And please forgive me for any possible typos. When writing long fiction like this, one would appreciate the help of an editor who can fix all the mistakes that one can be blind to as the actual author. Once I conclude this story I might upload it to a place like Fictionmania, and maybe then I'll get someone to go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Maybe illustrations, even?
To make it easier for me to organise these kinds of stories in the future you can check the 'Non-Caption Story' tag at the side. Who knows, I might write more stories like these.
‘Becoming Bea’
Chapter two
There I sat, in my office, staring at my reflection in the monitor looking like I always look, but with a strange awkward smile on my face. Underneath my suit I was wearing my wife's lingerie. I had my small equipment tucked between my legs where it felt like I was perpetually leaking into my panties, but thankfully the delicate fabric was kept safe with the clever use of a sanitary napkin. I had avoided putting on a bra, because I was still deathly afraid that it might be too noticeable, even with the shirt and the jacket on. But I had put on a pair of my wife's pantyhose and those reached right up to my navel. Putting them on made it especially embarrassing when I realised that I might want to go to the toilet at some point later in the day, but I nevertheless smiled my awkward smile. I hadn't had a more exciting day at work since... well, since ever.
For the first time, certainly since I was a teenager, I started noticing how different I am from other men. Certainly not just the physical differences, but those were rather extreme. One of my co-workers, who I've occasionally talked to, he's about 6'3" and while he always gazes down on me, now I thought about how it'd feel if he gazed down on me while I was wearing a dress. I felt like my blushing was obvious, but he kept talking to me like always, mentioning going on a fishing trip and how he had bought a new big rod that he was excited to try out. I wondered if he would make me touch his big rod.
One of my male co-workers, though not much taller than me, had such a strong neck that he didn't even bother buttoning the top of his shirt properly. So instead he just sat there with his shirt partly unbuttoned. Some of his chest hair even poked out. While that kind of look would embarrass me beyond belief, it seemed perfectly normal to him. He had no reason to cover up, because he was a man and he was proud of his masculine body. He wasn’t as smooth as I was.
As much as it pained me to compare myself to real men in the past, now when I did, I actually got a little feeling of satisfaction. I was proud over my looks, in a way. Because it made me more feminine, and in my mind I couldn't help but think of my femininity as a good thing now. It meant that I would look better in my wife's clothes.
I turned off the computer, readying myself to make my way home. I didn’t know if I could afford dressing up on a Monday, as I had to get back here to work the next day, but I realised that if I couldn't dress up at all this week, then I would go crazy with perfecting my feminine appearance first thing as I got home on Friday. I even wondered about whether or not to call in sick. Is wanting to dress like a woman sickness in a man?
As the monitor turned off I saw myself in the reflection. I knew that I had checked my face closely for any remaining traces of make-up, and I was sure that my face was clean, but... Ever since I first began applying make-up to my face I've been unable to see myself as not having a woman's face. As it is now, all I am seeing is an unpainted woman's facial features. I keep seeing the uses of make-up in ways I didn't before. How I'd use it for different purposes to highlight different parts of my face. This wasn't the feeling that a man should have when he sees his face in a mirror. He certainly shouldn't see his eyebrows and think very hard about having them plucked. But I couldn't do that, could I? That'd be too permanent. They would notice.
Still, maybe I could trim them in such a way that wouldn't make them look too feminine. Women can have thicker eyebrows, and men can have thinner eyebrows. I just gotta find the middle-ground. I made a mental note to look up some guides online. I also thought that I should look up guides on make-up, I know that there are lot of them all over the net. I had occasionally looked at them before... I don't know why, but I guess now it had served a purpose.
Come to think of it, lots of my life has been like that. Like with shaving my body before I even decided to dress like a woman. I wonder how many feminine things I’ve done in the past without even realising it.
***
I sat down at home by the kitchen table with my laptop and a box of take-home Chinese food. I was about to start watching a whole playlist about make-up. Not the typical kinda evening entertainment that I'd watch before, but now it actually seemed thrilling to me. It would be exciting to learn new things that I could pick up on and then try doing on Friday.
One of the first things I learnt was how paltry my wife's make-up collection actually was. These girls had whole colour spectrums of different lipsticks, and my wife only had about four different tubes. One red, one deep red, one light red and one other red. Now I started thinking about trying out something a little different like purple, black, bronze... maybe even bright blue! Why not, the lips was one of the sexiest part of a woman, and I have now come to appreciate my pouty lips. I wanted to show them off! I wanted to be properly kissable.
I also thought about make-up in a different way. Rather than just being a chore to apply, it was now just as vital to the overall look as the clothes. Sure, I had never thought of make-up as something ugly, or something irrelevant, but I never thought of it as being that essential to get right.
My wife didn't even own any any eyeshadow! I needed new eyeliner, too. And definitively new foundation, rouge, and new kinds of skin and facial creams. Maybe I should get one of those eyelash curlers that I've seen some of the girls in the videos use. I already had pretty eyelashes, I've been told that before (even as a man,) but I had to wonder if I could make them look even prettier. The thought excited me. I could look like Betty Boop!
