Sexual Healing
From an idea by Our Lady in Twilight
By Maryanne Peters

“Sexual healing is something that's good for me …Come take control, just grab a hold of my body and mind, soon we'll be making it, honey, I'll be feeling fine. You're my medicine, open up and let me in. Darling, you're so great, I can't wait for you to operate…”

Death

When you are dead, who wouldn’t take a chance on seizing life back? That was the very attitude that made me a good soldier – keep on fighting even when the odds are against you, or even when you are so shot up that you can barely hold a rifle. If there is the slightest ability to stay in it, find a way to point the muzzle at the enemy and get off a few rounds. If there is the slightest chance at life, stay in it.

There is only one downside, as they put it to me – “Your ass belongs to us, now. The only life we are offering is a soldier’s life, for as long as you can give us the same thing you have been giving.”

What the hell? My ass already belonged to them. The only life I ever had was a soldier’s life from the moment I first went into combat. I found my calling. I wanted to give myself to the Corps. I wanted to deliver for as long as I was able.

I might have had some high ideals when I started – something like service to your country – although the truth is that I just needed the money and a place to stay. There were idealists in basic training – quite a few. But when the shells start falling and the blood starts bleeding, high ideas count for nothing. When the shit happens you soon separate the idealists from the realists, and sometimes a few true fighters float to the top.

“You’re a natural, Kid. A pure fighter – cool as ice and deadly as a snake.” My sergeant said those words to me just before he had his head blown off. I needed his ammunition, so I took it. I was not heartless back then, just practical. I thought about him later. He was a nice guy and a good teacher. I learned from him that you have to learn from people like him.

But the key lesson of my first battle was that this was where I belonged. I knew immediately that I wanted to be a combat soldier. I don’t want anybody to think that I was some kind of bloodthirsty psychopath. I was not that. I treated all life with respect as my father taught me the first time I brought down a buck.

“Look into his dead eyes and thank him for giving his life so that we may eat,” my father told me. Some things are necessary. If you are shooting for food or bringing down a charging cougar, you need to kill. But if you can stand up to a cougar and yell, it will turn and run. If you can avoid taking a life, do that.

Combat is different. It is you or them. It is simpler that way. Just kill the enemy. That is the order that comes down. Don’t even think about it. It is just following orders. I take no pleasure in killing, but I do like the fight.

I took a bullet or two on my climb up the ladder. Shrapnel wounds too, which are far more common. I recovered as well as anybody. None of it seemed to matter to me. I volunteered for action, and I volunteered for special forces. They are the guys who do the fighting when everybody else is polishing their boots.

I suppose some of those guys might think of the military as a job and maybe find a wife and married quarters on base, with kids and a dog. I never thought about that. I think I always assumed that I would die in a ditch somewhere, hopefully after I had killed a whole lot of the enemy. But then you find yourself pulled out of that ditch and offered a chance at life. What are you going to say? Give me more of that.

I hope that you understand that I am not stupid. A soldier’s life involves down time and I read – not fiction, but useful stuff.

“What we are proposing is experimental. It’s going to involve modifying your DNA,” the officer said – I guess he was a doctor. I know what DNA is. It is the biological battle plan contained in each human cell. It tells us what we are to become and then tells the body to make that happen. So, changing that means changing me. I guess I thought that the plan was to turn me into some kind of super soldier like in the movies. Would that be bad?

“I am up for that, but I am shot up pretty bad,” I said. “Maybe you should experiment on somebody in better shape?”

“Very noble of you,” he smiled. “But the first experiment will involve a modification to improve healing. We need to promote rapid tissue growth and replace serious blood loss. Do you know when the human body is at its peak in that? It is during pregnancy.”

“You are going to get me pregnant?” I remember asking that question, even if things were a little fuzzy from the painkillers. I remember him laughing out loud.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “We are being selective. We gather genetic material from men and women, and even from xenotypes, meaning other than human. Are you uncomfortable with any of this?”

“If it will get me back on the battlefield, Doc, then I don’t mind if it means I grow horns.” I remember saying just that.

Rebirth

I hate hospitals. The type of soldier that I became is independent and self-reliant, which means that we like to stay in control as much as we can. Hospital is the very opposite of that. Movement is limited and nothing is within your control. I could not wait to be out of there. Fortunately, my wounds healed with a speed that surprised the attending doctors.

