Post-Changeover: Stored in her Womb
by Sunblind



Betsy took my hand as we walked around the car and up to the house after an
enjoyable dinner in a local restaurant.

"What's on your agenda tomorrow?" she asked as we entered the mudroom.

"Actually, I can sleep in."

"Yeah, me too." She smiled. "How about some topless coffee?"

"Sounds good to me," I chuckled as I began to remove my clothes.

She peeled off her sweater and turned her back to me.

"Could you unhook me? I got a paper cut today and it's right where my hand
hits the clasp."

I knew what she was up to and I smiled to myself. My shirt was already off and
hanging on my hook. I had pulled my pants down, my right leg was already out
and they were wrapped around my left ankle. I was between Betsy and the wall
in the narrowly configured room, and as I released the snaps and the black
lacy bra fell away from her double d's, she took a step back and pinned me,
dressed as I was, only in my chastity belt, against the wall.

Since the Changeover occurred four years ago, and women's baseline strength
levels had leap-frogged men's, society really hadn't changed that much.
(Incidences of men raping or kidnapping women had virtually disappeared.)
Women weren't superhuman, just a lot stronger than men. Generally, an average
adult woman was as strong as the strongest of men. As such, your average coed
who never saw the inside of a gym could easily bench press in the 500 lb.
range, while your average man (as was the case before the Changeover) usually
averaged about 150 lbs. Betsy who was always pretty strong, and who trained a
bit, was doing repetitions in the 900 lb range; nowhere near the world record
for her weight class (3906 lbs.), but still more than three times my best one
rep max of 295.

Some women (especially in the more conservative areas of the country and of
the world) were being a bit exploitive. (That is why about a month after the
Changeover Betsy had locked me into a chastity belt. She wore the key on a
chain around her neck and let me out only when it suited her.) For the most
part, however, Betsy and I hadn't changed at all ... other than now when we
got a flat tire, if Betsy were around, we didn't need a jack.

The only real difference in our day-to-day home life, was that Betsy insisted
that we adhere to what had become a Post-Changeover custom, so when it was
just the two of us, I wasn't "allowed" to wear clothes (other than the damn
chastity belt) in the house.

Our sex games were also slightly different. There was the pin-me-against-
the-wall game. Heaven forbid I ever tried to walk past her, perhaps to leave a
room or to answer the phone. Usually she would back into me, gently force me
up against a wall and just hold her position. I was expected to struggle
(helplessly), eventually give up and then fondle her breasts until she decided
to let me go. (One time I actually fell asleep as she held me for nearly an
hour while she finished the last chapters of the Jane Austin book she was
reading.)

"I thought we were going to have coffee," I said as I pushed on her immovable
shoulders.

"We are," she sighed as she shimmied her hips. My penis strained into hardness
within its steel confines. She jingled the key hanging between her big tits.
"I just like to torture you is all," she smiled.

She stepped away freeing me and we walked to the kitchen. We drank coffee and
chatted.

Eventually, Betsy rose from her chair and stretched, puffing her tits out
enticingly.

"I feel like a little hunt," she smiled.

Hunting was another game we had discovered post-Changeover. Although following
the Changeover, women had become amazingly strong; their bodies had not
changed outwardly in any appreciable fashion. Betsy looked virtually the same
now as she always had. Women had, however, in addition to the strength gap,
developed certain quirks relative to their feminine anatomy.

Now for instance, most women can elongate their breasts; essentially feeding
them out from the chest in a fashion similar to the manner in which a tape
measure works. They can also control their tits, even independently from one
another (they could be sent off in two separate directions), from wherever
their body is. Interestingly, a woman's tits, when "snaking" maintain her
total body strength. As such, most women are able to lift as much weight with
their boobs (by wrapping them around the object) as with their hands and arms.
Tit-crushing strength is also pretty extreme ... there's even a new reality
show on which women crush large objects (last week I was flipping channels and
watched a lady wrap her boobs around a refrigerator and smoosh it beyond
recognition) for prizes. Most amazingly, though they can't actually see with
their boobs, they can use them to sense remotely, all along the length of
their breasts, the position or nature of objects.

The game that we call hunting is like a sexy version of hide and seek. Betsy
goes up to the bedroom and puts on a pair of headphones with music playing. I
then hide somewhere in the house. After five minutes she "comes looking for
me." If I stay hidden for five minutes my special prize is a blow job.
(Nothing like a good dick sucking to make a man forget, at least for a few
minutes, that his wife will never again need help opening a jar or moving a
piece of furniture or carrying a keg (or two) up the side of a mountain.)

Actually, it doesn't matter what the prize is ... I never win. It's just not
that big a house. She always finds me and collects her prize.

Kneeling in front of me, she unlocked me and helped me step out of the belt.
She gave my penis a quick peck on it head, stood up, and watched as I inflated
into a rock-hard erection.