I looked down on my fingers typing on the keyboard. The sight of my unpolished fingernails actually bothered me. I knew that I couldn't apply nail polish, because as a man I could never explain it. I thought that maybe if I used gloves at work I could get away with it, but then I recognised what an absurd idea that was. Maybe if it was cold and winter outside, but it's about to be summer. Still... Ridiculous idea. But a few feminine gloves could be quite nice to have.
***
At the end of the evening, as the clock approached midnight, I had gathered quite the shopping list. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to buy everything I needed in one go, as that would require a whole truck to ship it to me. I needed to make a few sacrifices in what I could order now and what I would have to try out later. I realised that I might be trying to compensate for never having lived as a woman, so some of the stuff I was eyeing was maybe a little inappropriate for a lady my age. Certainly inappropriate for a man my age. I settled with only ordering the kinds of cosmetics that I knew my wife would wear... only, at a slightly more advanced level than what she would feel comfortable with. It did slightly humour me to think that I was about to have a greater understanding of make-up than my wife.
But after having made the order, I realised that I wouldn't be able to explain where all the excess make-up had come from if Mary were to return home. If I had bought some new clothes then I could excuse that by claiming it was gifts for her, but I had never bought her make-up before. And she'd clearly notice it if it was used make-up. So somehow I'd have to create a safe place where I could hide all my girly things.
It made me slightly proud to imagine that I would have girly things that I wouldn't have to share with my wife. Over the course of this weekend my bitterness about my wife's absence had gotten worse, and I had almost begun resenting her. The truth is, the more feminine I got, the less patience I felt for her. It was like... and I couldn't quite believe I was thinking this, but it was like as if I saw her as a rival. As a woman I saw her as competition, not as a real partner. And that made me face another realization. If I was a woman, I would not be happy as a lesbian woman.
I coughed at that. It was rubbish, surely. It is not like as if I could ever find a man attractive. And so what if I wasn't a lesbian? I wasn't a woman either. All I am doing is acting a role, I shouldn't be so concerned about these things. Does an actor worry when he plays a role that isn't himself? If a voice actor voices a squirrel in an animated movie, does he think about what kind of nuts he'd most like to stuff in his mouth? No, I don't think so. I'm definitely not going to think about anyone's nuts.
I went to bed that night and I obsessed over the make-up that would arrive later that week. Probably on Friday, which would be a great Friday. All I had to do was suffer through another few days of work. The daily routine of having to dress like a man, and pretend as if I would never, ever, consider wearing a dress. Y'know, I would have to lie through my teeth.
***
'At least I got to wear panties, still,' I thought as I went to the bathroom. I pulled the ones I was wearing down and looked at the sanitary napkin. I had thankfully not squirted so much during the day, and what I had had easily been absorbed. I was kinda looking forward to getting to a point where this doesn't excite me so much so that I can wear panties without putting the sanitary napkin in there first.
As I sat down on the toilet I realised that I usually sat down to pee on the toilet. Even before I started this feminine experiment. I suppose maybe I had my little penis to blame. It was simply easier to sit down and wipe it like a woman would, rather than trying to grab hold of my little fella and pee standing up. I had a few embarrassing cases as a teenager where I tried to stand up while I peed... and needless to say, I learned to stop trying.
Still, when I wiped myself this time I couldn't help but think that me wearing panties had somehow gotten my penis to become even smaller than before. It was barely noticeable from behind my 'bush.' As I've shaved I've always left some hair over my pubic area, and as I looked down I saw nothing but hair. Only after I poked a little would my diminutive manhood show itself. As I thought about this humiliation I squirted again. I saw the liquid hit the toilet. I got some on my finger. Without thinking I put it in my mouth.
"Why did I do that?" I asked myself. "Ugh, now I gotta brush my teeth!"
***
I dreamt that night. I used to think I didn't dream much, but ever since that Friday I have been having a lot more dreams. This one seemed particularly lively. And unlike most of my dreams, I could vividly remember this one. And yet, I did not want to remember it.
I saw myself with my dad. I sat like I usually sat, on the uncomfortable rickety chair, whereas he hogged the leather armchair to himself. We were watching TV, and my dad were nursing a bottle of beer. There was hockey on and I was bored to bits, like always. Sports never agreed with me, I could never understand the appeal. But I pretended to avoid my father grumbling about my lack of traditional masculine traits.
My father cheered as the big beefy hairy men bashed each other. Pfth, he thought I was a fag for not liking sports, but this was an obvious homoerotic thing. My father even watched wrestling, and not the glitzy soap opera masquerading as sport. Actual Greco-Roman wrestling were big men all take turns manhandling each other. I looked at my father and I pictured him drooling over the athletes. He wanted me to be like them because he was a pervert. He just wanted a strong man to hold him.
"What ya gonna do ‘bout that money your grandpa gave ya for Christmas?" my father grumbled. "A new dress?"
I rolled my eyes and sighed. I was actually gonna buy some new shoes, so I didn't have to keep walking around in the tattered old sneakers that kept giving me blisters when I wore them. Though if I mentioned that to my father he'd laugh and say I should just be honest and say that I want to buy heels. Pfth, I wish I had enough money so that I could actually afford buying such expensive clothes. Maybe then I could actually get to eat something that didn't taste like cardboard.
One of the hairy men on the TV managed to score a goal and I heard my father rise up off the armchair with his hands up in the air.
