Frankenstein's School of Venus

Part II of my Frankenstein's Awakening series! This one draws some inspiration from my personal struggles with gender dysphoria.

This chapter is brought to you by my now highly-specific and slightly-embarrassing browser history: AKA my research into what literature detailing human anatomy, sexuality, sex education, and pleasure would have existed in print in 1818! (My FAVORITE find was "The School of Venus, or the Ladies Delight, Reduced into Rules of Practice" by Michel Millot - translated from French to English by an unknown author - from 1680!! And it's RAUNCHY!!) All of the italicized book text here is copied word for word from that historical book.

I also admittedly - finally - did some research on what an orgasm feels like for people who have penises. All I've had to go on until now were my own experiences with arousal and self-pleasuring, raunchy books, and intuition. (I'm a trans guy who has a vulva, and I don't think I've ever experienced an orgasm because of my depression meds, so committing to this research was a bittersweet affair on both fronts.)

CONTENT WARNING: the language that Franky boy is reading and thinking in is very GENDERED and cis-centric, as per 1600's literature read during the 1800s.

I hope that y'all enjoy the progression of my horny historical sci-fi musings!

💕 Love, Your Local Trans Horndog 💕

------------------------------------------------------------------

The green fabric-bound book rested on the small wealth of novels that sat on my bedside table, like treasures - treasures that I was never to leave my room with, nor to discuss with any of the house staff. The Doctor asserted that the words inside were for my eyes only, and then only within the privacy of my own room.

(There wasn't much else to this room, at this point in time. A closet for my clothing, a basin for washing my face. Upon my bedside table there stood a palm-sized vial of translucent serum, composed of various oils and healing herbs - concocted just for me. This was to soothe the keloid scarring across much of my body, and for me to massage into my still-regenerating muscles and joints.)

I sunk into bed, exhaling gently as I browsed the wealth beside me. The anatomy novels were all quite fascinating in turn, especially with their illustrations - but one book in particular kept drawing my curiosity, and holding it. I held this book gently as though it might burn me.

Black ink lettering on the cover read, "The School of Venus, or the Ladies Delight, Reduced into Rules of Practice" - and there was no author listed beneath.

"This one should wait until the scientific novels have been absorbed," said The Doctor as he pulled this book from the very highest shelf. "As you were reborn into this life without the training of adolescence, there will be much to become accustomed to before you find comfort within this body. I believe that these authors have done a much better job of discussing the more... intimate topics, than I. Do forgive me."

I set the book down, a small chill traveling up my spine. What was so intimate that The Doctor would not tell me himself? Had he not built me with his own two hands, already seen every inch of dermis - every vulnerable atom of myself - under the meticulous scrutiny of a spyglass?

The tent in my pants from this afternoon had only recently receded, and a disquieting thrum was present in my entire being. I felt as though I were a bottle that had over-filled, with nowhere for its contents to go. Direly restless.

Doctor be damned!

I reached for the novel and pulled the blanket over my head, leaving only a small opening for moonlight to paint the pages white.

Kate: Truly no, for my mother hath forbidden me.

Frank: Lord, what an ignorant innocent Fool art thou?

My heart hammered in my chest.

Frank! This character was calling herself Frank!

Katy: Do you ask me what pleasure, truly Cousin, I take a great deal. I eat when I am hungry, I drink when I am dry, I sleep, sing and dance, and sometimes go into the Country and take the Air with mother.

Frank: This is something, but does not every body else do the like.

Katy: Why, is there any pleasure, that is not common to every body?

Frank: Sure enough, for there us one that you have not yet tasted of, which as much exceeds all the rest, as Wine doth fair water.

The pleasure of which they spoke - was this it? Surely this had to be the Other Something, the Great Mystery that no one dared speak of to me! The tingles!

I read on.

Katy: Why, how many times have I touched him, and yet find no such pleasure in it?

Frank: Yes, yes, you have touched his cloaths, but you should have handled something else?

My face was growing warm.

Frank: Dear Cousin, I love thee too well to keep thee longer in ignorance, did you never see a man piss and the thing with which he pisseth?

Katy: Yes once I saw a man piss against a Wall, who held something in his hand, but I could not imagine what it was. He seeing me look at him turned himself towards me, and the thing he had in his hand, appeared to be like a white hogs-pudding of a reasonable length, which was joyned to his Body, which made me admire I had not the like.

My heartbeat crept up into my throat, like a small bird trying to escape.

Frank: Then let me tell you, the Thing, With which a Man Pisseth, is sometimes call'd a Prick, sometimes a Tarse, sometimes a Mans Tard, and other innumerable Names. It hangs down from the bottom of their Bellys like a Cows Teat, but much longer, and is about the place where the Slit of our Cunt is through which we piss.

Katy: Oh strange!

Frank: Besides they have Two little Balls made up in a Skin something like a Purse, these we call Bollocks. They are not much unlike our Spanish Olives, and above them, which adds a great Grace to his Noble Member, Grows a fort of Downy Hair, as doth about our cunts.

My mind was so loudly buzzing. I gently lifted the blanket and shifted myself into the pale moonlight that coated my room like cotton.

I had consciously avoided mirrors, avoided any encounter with myself beyond necessity. Even when urinating, I had tried avoiding witnessing what nature demanded of me.

