Killer Body
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

I dislike the whole idea of “the message”. What does it matter what you say to somebody if they are going to die a few seconds later? The death itself might send a message, but the words are meaningless. “Your enemy says you deserve this” – then bang. What is the point? But a contract is a contract, and the person paying can dictate the method and the words.

In the case of Dr. Butterfield it was an apology – the first I have ever spoken. The man who hired me wanted to apologize to the plastic surgeon who modified his face. I was to explain that it was simply a matter of tying up loose ends, so he had to die. I had no idea how to handle the response.

Dr. Butterfield was a surprisingly cool and deliberate man. I stood over him at his seat in his home study. He looked at me and looked at my gun, and just nodded. I liked that. A man who knows how to handle his imminent death.

“Your client would like me to acknowledge this I suppose?” he said. “If he has gone to the trouble of asking for my understanding it seems only fair that I acknowledge that I do.”

He reached for the drawer of his desk, and I moved forward to check that there was no concealed weapon there. He just pulled out paper and a pen. I suppose that I relaxed in that moment. The idea that he would have had a pistol taped underneath the desk never entered my head. He was a surgeon, not a gang boss.

If he had been, maybe he would have pulled it out and aimed a kill shot, but instead he just pulled the trigger and I felt the bullet hit me in the groin.

I should have returned fire, but there is something about being hit in that spot that makes you fold and grope to stem the bleeding. I just pulled away from the line of fire, and only then did I point the gun back at him.

“It is my turn to apologize,” he said his empty hands in the air. The gun was still taped to the desk. His face showed that he was terrified, but still thinking.

“You can kill me, but you will bleed out for sure,” he said. “I know what to do. I can close the wound.”

“Do something then,” I shouted. “But I am keeping hold of this gun, and I will be watching every move.”

That was my intention, but it did not happen that way. I cannot even say what happened past that moment. There was pain and then there was unconsciousness.

When I awoke, it was as if I was in another universe.

It took a moment for me to realize that I was not dead. I knew what heaven was supposed to be, but I had never believed in it. I understood that it might be warm and sunny, and with a pleasing outlook. If you had been clutching your crotch with bloodied hands at one moment, and then the next you were lying on a lounger by a swimming pool looking out at the sea, what would you think?

To make it even more unreal, it took another moment to realize that I was not me anymore. To reorientate yourself, you think back to that last moment of consciousness and reach for the wound and check that you are not bleeding out. I reached down and there was only an empty groin. More accurately, between two firm but smooth feminine thighs, a bare abdomen curved down under a skimpy bikini bottom, with the flesh underneath, with just a small patch of hair that could be felt through the swimsuit fabric, and nothing else.

I looked down with some trepidation, which is when I saw the breasts. They were large, but not excessively so, although any such breast on a man would be an excess. Those round orbs were cupped in a bikini, colored hot pink. As I shuddered they jiggled, as breasts on a woman should do – on a woman, that is.

I lurched forward a little to look at my crotch covered only in a triangle of the same hot pink, which was when a lock of blonde hair fell across my face. Could it be my hair? I reached up, pushing it aside and then pulling it. It was my hair, or hair attached to my scalp. It was soft and sleek and smelled of flowers.

I lay back again, as if to will all of this out of existence. Could it be a nightmare from which I can awake, if I only will it? I could feel my hands clutching my smooth belly and there was pain. My nails were long and sharp and painted light blue. I lifted them – my hands – a woman’s hands. In the distance beyond them I could see my feet with toenails also painted, but gold.

The pain should have woken me, so I had to proceed on the basis that this was real. So where was I?

I was on a terrace beside a swimming pool, beside a large house. There was a wall separating this house from another, both with sea views. The sea was close and I could hear small waves on a shore. It seemed that there was a path down to a beach nearby. I needed to get up and find out more.

My legs seemed weak, and not just because they lacked the muscle that they once had. They were now smooth and slender, but shapely – a woman’s legs. But I guessed that to be reshaped like this I must have lain prone for some time, perhaps weeks for wounds to heal. I attempted to massage my legs to restore better movement before I stood carefully but wobbly.

There were sandals nearby – women’s wedge sandals with colored stones, but I chose to walk barefoot towards the house. There were sliding doors that seemed hard to move, but they did open. It seemed to me that my arms had lost even more muscle than my legs.

Inside, the living room was expansive and cool. There were two lounge areas, one by the windows in the sun and the other in a darker area, and there was a large dining table with a similar sized one outside. In a small alcove there was a desk with a laptop computer. I walked towards it on my weakened legs.

There was an expensive-looking handbag on the desk. I pushed back the laptop and emptied the contents onto the desk. There were some cosmetics but a large purse and a letter. Inside the purse was a passport and some credit cards, bearing the same woman’s name on them. I did not recognize the name, but I looked at the picture, and it looked like it could be my sister – if I had one. Miranda Dyer. I needed to find a mirror. There she was – I was Miranda Dyer.