"Yeah! That's 2-1!" he cheered as he spilled some of his beer in front of him. "That money is fuckin’ mine!"
After settling back down in the chair I could feel my father looking over at me. His eyes small and judging. He noticed my grumpy face and realised that I hadn't cheered for 'our' favourite team just scoring a goal. Then he took another big sip from his beer. Then he removed it from his mouth and looked at it. He looked confused for a second. Then he noticed that it was empty.
"Will ya go and fetch me another beer, you sissy," he growled. "Or are ya gonna sit there moping like a fuckin’ baby?"
I didn't need to hear any more abuse. I rose from the chair and walked towards the kitchen. It is better to just act like a servant than give him any more excuses to get angry. I've stopped fighting him. I suspected that he'd eagerly give me a spanking, even if I was sixteen. Well, at the very least I didn’t want him to think that that might be a solution to his problems.
Our refrigerator was nearly all empty except for the bottles of beer. There was also some ketchup, some moldy cheese and a jar of pickles. Sometimes I fantasised about sticking one of the pickles inside one of the bottles of beer that I handed to him, but that would backfire quick. As long as I live here I can’t rebel. I settled with just being my father's servant, for now.
As a took a step away from the fridge and close its door I found myself, to my great surprise, falling down. I don't know how it happened, I could say that I slipped on the carpet, but we've got no carpets in the house. The beer bottle in front of me crashed into several pieces, and the beer splashed in a large radius around it. I had cut my hand and some of my blood was now mixing with the beer. But that didn't hurt me as much as the teardrop that I felt falling from my cheek. I was about to get more grief about tearing up than getting my hand sliced open.
Not knowing what had happened, I looked around me, then I looked down. I looked towards my legs and noticed that I was wearing heels. Big red pumps. They must have had a five inch heel, and I was horrified. When I tried to get up I noticed that instead of wearing my torn jeans I was wearing stockings. Fishnet stockings. I tried removing them, but I couldn't. I couldn't even get up, it felt like something was pulling me down and... then I heard my father groan behind me.
"Fucking faggot," he said. He didn't sound like he was insulting me. He sounded like he had given up. Still he reached out a hand and helped me up. That bit surprised me. It wouldn't surprise me if he left me there soaked in my own blood and beer and shattered glass. But when I got back up on my feet he looked at me like as if I was worth nothing to him. Like as if I was a parasite that had just robbed him of a precious bottle of beer.
"I hope you didn't destroy all the fuckin’ bottles," he groaned as he opened the refrigerator door. "You better clean this up, but get out of that fuckin’ dress first."
I looked down and I was wearing a red dress. I couldn't explain how it had magically appeared on my slim body. I looked at my hands and saw that I had long fingernails painted pink. As I felt my head move around trying to take in all of the changes I felt my hair longer than it had been before. Now as I rushed I took small steps, in order not to fall down again, and I felt myself surprisingly accustomed to walking in heels. It didn't even seem like a hassle to me. But I was still disturbed by the sensation of wearing something so girly. Something so, frankly, slutty!
When I reached the bathroom I saw my face in the mirror. I was still myself, I recognised my features, but my eyes looked massive. Make-up had formed around my face and come to make my eyes pop like never before. I could see the brown in them and for the first time I didn't think my eyes looked 'dull.' My lips seemed many times bigger than they should be and they had been liberally covered in shiny lip gloss. Honestly, as a teenager I would have wanted to date the girl that I now looked like. She looked like the kind of girl that would put out.
But then I noticed my hair. My normally shaggy and unwashed hair had been replaced by long and expertly treated bleach-blonde locks. The kind of hair that when I grew up was the absolute sign of a bombshell. Someone you'd see modelling in Playboy. I was stunned, but also frightened. Why was all this happening? I didn't want any of it! There must be some kind of curse, something magic! I felt myself faint.
Then I woke up. I was sweating, and I felt wet all over. My panties was naturally soaking, but I hoped it was because of the sweat and not because this dream actually succeeded in arousing me. But I knew that it wouldn't be a good day to go to work.
***
I had no more nightmares like that for the rest of the week. Still I dreamt a lot, and some of the dreams made me feel quite feminine, but I can't remember any specific details. None of them were as clear as that dream I had about my father. I tried to remember the last time I saw him, and it must have been when I turned twenty. He showed up at where I lived and while it seemed at first like he wanted to apologise for my lousy childhood, he ended up just berating me for having no alcohol in my apartment. It wasn't my apartment. It was Mary's.
I sometimes wonder (only briefly) where he is now. I have no idea. For all I knew he could be dead. And I had no contacts with other family members. My father had no siblings, and he had completely severed contacts with my mom’s family after she died. It almost seemed like as if he was angry with them for letting her die, but they had nothing to do with her death. She died in a car crash, after having visiting a friend. I do wish I had gotten to know her. My father hardly told me about her, but considering how fond of femininity I am, it would seem natural that I would get along with her. It made me sad thinking of her, but in the end, I couldn't do much about it. At least my father, for all his faults, never blamed me for her death.