Taking the belt, she giggled and went up to the bedroom. After a minute or two
during which she removed the rest of her clothes and set the music, she called
to let me know she was "starting the hide clock" and that she'd be "on the
hunt" in five minutes.

I simply went into the living room. Since she can search the entire house in
less than five minutes, my plan was to wait until she found me and then try to
run ahead of her in a sort of modified game of tag.

It didn't work. As her boobs entered the room I tried to spring past them. Her
right breast simply flicked out and wrapped around my waist before I took even
my second step. She held me firmly, yet gently. (Once before she had lost
concentration and had accidentally broken one of my ribs.) I didn't even
bother to struggle as she began to wind me into a cocoon of breast flesh.
(Betsy insists we call it a cocoon because she doesn't like the image that I
conjured, the first time she wound me up, of a spider wrapping a fly.

Holding me about four feet off the ground she rolled me over and over,
wrapping me in two of three layers of her soft skin. When she was finished, I
looked a lot like a modified version of the Michelin Tire Man, wrapped in my
wife's tits from my shoulders to my knees. Once I was completely helpless, she
retracted her boobs and I essentially floated up to the bedroom, where she
was, propped up on her pillows on top of the bed, listening to music and
knitting.

"I win," she said as she removed her "knitting glasses" and the headphones.
She was holding me out above the foot of the bed, perpendicular to the floor
with my upper body angled towards her so that by slightly lifting her chin she
could look into my eyes.

I struggled (uselessly), for form's sake, a bit. She smiled and told me I was
cute. I told her I loved her and she said she loved me too. She angled me
around and brought us face-to-face for a kiss.

She lay back and spread her legs. She angled me around again, this time lining
me up parallel to the floor (facing the ceiling) and retracted her boobs until
I could feel her pubic hair tickling the bottoms of my heels.

As my toes slipped inside her vagina, she began to loosen her breasts from
around me and retract them all the way back to their normal perfect
proportions. By the time she was her normal size again I was in up to my
knees.

There is so much about Post-Changeover physiology that we do not yet
understand ... and the process by which a woman ingurgitates (the common
terminology) a man is a good example of that.

It is not yet understood exactly how when a woman draws a man into her belly,
she is able to control the pace of his entry, and later (hopefully) his exit,
at her will. It is not yet understood exactly how the parts of a man's body
instantaneously shrink as he passes through her vaginal lips, so that when he
is fully "imbedded" (the common terminology for being trapped inside a woman's
womb), she looks to be about six months pregnant, yet with none of the
discomfort associated with that virtually unchanged (in a Post- Changeover
world) condition. It is not yet understood why once he is fully enveloped, his
voice is able to be heard, conversationally, by her or anyone else for that
matter; and that he is able to hear, clearly, "outside" voices. Actually, it
is not yet understood why a man can breathe, is not sweltering (after all it
is 98.6 degrees in there) and remains dry (as opposed to covered in
secretions). Perhaps it will never be known. What is known is that there is no
more perfect way for a woman and a man who are in love to bond.

As I passed into her, Betsy sighed contently. She had always liked the feeling
of a full vagina and had always preferred my penis to my tongue or finger
because it was the largest of the three. Since the Changeover, however,
"taking all of me" was her preferred method of satisfaction.

As my penis and balls were drawn in, she actually moaned a little. I tucked my
hands in and by the time I was up to my chest, Betsy was breathing heavily. My
shoulders went in easy as you please, and as per her usual, she stopped my
entry just as my mouth met her labia. I licked and sucked for about five
minutes ... and then she went over the edge.

As her orgasm built, I was quickly sucked all the way in. Her lips closed over
the top of my head, and in the total darkness, I had the feeling of being
tightly sealed into a rubber bag. I had learned through the years that my
beautiful wife's orgasm's were enhanced, if I struggle around a little, so I
kicked and punched as best I could until her (involuntary) abdominal
contractions robbed me from what little room I had to maneuver.

As her waves of pleasure subsided, I could feel the absolute peace that
descended upon her body and as she began to drift off to sleep, I settled in
as best I could. After an orgasm, she almost never let me out until the next
morning.

"Good night, honey," I heard her mumble as sleep began to descend.

"Good night, baby," I called. "Do you think, maybe tomorrow ... maybe ... just
a quick hand job? Please?" I tried to sound optimistic as opposed to
desperate. Since Betsy now preferred using my whole body to stuff her vagina,
(and kept me belted whenever I wasn't in her vagina) my penis had gotten
comparatively little specific attention over the past four years.

"I don't think so," she murmured sleepily, "Your birthday is next week ...
maybe for your birthday ... " And she was out.

I tried to settle and when sleep finally came, I dreamed of the days when,
before we were married, and before the Changeover, almost all of our dates
would end with an hour of kissing and a hand job.