I could see traces of me, mainly in the eyes, but everything else screamed not just female, but hyper female. My nose and chin had been reduced in size, and even my ears looked smaller and more delicate. My hair was long and blonde and hung in soft curls, extending below my shoulders. My face was made up, with painted lips and false eyelashes below shaped brows. Everywhere else was completely clear of hair, polished like porcelain but browned by the sun I had been lying in, with tanning oil making my skin shine. I was not just a woman, but a beautiful one.

There seemed little sign of muscle on my body. I was slim and soft. My legs were improving. It was clear that I needed to use this body to recover any kind of strength. For now I seemed as weak as a kitten, but perhaps as ferocious as one too.

Why had this been done to me? I picked up the letter. It was in an envelope simply bearing the handwritten name “Miranda” in a cursive style that looked vaguely familiar. Inside was a typewritten letter addressed “To whom it may concern” and headed “Miss Miranda Dyer - Scanning Anomalies”. The letter read – “My patient is a post operative transsexual woman who may carry a metallic stent in her lower abdominal area.”

I reached down instinctively, my fingers sliding under my bikini bottom to where there was an opening in my body, just below a very sensitive nubbin. There was something inside me. But more importantly, my brief explanation confirmed that I was no longer a man.

If there is one thing that my profession has taught me, it is that emotion has no part in it. It is distracting and without purpose. In that moment I was awash in anger and grief, but I needed to steel myself. There was a job to be done, and that was to discover the facts: how this had happened and how I was to deal with it. I returned to the items on the desk.

There was a smartphone, and it was not mine. It was metallic rose pink. I switched it on and endured the wait for it to light up in the home screen. I went to recent calls then contacts. There were no calls and only one contact – “Surgeon” – it had to be Dr. Butterfield. I called it.

It was a recorded message – “If you are calling this number then you are seeking an explanation, and I am giving a recorded response so that I do not have to listen to any threats. Let me start by explaining to you that I am bound by the Hippocratic oath that all physicians take, not to take a single life. I also swore to do no harm, but clearly I shot at you in self-defense. It is just that I caused an injury that I knew I could repair. I have a specialty, you see, and it is not altering the faces of criminals, although I have been forced to do that before. No, my field is genital and facial feminization. I do what is commonly called “sex change surgery” and also I make the face and body appear female. That is what I have done for you. Now let me explain why. You are the opposite of me. I cannot take a life, but it appears that is what you do for a living. I like to say of myself that I give people lives. Most of my patients are transwomen who barely lived until they were free of their male bodies. I imagine that you were very comfortable with your male body, but I invite you to consider a change of course. I offer that because I have now been forced to go into hiding and apply my skills with another face. You may be able to do that too, or maybe you might consider that other courses might be open to you, being the way you are now. I have given you an identity and money on your cards – the PIN numbers are the last 4 digits of the other card’s number. You have a place to stay for a few weeks. All I ask is that you don’t pursue me … please. I could have killed you, but I put my oath first. I make you another oath, that I will not speak of you or send in to the police your DNA and fingerprints that I hold, if you will agree not to track me down. Please confirm by text. I invite you to consider the body that you have been given is a gift. By the way, this message will delete in a few seconds…”. There was a click, and he was gone.

This was a place to stay. It was unreasonably large, but I felt that I needed to know what else had been left for me. There was a kitchen, with items in the larder and in the fridge. There was a recipe book open on the counter, displaying a recipe for “Greek Kleftiko”.

There were two empty bedrooms and a master bedroom, which had some clothing laid out on the bed – women’s underwear and a simple colorful dress. There was a dressing table with cosmetics neatly laid out. There was a walk-in wardrobe with a few items hanging, and an open suitcase on a shelf at the back, neatly half packed. A quick check revealed that there was nothing practical to wear – no pants anywhere.

There was an ensuite bathroom, which prompted me to realize that I needed to piss. It was something that I would have to do sitting down. As I did that, I had the feeling that I had done this before. I took a piece of toilet paper and wiped myself dry with a down stroke, as if by habit. I realized that I must have been in some kind of comatose state for some time. The hair might have been added but the healing and the loss of muscle must have taken weeks, if not months.

I decided that I needed to find out what was inside “my vagina” – so strange to think of such a thing. I closed the toilet seat and felt for the flat knob that allowed me to pull out what was inside me. I almost fainted when I saw the size of it – at least twice the size of the penis I had once had down there.

It was metallic and hollow, but it seemed to me that there was something inside it. I used toilet paper to wipe it clean of lubricant and I searched for an opening. I found that there was an invisible seam halfway down, and it could be opened by twisting and unscrewing.

There was no mistaking what was inside. It was a firearm, cleverly broken into four pieces – a barrel and chamber, a firing mechanism, and a handle with a magazine inside. The magazine had written on the side – “use only ArmaTyson ammunition”. The magazine was empty, but I could see that the rounds it carried were oddly shaped.