It is actually one of the things that made me a bit frustrated with Mary. Other than the fact that she is now almost never home, but even back when she was home more often she would annoy me in her repeated refusals to contact her family. Her family was actually not made up of a bunch of monsters. They were kind, and when I had met them at the wedding they said nice things about me. It made me happy thinking that I might have loving parents for once. But Mary had some grudge and I guess it wasn't my place to question it. I still don't know exactly what it was about.
Still, after spending the whole week thinking these bothersome thoughts I was looking forward to Friday, when I would get to dress up again. It wasn't in my mind anything but an excuse to be somebody else. To be someone happy with their body and their life. As a man I always felt like as if I wasn't enough, that I was lacking something fundamental. Even aside from the fact that I had certain physical limitations, like my short stature and minuscule penis, I think I had a mental issue that led to me being unable to ever become a true man. I had been beaten down for so long that I simply couldn't see myself as a real man. I was always just a pretender. Some half-boy wearing men’s clothes.
And here I was, sitting in my office chair in a suit that was too big and wearing a pair of panties with a sanitary napkin underneath. If I had a psychological issue keeping me from embracing manhood, then this surely isn’t helping. But who knows. Maybe all I need is to get this out of my system and that will release that clog that is keeping me from being satisfied with my own masculinity. Once I have walked a mile in heels then I will know what it means to be a man. There was a certain logic to that. Flimsy logic, sure, but I took it.
As I was sitting being pensive, I heard an alarm on my phone. I had gotten a new text message. As I opened it it said that I had a package waiting for me at the post office. I smiled wide and squealed (well, on the inside) when I realised that it was my new make-up.
***
Needless to say, I still looked like a clown. You can't learn to apply make-up just from watching videos. It is one thing to know what to do, and actually doing it. I still managed to hurt my eyes with my unstable hands trying to get the mascara and the eyeliner right. But I think I still did it better than before.
I had chosen a darker lipstick, one that would make my lips look like they were made of velvet. I looked real kissable, and I said that with pride. It made me almost want to kiss myself in the mirror, but I naturally realised that wouldn't be as fun as kissing an actual woman. I wanted to imagine kissing Mary, but for some reason that didn't excite me either. In fact, it had been quite some time since I last thought about doing anything sexy with Mary. I guess that I was simply too angry about her absence to want to see her in that way. I would have to yell at her for a bit before I could be able to see her as being sexy again.
As I ran the fingers through my hair I realised that although it hadn't gotten longer I had a new idea of how to make it look feminine. But it would involve getting a pair of scissors. Could I really go that far? I suppose it wouldn't be greatly obvious if I styled it back later. I could use some wax in my hair and comb it so tight that you would never see what I had done. The thought of seeing myself with an even girlier haircut excited me.
I brushed my hair all straight down so that it covered my whole face. It was surprisingly long, with the hair reaching all the way down to my chin. I guess that I had never noticed how long it actually was. The way I would normally style my hair involved brushing it back and out of the way. It wasn't long hair for a woman, but for a man it was quite long. In dire need for a visit to the barber’s. But not now. Now I was about to give myself bangs.
I took the scissors and placed them just underneath my eyebrows. After having made sure to comb my hair carefully so it formed an even shape around my head I decided to just jump into it. It wouldn't be so bad. I could always wear a hat. No-one would notice that I had quite feminine bangs. Who looks at me when I go outside, really?
The effect was immediate, and more than a little shocking. It really did look like a woman's haircut. Last weekend's hair could have be thought of as androgynous, but this kind of hair would never belong to a man. It still wasn't comparable to something that a professional hairdresser would give you, but considering that I am only improvising I thought it was a decent cut. With the make-up I had painstakingly applied and my already very feminine face I was pleased. I smiled as I put away the scissors. Now it was time to find the right dress.
***
My wife had a lot of dresses with floral patterns. As I was the one that bought them I guess that it was my fault, because I don't think she ever explicitly expressed a fascination with floral patterns. But to me they exemplified the very concept of femininity. Sure they were men who would wear a floral tie every now and then, some might even go as far as to wear floral shirts! But it certainly was not considered a manly look. Men were supposed to wear geometrical patterns, inspired from the world of architecture and geometry. Flowers, with their gentle shapes and sweet scent, they belonged all to women.
There was a floral dress that my wife had worn maybe a couple of times that I entirely adored. It did cover up part of the shoulders, but left a great deal of exposed flesh on the back and on the front. It also had no sleeves, which briefly did worry me because I got cold so easily. Maybe I could match the dress with a cardigan? I liked it when women wore those long cardigans that almost reached their knees. They were like robes, and I guess that reminded me of my nerdy college years playing fantasy games with my friends. But they also did look super comfortable and warm. I picked out a gray one that lay unworn in my wife's wardrobe. She never wore the things I wanted her to wear.
For the same reason, to keep myself from catching hypothermia, I knew that I had to put something on my legs. Though, I did enjoy seeing them naked and smooth and so girly. If only it was summer. But for now I would need a pair of tights, and I figured that I should just wear something black. Perhaps dark grey, in order to match them with the cardigan. And finally, though I am indoors, I put on a pair of my wife's boots. They have a slight heel on them, and they're made out of black leather. They’re quite kinky, actually.