My eyes travelled ever so slowly downwards, to a gentle swirl of black hair that rested above my manhood like a crown. I reached down to touch it, and discovered that it felt softer than anything else on my body.

I caught movement in the corner of my eye, and realized that the dark windows were holding my reflection. If ever I had been too afraid to witness the whole of myself, with no clothing on at all, it was surely too late to turn back now.

I rose from my bed and snuck closer to this man, thisthingthat held its pubic hair gently in its hand. He locked eyes with me as his brows furrowed, moving in slow motion.

I am glad that I saw my body in this way before any other way.

The ridges of my surgical asymmetries flowed over flesh like water, though I tried to find some sense in them. Some peace, perhaps. What men had been stolen from their final resting places, destined to end up in front of this glass? Whose intimate softness - once kept only to themself, and maybe to a lover - was now puppeteered by my very soul?

But there was more. Under the soothing glow of the moon, I saw the whole of my silhouette - and it was surely that of a human, a man.

I tried to unfocus my eyes. Under a more forgiving lens, I saw... beauty?

I saw a tall gracefulness, large dark eyes, square jaw, a crown of thick dark hair on a head that so closely matched the swirling patch above my manhood.

...My tard. My prick? Yes, my prick.

I smiled, and the gentle giant smiled back at me.

(Had I ever smiled before?)

I watched my hands travel downwards in slow motion, to hover tentatively over the most vulnerable part of myself. My prick was soft to the touch, but I could feel a weight within and underneath. I gently lifted myself to try and see my bollocks; as I did so, I realized that I could feel my heartbeat through my entire length.

I closed my eyes and tried to listen, toreallylisten to all of the jangled sensations that my brain had been trying to silence for weeks. My fingers squeezed - oh so gently - and began to explore the length of this softness.

Gradually the softness was replaced by a familiar growing hardness, and a heat that began low in my belly.

When a man thrusts his Prick into a Woman's Cunt it is called Fucking, But pray don't talk of such things before Company for they Will call you an immodest baudy Wench, and chide you for it.

My heartbeat was too fast. I was losing focus. Thinking. My eyes shot open.

The window man's mouth was hanging open, his eyelids low and heavy. The muscles of his abdomen had tensed, and his prick was standing up all on its own. The longer I looked at him, the higher it rose - bobbing slightly with the thrum of his pulse.

Our eyes met lingeringly, vulnerably, before closing once more.

In the darkness, I allowed my hand to lower again.

This time felt different. I gently closed my fingers around my girth and slid my hand from hilt to tip. Just to feel how-

oh- ohhh.Mhhn.Hnn...

My heart thrummed as my fingers gently - oh so slowly - travelled from the base of my cock to the edge of it, once again.

My thumb brushed over the very tip of my prick, and my kneesbuckled.

My hand rushed to cover my mouth as a small cry escaped my lips.

(How I wanted to take the Lord's name in vain, to thrash it out across my tongue.)

My thumb returned to my tip, now glistening silkily with serum-like dewdrops. My fingers traced this liquid down over my length and continued in stride. Now gliding wetly. Finding rhythm.

Katy: I am very well satisfied, but methinks I would fain know what makes my Cunt itch so (especially in the night) that I cannot take any rest for tumbling and tossing. Pray can you tell me what will prevent it?

Frank:...you must rub your Cunt soundly with your finger, and that will give you some ease.

I began to trace circles around my tip, finding the bulbous ridge that Frank had spoken so fondly of in the book. I rubbed the hot, soft skin below.

There was nothing I could do to prevent my roughening breaths from bringing sounds up and out with them. I tried to close my lips, which softened the grunts into a hum.

Hmmm,nnhn.Hhh! Hmmnh!!Nhhn...

I couldn't imagine more than this, in any lifetime. No feeling could arise above this.

But, by the mercy of God, there was more.

Something was shifting. My hips were moving on their own, as heat pooled low in my belly. I backed towards the bed and sat, fearful that I would surely stumble and fall.

My bollocks had never felt heavier. As they tensed and clenched, the whole length of my prick grew somehow more sensitive. The tension began to travel upwards into my cock as my hand's pumping rhythm grew faster.

Somehow, by some miracle, it seemed as though my body knew precisely what to do - my hips were desperately thrusting up into my hand, hungry to meet every stroke as quickly as possible.

With nothing in my brain beyond blinding-white desparation, my fingers moved back onto my tip and began to swirl around my slit.

My legs began to shake. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

White. Blinding, burning white.

A strangled howl of need.

I felt tension and heat exit in a rush, splattering my hands and belly with warmth. But, by God - my thumb continued to work over my tip, drawing burning circles into the flesh. There was more, more heat to be released.

I needed it now.Needed.

My bollocks clenched, my legs trembling madly as waves of warmth washed through my body.

I fell back onto the mattress, every ounce of strength bled out of me.

Every sound was muffled in my ears. My feet were tingling, my legs absolved of feeling.

I know not how long I layed there, breathing in every atom of the pleasure that had just rode through and meticulously removed all of my bones. I was light, and heavy, and sensitive, and suddenly laughing for the first time in my short new life.

A gentle, dancing, breathless laugh that washed up and over me like warm rain.

I realized, right then, that I was happy to be alive.