Why tell me to leave behind my old life and yet equip me with such a tool, custom made and clearly of extraordinary quality, not to mention the advantage of total concealment? I decided not to put it back inside me.

I found myself sitting down at the dressing table and having a closer look at my face. I started by looking for scars. The surgery had been drastic, and perhaps I could find some clue as to when it had been done. But I found myself reaching for lipstick to refresh what I was wearing. Again, it seemed instinctive, as if I had been trained during some period of stupor.

There was a hairbrush on hand, and a need to tidy my hair as well. That doctor had certainly done a number on me. None of my behavior appeared to be in any way masculine. I even looked across at the clothes on the bed – I knew how to put them on, but how? I simply did it, fastening the bra and then twisting around to put the straps over my shoulders, then pulling up the dress and reaching back to zip it up.

It seemed that my next task was to find out where I was. I took the phone and checked to see whether I was connected and could find myself on Maps. It showed that I was in Puerto Rico, but I decided to check outside to see whether that could be true.

The coastline had low cliffs and sandy beaches. There was a small beach below the house. I went back to the sunchair to find the wedge sandals – they fitted perfectly. I was about to head down when I heard the doorbell ring.

I moved with a speed that surprised me, through the house to the large front door. There was a peephole and on the other side was a very good-looking young Latino man, dressed in a polo shirt and white shorts. I readied myself and then opened the door.

“Good afternoon, Senorita,” he said cheerily. “My name is Pablo. I am here for your exercising and dilation.” He was smiling and trying hard not to be seen looking me up and down. I looked outside to see he was alone and then pulled him inside and closed the door.

“Have you been here before?” I said to him. He looked confused. But my voice did not sound anything other than a woman’s voice, if a little husky.

“No, Senorita,” he said. “We have never met … but I hope to get to know you better – if that is what you want?”

“What do you mean by that?” I snapped. He appeared confused, but so was I. Why was I looking at his hair and his strong chin and feeling strangely excited?

“I was hired by the doctor … your doctor, I think. I am just a pool boy and … general helper, but I exercise quite a lot, and maybe I can help you. All I know is that you have recently healed after surgery and that maybe you need a little toning, and for the exercise of, well … everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes,” he said. “Dilation is my speciality.”

“What is dilation?” I said.

“Maybe it is best if I show you?” he said. “Maybe the bedroom is best.”

He came very close to me, and then he reached out and stroked my cheek. I felt that I should have recoiled, but his touch seemed to make me feel limp, and suddenly hot all over. I fought to take control. I started to consider how I would bring him to the floor. He was too close to strike a blow, but If I took hold of him I could use a leg or hip throw to bring down. It was just that his shoulder seemed heavily muscled and as hard as teak, and I was so weak.

And then there were those eyes looking into mine. There is no mistaking what was behind them – it was desire. What was behind my gaze? Could it be the same thing? I had a firm policy of asexuality, after experimenting with both sexes in my youth. Asexuality is uncomplicated. It means avoiding situations like this. I felt that I just needed to focus on not being turned on. But by that point, he was kissing me and I was yielding to it.

“The bedroom is that way,” I found myself saying, in a breathless moan.

He lay me down on the bed and gently folded up my skirts and pulled down the ridiculously thin panties I had only just put on. I was looking at his eyes, so I did not see his shorts and underpants disappear and his manhood swell.

“This is dilation,” he said, and I felt something large and hot slide into my still lubricated vagina.

I remember thinking that I must have died on that operating table. I had spent only minutes in some tropical limbo, and now I was in heaven. I had achieved a bliss that people only dream about. It was so much better than anything that I had experienced as a man that it had to be paradise. I held Pablo by those strong shoulders and I pulled him in, stroke by wonderful stroke.

“Are you ready, Senorita?” he gasped.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I cried out, seconds before I felt his fluid flood into me and I had my own moment of ecstasy.

“I am sorry Senorita, I was just so excited I did not even ask your name,” he said. “You must be the most beautiful woman I have ever been with, and certainly the most beautiful transwoman.”

“My name is Miranda,” I said, smiling at him in my afterglow. “Miranda Dyer.”

Which is how I got my second chance at life. I did keep my metallic stent with its concealed weapon, but only as a keepsake of a life left behind. I found ArmaTyson Custom Firearms online, but I never made contact. It seemed to me that Dr. Butterfield might use that to see whether I would be seeking him out and using that weapon to kill him.

If I ever did see Dr. Butterfield again, it would be to thank him, for not only saving my life, but giving me a new one.

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2026
3435

Author's Notes:
A seed from Erin, I think: “After a botched assassination, a hired killer wakes in the body of woman – his own body surgically modified and drop dead gorgeous”.
Thanks to Eric for the editing.