At the end of picking out my outfit I realised just how natural this all seemed to me. Whenever I would buy clothes for my wife I would find myself getting annoyed when she would dress up in ways that looked, well, simply wrong. I had bought the clothes with a clear idea of how each outfit should look, but she just grabbed garments at seemingly random with no sense of cohesion or style. Always a complete mismatch! And no sense what colours go together! Everything clashed, and if it wasn’t for my near-saintly patience, then I would want rush in and completely scold her for being so bad at being a woman! I would make a better woman than her, and... well I suppose that is what I am proving to myself right now. That I am better at dressing like a woman than my wife.
I turned to the mirror and marvelled at my appearance. I looked so feminine, but in a mature way. Like as if I was a female academic about to hold a lecture about history... maybe the history of art. All I needed was a pair of glasses and I'd get into that role so easily. I struck a pose and held my hand out like as if pointing at a blackboard, but to my horror I saw one of my breasts collapse. I tried reaching inside of the dress to fix this dreaded disaster, but I found that the socks that I had used to emulate a mammary gland had managed to escape the confines of the bra and lay on the floor underneath me. If I had been a real woman and my breast had just done that, then I would be horrified. But now I started thinking that I should find some place online that sells false breasts. I admit that I had looked up a website during the week, but I had chickened out before seeing their 'wares.' Now I felt as if it was probably the best idea if I was going to continue this hobby. No respectable woman should have to rely on socks.
***
After sorting out the disaster with the escapee breast I entered the kitchen. I had spent so much time enjoying applying make-up and picking out the right dress that it was getting rather late in the evening. But no worry, I did not need to get up early in the morning and now I really wanted to spoil the female side of me. I knew exactly how I was going to spend the next few hours.
I had earlier in the week looked up a list of what was supposed to be the 'women’s top 25 favourite films.' It seemed like one of those cheesy lists websites pump out nowadays for clicks, but it had a few films in there that I thought I should watch, just to completely immerse myself in womanhood. These were movies that every woman had seen, and how could I consider myself to be one if I hadn't? It would be like for a man to not have seen Braveheart or Reservoir Dogs. Even men who don’t like those films have at some point been forced to watch them, it’s how these things work.
The films I picked from the list were 'Bridget Jones Diary,' 'The Devil Wears Prada' and 'The Notebook.' And sure, maybe it is stereotyping to say that all women only want to watch a certain kind of movie, but I wasn't interested in transgressing gender roles at this moment. I just wanted to indulge. Maybe I could get to be a stereotype for just this one evening.
With me I had three bottles of wine. A sparkling white wine, because I enjoyed those, but also a regular bottle of non-sparkling white wine. And I had also bought a bottle of rosé. Was there a more feminine drink than that? I didn't care that it might make me seem like a lush. I never used to drink this much without Mary, and now I wanted to do whatever I wanted to do, without her. And what I wanted to do was to drink wine and watch Meryl Streep be a great actress. I also had some chocolate, and I’m embarrassed to say I bought the chocolate specifically because the package said it was ‘made for a woman’s taste.’ Well, now I was a woman, so this chocolate was mine.
***
Somehow I awoke the next day not feeling all that hungover. But I did fall asleep in the sofa. Still, it wasn't a bad night's sleep, not at all. I felt quite rested. The only thing I can remember dreaming about was clothes. Partly because I saved The Devil Wears Prada 'till last.
As I stretched and walked towards the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker I gazed out the window. I hadn't been out in the backyard for a long time and it looked sad and abandoned. But I wasn't much inclined to prod around in the garden, and thankfully we had no nosy neighbours around that would fill my mailbox with angry notes for not mowing the lawn often enough. The backyard was also located in a secluded area, with neighbours to the sides but none directly opposite. Instead there was a small little forest. One of the things that appealed to me and Mary when we first got this house (and when she was still acting like she lived her) was that rather than feeling lost in a massive suburban landscape, this neighbourhood was built up around a small bit of forest. We imagined ourselves going for walks around the trees, but that turned out to be less than a realistic goal. I imagine most of our neighbours felt the same. Walking down a forested path isn't as fun as you first might think.
I nevertheless thought that as a woman, I might enjoy a little bit of fresh air. I couldn't get it by walking out the front door, as that would pose too much of a risk. But with the backyard, being so secluded, there wouldn't nearly be as much risk of being spotted. Maybe I should just take my coffee out on the porch today. It is a spring day and it is not so cold. I could just wrap my cardigan around me... Oh, and I must not fall asleep wearing regular clothes again! I have a nightie for that.
As I was about to grab my cup of coffee and take my morning vitamin supplement I noticed that I had none left. It wasn't so bad, it wasn't like actual medication, but it made me surprised because I was typically so aware of when I needed to buy new ones. It must have slipped my mind. But then I saw, next to where I kept my pills, there was Mary's bottle. She also likes to take vitamin supplements, but they are specifically labelled as ‘being for women.’ Though, that can hardly mean anything, can it? It must just be branding, like with the chocolate. And with the way that I am dressed right now it might be a good thing. If I dress like a woman, then I should take a woman's vitamins. Nothing about that logic seemed wrong.
