. humiliating? I know you, Mark. I know you did not harbor such desires. You are probably wondering: why me, then? Why not some tranny? Well, at least now you know how difficult it is to transform a man. Yes, it is possible, as you can now so obviously tell. But without my powers, your internal organs would explode and you could as well land in 1944. Do you know what I mean by 1944? I hope so. I am giving you a sui generis opportunity here! You will not only learn how to walk in heels, but you will also learn how to twirl. And when this planet plunges into chaos, I will finally take you with me, to my place. You will then be my queen. You will then see me in PERSON. You see, my dear - former - man Mark, I am not a demon, a ghost or whatever your demented pseudo-religion would like to brand me. I am an entity, just like you, a bipedal species looking for love. I hope you find my English acceptable. I am still learning that weird mix of languages. When your world crashes and burns, I will come in my ship for you. I will come for you and you will thank me.. you will thank me for saving you! Of course, for that safety there is a price.. your manhood."

"I NEVER ASKED TO BE SAVED!" Mark exclaims. "NOT LIKE THIS!"

"That does not matter now," the voice continues. "That simply does not matter. I wanted to help you. I AM helping you. One day you will thank me. By the way, what a beautiful bare derriere you have!"