There were some strange things about the scarring that were observed, and the first of those was that there was none. The scar tissue on my legs and torso was almost invisible. Then there was the fact that there was very little hair growth returning. What there was, was fine and fair.

It seemed that I had lost some muscle conditioning, but I was told that was common with so much time on my back. Beyond the physiotherapy I was keen to get permission to exercise, and I was soon confident that I was ready to return to service.

As far as I was concerned there was absolutely no mental impact from the injuries and my near-death experience, but my commanding officer did remark that I was behaving differently. He said that I was talking more and engaging with others in the squad in a manner unusual for me. I suppose that I had always been a loner, preferring points where I could react to the environment rather than people around me. On reflection, I could see the change, but I had no explanation for it.

It is true that I had come closer to the end than I had with prior wounds, and I did understand that people can be affected by this. Survivors of that rarely return to the front line, but they all speak of a sense of being reborn and having a new life start from recovery. I did feel different, but I had no idea what was going on within my body, let alone my mind.

I suppose that I was looking to see evidence of my becoming some kind of super soldier from the meddling with my DNA, but I was not aware that I had become stronger or faster, just that it had been observed that I could heal faster. That is less important for a soldier who works to avoid injury at all times anyway.

But I did start to feel that I was different somehow. I described it on a follow up visit by the doctor as “a sensitivity”. I had feelings about something that might happen even before it did, even though saying that sounds irrational. I could also sense that somebody within the squad was afraid, which is something I never cared about before – you simply expect people to do their job. But it seemed to me that this might be a worthwhile skill. For the first time in all my years in the Corps and special forces I found myself going up to a squad member to reassure him that we would get through this.

I guess some of the guys noticed changes in me too. Some of them even said that I looked different too.

“Hey, what’s with the smile?” I remember being asked that and wondering what was wrong with smiling when you are just feeling good, although feeling like that was not something I could recall happening before.

Then things started to get very strange – I started to grow breasts. It was out on a mission, working on an AIO “Active Intelligence Operation” with embedded CIA guys in a jungle in South America. During a break in our March to target I noticed itchy nipples so I stopped by a stream and took off my webbing and top, and there they were – tiny tits like an 8th grade girl. The only thing I can remember thinking is how inconvenient this was. I needed to fix it. I had strapping tape but the areolas were so sensitive that I needed to cut up my field dressing to cover them before applying the tape.

We found the camp exactly as predicted but it was larger than assessed from the air. We got into a serious fire fight and three people were injured, including me. Mine was an arm wound but I barely felt it. I thought about the DNA thing and that was when it started to fall into place. Women have a higher pain threshold because they have to endure childbirth, they make more blood than men, they heal faster (so I was told) and they grow tits.

Another guy had a head wound and the third a broken leg, so they both needed escorts. I said that my wound was just a scratch, although it was more than that, but that I needed a field dressing. The first to come forward with his was Nate Johnson, one of the two CIA men.

He tore open my sleeve and cleansed the wound with his saline bottle and added the powder before reaching in to wrap my arm.

“Do you shave your arms?” he said, as if merely curious.

“I don’t carry much hair these days,” I said.

I looked up at the same time he did, and suddenly I was overcome. This was more weird than a man could ever imagine, but this guy looked like the most wonderful human being on the planet. Now, let me say that while some have a problem with “spooks” I always respected these guys. A good soldier needs to be brave and resourceful, but nothing beats good intel – CIA field operatives are the whole package. Some are drawn from SEALs and some from Delta, and some from God knows where, but these guys are the top. But this was not admiration I was feeling – this was sexual.

In an integrated army, sexual attraction is trouble, but same sex attraction is much worse than that. I wanted to tell him to stop and step away, but this was a two-hand job. I had to bite my lip and pretend to be in pain, but all I really wanted was him.

What was happening to me? Was I turning into a woman and switching preferences? It certainly seemed like a possibility. I knew enough about DNA to know that determining which sex you are is just a few molecules that turn an X chromosome into a Y chromosome. Did those DNA modification whiz kids have any idea what they were doing?

“it’s Nate – right?” I found myself saying, like a shy girl in a playground.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “People tell me you are the hard man of the unit.”

Modesty is a trait of heroes, and I don’t say I am that, but you ought to give credit. I would normally say something like – “I am only as hard as the team around me”. But that is not what I said.