***
As I stepped out on the porch I almost regretted my decision. It wasn't too cold, but it certainly wasn't like summer. The sun was shining, but in my experience, sunshine does not always mean warmth. Still, the air was nice and I enjoyed getting to sit outdoors in this outfit. I don't know why that meant so much to me, but it was a sign that this new persona of mine, which was developing its own views of the world, wasn't confined to the indoors.
As I sipped on the coffee I looked at the leaves gently playing in the wind. I heard the birds singing, and I saw a little squirrel climb a tree. I truly enjoyed myself here. I didn't need to go out exploring the world like Mary. I liked being in a place, getting to be a part of this particular small bit of nature and just enjoy it. I wanted sameness, and that was something Mary could never understand. It was lucky that I did not believe people had to be alike to love each other. I think a relationship is about complimenting somebody else, to have strengths where the other person has faults. And in that sense, I suppose there was a reason for me and Mary to be a couple.
I put the cup on the table and stretched a little. I wondered what kind of outfit I would put together today. As I let my mind wander I saw him. Walking through the forest, clad in what looked a mix of wilderness survival gear and a regular fitness outfit, he passed by my backyard. He noticed me, took a break from his jogging, and waved.
"Hi neighbour," he said, while catching his breath. "You're out early."
I was completely caught off guard. In all my years of living here I had never seen a person walk around that bit of forest. I knew there was a path there, and it wasn't exactly like as if you weren't allowed to take it, but no-one ever did. I was sure that this would be a private morning for myself to enjoy. I didn't know what to say, but my mouth seemed to open itself as if to take over from my overactive brain.
"Oh, yes," I said. "I wanted to enjoy my morning cup of coffee with some fresh air."
"That is good!" he said. "Many people around here just seem to be holed up in their homes all day. They don't know how healthy it is just to take a jog through the forest."
He was close enough to me so he really didn't need to raise his voice to speak to me. I guess that is why he stuck around and didn't feel like he was invading my privacy. But I suppose he was just being neighbourly. It was natural for one neighbour to introduce himself if he saw someone he hadn’t seen before.
"No..." I mentioned. "I've actually never seen anyone take a jog through that bit of forest. I think you're the first."
"Well, I am new here so maybe I didn't catch the memo," he said. "My name's Frederick Nielsen."
With him having told me his name I felt obliged to walk up and shake his hand. I had not been prepared for this, and now I regret not immediately running indoors the moment I saw him. I was completely terrified. What if he saw through my disguise? What if he figured out that I was a man? Would he call me a pervert? Even worse, what if he didn't?
"Hi, my name is... Bernice," I said, while cringing at the uncreative choice of name. "But you can call me, uhm, Bea."
"Hello Bea," Frederick said, with a wide smile.
When I saw him up close I noticed how near-sickeningly handsome he was. Not in a clichéd Hollywood way, but in a rather rugged and real-life sense. Like as if he had been hewed straight from a block of granite. The top of his head was covered in sun bleached blond hair that was perfectly wavy, yet looked unstyled. With his dark blue eyes I got the immediate impression of a Norseman. Then I realised that as his name ends with -sen, that he must have some Scandinavian heritage. Typical, all of them Nordic folks always look so handsome.
"You have a nice backyard," he said. "So many people here spend too much time on theirs. They all make it look so artificial. They cut the grass too often, and they spend all their time trimming the bushes. I like it when you let things grow. I like the sight of wild growth."
"Hah, thanks, but... I think this comes down more to neglect than any real intentional thought," I said. "So where do you live?"
I was hoping he would say that he lived several miles from here and that he wasn't actually a neighbour but some visiting wild man that I would never have a chance to run into ever again. But then I knew the odds of that would be low.
"Oh, I don't live exactly next doors to you, but I have one of the houses along this path. Just a couple of minutes away. There's me and my daughter, she's six, and, well, we’re new here," he said.
"Oh, you're a father? What about your daughter's mother?" I asked. I don't know why, it just slipped out.
"Oh, she's not... she's not really in the picture any more," he said and looked a little glum. "It's just me and my daughter. And I do my best to raise her, even if being a single father can be tough. But I do love her.”
For as much as I wanted to get rid off this encroaching man, I was now getting intrigued. I blamed my own complex from growing up with my terrible dad. I couldn't help but like men who were good fathers. It was what I wanted to be. I knew that if you were a good parent you were a good person.
"Ah, I've gotta keep running. I have breakfast waiting for me at home, and my daughter should be waking up soon. It was a pleasure to meet you, Bea," Frederick said, smiled, and waved his hand. "I'd shake your hand, but I'm a little sweaty."
"No problems, and hope to see you again!" I said, as the man started jogging away. I didn’t stop looking at him until he disappeared from view.
I was actually somewhat sad to see him run away. Ideally I should have met him while not dressed as a woman. He could have made a good friend, I think. But as I am not a woman I can't allow myself to see him ever again. Too much to explain if he catches wearing men’s clothing. I was going to have to start avoiding my backyard again. Maybe I could meet him at some point in the future, and explain that the woman he saw was my cousin.
“But, he was an... an interesting man,” I said to myself as I wandered back indoors.
***
The rest of the day I spent feeling less manic than I had last weekend. I took the time to order the breast forms from that website, along with a few other objects that I thought would make my feminine illusion look more convincing, and the site said it would arrive sometime next week. Really, I was going to need quite the big stash to hide away from Mary now. Perhaps I should just buy a whole apartment for my female persona.
But I also couldn't help but thinking about that man. He had no idea that I wasn't a woman. Maybe he was just too polite to mention it, but we had talked just like any two neighbours would talk to each other. He could be so progressively minded that he finds the sight of a crossdressing man to be a not at all rare occurrence. But that seemed unlikely. I know how to reason, and I know that you should always rely on the most likely explanation. And that is that he thought I was a woman. I felt my little penis twitch at that. I had passed.
I know that I had backed out the last weekend when I started touching myself, but did I really have to feel so guilty about it? I looked down at my feminized body. I was dressed in pants today. They were quite different from the kind of trousers that I wear when pretending to be a a real man. First of all, the legs end just above the ankle, exposing a fair bit of my smooth skin, and they also lack pockets. The zipper, rather than located in the front (where the person wearing the pants is theoretically supposed to have no penis) is instead located on the side, by the hip. With them I am wearing a pair of black flats, that are quite inconspicuous, and a long-sleeved sweater. But too keep me warm I've also draped myself in a long shawl. In effect I had quite the feminine look, but also nothing particularly grandiose. After all, I was dressing for my own comfort, not to appeal to a man. Though, as I had a full layer of make-up on my face I suppose I couldn’t say that I was entirely dressed for comfort.
As I walked around the house I noticed how I aroused I was getting. I had gotten a little excited earlier, and now I couldn’t stop my little penis from squirting its juices into my sanitary napkin. I felt… ‘moist’ down there. But at the same time, it felt different. It was a whole body thing. Like as if I felt hot, but at the same time I didn’t feel warm. I felt like licking my lips and touching myself. I rubbed my arms together, and I thought about being with somebody.
Me and Mary often took turns on who got to be the big spoon when we cuddled. At first I would always be the one holding her, because I thought that was the role for me as a man, but as we were about the same size, there wasn't any obvious reason why we should arrange it that way. Soon Mary started cuddling me, the way I had cuddled her, and although it was not the most masculine position that I found myself in, I still enjoyed it. And Mary didn't seem to have any problem with any position, so, most of the time when we cuddled she would take the typical male position. Just another example of how even before dressing up, I hadn’t exactly lived the most masculine of lives.
In the end, now that I was feeling that strange new arousal all over my body and I started fantasising about being with someone else, I wasn't fantasising about touching them, I was fantasising about being touched. I started imagining myself lying in bed, and having someone slowly undressing me. They would pull the clothes gently from my body, letting the fabrics slide against my soft skin, and then they would kiss my now exposed body. They would not let me see them, and if I opened my eyes they would make me hurt by pinching me or—even worse—treating my clothes with disrespect! The utter inhumanity!
I had never had that much of an interest in being 'punished' in a sexual setting before, but now I found the idea fascinating. Sure, Mary had always been the dominant one when we had sex, she told me what she wanted and if I was lucky she'd give me something in return, but I never felt like as if she treated me like I was a piece of meat. The thing is... now I found the idea of being treated just like somebody's plaything oddly arousing.
***
That evening I lay in bed, having picked out lingerie that I thought would especially suit me. I didn't bothered stuffing my bra, as I wanted to make sure that I could touch myself freely without having another boob disaster. I also made sure not to put a sanitary napkin in my panties, because I was willing to soil this pair, in the name of a great orgasm. I was gonna get hot and sweaty no matter what and I would be willing to spend a long time washing each garment by hand. No matter how embarrassing it would be. Now I was going to allow myself to touch myself dressed as a woman.
I let my right hand take initiative. I started by placing it between my two breasts. I had put on a rather flimsy bra, without an underwire, to make access easier. I moved my fingers underneath the fabric to feel my nipples. I had noticed them getting more sensitive from wearing the clothes that I was wearing. The action of keeping them safe underneath lingerie must have had that effect. In any case, when my fingers approached, I could sense that they were erect. They poked out like... Well, like my penis no longer did. And the feeling was electrifying when I touched them.
Likewise, when my left hand searched other parts of my body I was feeling the electrifying sensation all over the place. It was almost like as if I was loaded with static electricity. Even as I had shaved my body, I felt some of the little hairs left on my belly and my thighs rise as I caressed my body. When I pinched my nipple I almost audibly gasped, and then I grabbed my thigh. I grabbed my thigh so hard that my nails almost pierced my skin. I had to be careful now that my fingernails were growing longer.
As I closed my eyes I tried to let go of any visual stimulation. I also wanted to let go of my hearing, my taste and every other sense that the feeling I got from my skin and from my fingertips. I found that sensory deprivation was something that I could find very, very, pleasurable indeed. It was important for me that the room was entirely dark before I started touching myself. The only noise that I could hear was my own breathing, and I heard it getting more and more intense.
When my right hand finished fondling my disappointingly flat chest and moved down to touch the fabric of my panties I nearly spasmed with delight. I had occasionally when I was a horny teenager experienced sexual pleasure without touching myself. When I had gone a week or more without being able to touch myself I would get so horny that the mere idea of touching myself would be exciting. I felt that now. Even without my hand on top of my panties I felt the surge of pleasure run through me. I could orgasm from just thinking about it.