“I prefer to be called a hard person.” What the fuck did that mean? I just said it – I am saying to this man that maybe I am not a guy at all. He looked at me strangely, as if wondering if he had made a mistake. Then we heard the sound of the exfil help and we all headed for the landing zone.

On the ride I kept my back to him so that I could have time to think. I tried to think of other things that I had noticed, like having an improved sense of smell, and even finding the taste of standard MRE food types taste different, and like going deep into my pants to pull out a cock that seemed much smaller when I needed to piss.

Nate was one of the guys who helped the wounded to the aid station why I walked behind. He was there when his field dressing was taken off my arm and the wound was almost totally healed.

“I was told about you,” the doctor said. “You are part of that research project – right? I have to send evidence of the time of the injury and photos of the state of the wound.”

Nate had overheard, and he volunteered that he was a witness to the injury and could confirm the time. I could see that he was curious to know more, but he would assume that information like that might be classified, so he just nodded his farewell and was gone. I was subjected to tests.

I asked whether I could shower there. I did not want to share showers with the guys because of the titties. I got undressed in the small shower room and tore of the binding tape. I swear the tiny things seemed to flop out and look even bigger than they had in the jungle only a few days before.

I cupped them and I stroked the nipples. I swear that I almost had an immediate orgasm, but that came only moments later when I stood under the hot stream of water and thought about Nate Johnson.

Life

I asked to go back. I was told that I had that right, but it would never have been a preference to elect hospital. It was just that it seemed that in less than a week my body had changed in a major way. It may have been more gradual and I just didn’t notice, but it seemed to me that the researchers needed to know.

“You did the right thing reporting this,” the doctor who had been there at the start of this told me. “It is just that we don’t know what has happened here, so we don’t really know what we can do to change you back.”

“I am not asking for that,” I said. “I have a whole bunch of new thoughts in my head, but it is not as if anything don’t seem to belong in there”

“If there are mental changes then we should know about those,” he said. “For instance, have you lost any aggression or are you developing any fears or anxieties?”

“Are these the sorts of things that you might consider are feminine traits?” I asked him, in a bitter and accusatory tone. “I have just come back from combat. I was just as effective. Like most men, you assume that women cannot fight wars.”

I am not even sure where the anger came from, let alone the words. It seemed to me that I had become female enough to recognize a man’s attitude to soldiers who might not necessarily be male, and to call him out.

“So, you see yourself as a woman now?” he asked me.

It was time to pull off the baggy sweatshirt I had worn to the hospital and to pull down my pants and underpants.

“It’s not what I see, its what you see,” I said.

He just stood there, open mouthed. He even reached out to a desk to steady himself and to regather and determine his tactical position. Was he open to attack.

“You did consent to an experimental process,” he said.

“I did,” I said. “The good news is that you can make a soldier heal more quickly, but it is just that she will need to be a female soldier from now on.”

So, that is what I became. I grew out my buzz cut into a nice pixie style. My hair was much lighter in the new me, but even with that I experimented in going blonde. I learned about makeup and even went into battle with eyeliner and mascara. I bought sports bras for my breasts, only because I found them prettier than the issued garment. I was fitted for a female dress uniform and I liked it, even favoring sensible heels over flats.

And then one day, I received a visit from Nate Johnson.

“I have been talking to the agency about you,” he said. “We have a vacancy for a woman to work in the field and I was wondering if you might be interested?”

“I might be, but I have to tell you that I am disappointed that you didn’t have another reason to look me up,” I said, giving him a look that I hoped might be crystal clear.

“I wasn’t sure just how much you might have changed,” he said. “I mean I know that you heal quickly, but …”.

“That healing is not a problem,” I interrupted. “I am told the sexes are different in that regard. We females heal faster than you males. But what I need now is another kind of healing, and my thinking is that you are the man to deliver it. I need sexual healing.”

The End
3024

Author’s Note: This idea comes from Our Lady in Twilight posting an enquiry on FM MB entitled “Jurassic Park” and specifically genetic modification. She said – “Perhaps you might have a super-soldier, injected with a composite animal serum including lizard DNA for super-healing. Then, left alone on a mission with some unenhanced (albeit rather hunky marines,) the genetic sex-change kicks in.”

© Maryanne Peters 2025