But I tried to restrain myself, and I allowed my right hand's fingers to explore the lace of my underwear. I enjoyed the sensation of touching the material, the sleekness and the softness. This is not what male underwear feels like, only a woman would wear this. And this was a woman that was in heat. A woman ready to be taken by her lover who would bring her to climax. I wasn't a man, I couldn't be a man. Not when this was the greatest sexual pleasure I had ever felt.
I placed two of my fingers right on the tip of my small penis hidden underneath the layer of fabric. In my mental imagine I pictured it like a woman's clitoris. The skin that had remained from tucking my testicles was like her labia. As my penis did not get erect within its lingerie prison, it only poked out about as much as a clit would, which helped to fuel the fantasy.
With the few fingers I had placed on top of it I began to make circling motions. I was careful not to touch myself in such a way that would be too similar to the way a man would. This is why I limited the number of fingers I was allowed to use. Only two fingers. But the faster I rubbed the faster I began panting. I almost became worried that a neighbour might hear, but I couldn't possibly moan that loudly. If I did, then that would be some kind of world record for loudest orgasm. And gosh, would it be humiliating having to accept it.
I moved my left hand towards my mouth, placing the fingers inside of mouth, and I found myself instinctively sucking on them. It felt good licking them, and I suppose I had an expert tongue for pleasing as I had used it so many times when having sex with Mary. But most of attention still went to my right hand. It was the right hand that was touching my newfound clit. I no longer saw it as being as useless as I had, in the past.
It really should have alerted me that I really could not get my penis erect. Sure, I had the panties on, but they were only made of cloth. It was hardly like as if I had a chastity belt on. But my penis just remained small and limp as always, barely making a dent on the flat front of the lingerie. I decided to move my hand underneath the panties, where I would feel my demure clit surrounded by my pubic hair. With two fingers touched the skin that I now mentally viewed as my pussy lips, and with the third finger I focused on keeping my clit stimulated. My legs spread wide and so did my mouth. There was a hole inside me and it was about to get filled.
"Take me," I whispered to no-one.
At that moment I felt myself squirt and I moaned out loud. My legs shivered and shook as I felt the orgasm hit my entire body in waves. I pressed my clit further against my body, giving it absolutely no opportunity to rise to attention, and didn't. It stayed limp, even as my climax reached its peak. It wasn't a penis, it was a clit. I knew that now. I should always have masturbated like a woman.
As the orgasm passed I continued to breathe heavily. I could sense the tiredness reach me now, and I let my left hand rest limply by my side. My legs to fell down, as I noticed I had placed them high and wide during the orgasm. I realised that in that moment I had more than anything wanted to be entered. To be penetrated. To have something inside of me. That did frighten me. Was I going down a path I would regret? But if I was going to be a woman, then maybe that shouldn't let that shock me. It was perfectly normal for a horny woman to want that. And I was just a normal woman, at that moment.
I placed my right hand, without even thinking, in my mouth and started licking it clean. It tasted like Mary had tasted. It tasted like a pussy.
***
The next morning as I drank my cup of coffee and took my women's vitamin pill I saw him again, jogging by my backyard. As I avoided sitting on the porch he did not see me, but I saw him through the window. He was wearing a similar outfit to what he wore yesterday, and although it would have looked corny on any other man, he frankly pulled it off. And besides, he looked like a confident man. Someone who wouldn't care whether or not something he wore looked good or not. He wasn't like me, always conscious of what I wore.
I felt peace that morning. Just as I felt previous mornings but now it was even more intense. The coffee tasted good, the air felt good and the morning stillness was all I wanted. This had been a good weekend. I was looking forward to the next.
End of chapter two
At the end of picking out my outfit I realised just how natural this all seemed to me. Whenever I would buy clothes for my wife I would find myself getting annoyed when she would dress up in ways that looked, well, simply wrong. I had bought the clothes with a clear idea of how each outfit should look, but she just grabbed garments at seemingly random with no sense of cohesion or style. Always a complete mismatch! And no sense what colours go together! Everything clashed, and if it wasn’t for my near-saintly patience, then I would want rush in and completely scold her for being so bad at being a woman! I would make a better woman than her, and... well I suppose that is what I am proving to myself right now. That I am better at dressing like a woman than my wife.
I turned to the mirror and marvelled at my appearance. I looked so feminine, but in a mature way. Like as if I was a female academic about to hold a lecture about history... maybe the history of art. All I needed was a pair of glasses and I'd get into that role so easily. I struck a pose and held my hand out like as if pointing at a blackboard, but to my horror I saw one of my breasts collapse. I tried reaching inside of the dress to fix this dreaded disaster, but I found that the socks that I had used to emulate a mammary gland had managed to escape the confines of the bra and lay on the floor underneath me. If I had been a real woman and my breast had just done that, then I would be horrified. But now I started thinking that I should find some place online that sells false breasts. I admit that I had looked up a website during the week, but I had chickened out before seeing their 'wares.' Now I felt as if it was probably the best idea if I was going to continue this hobby. No respectable woman should have to rely on socks.
***
After sorting out the disaster with the escapee breast I entered the kitchen. I had spent so much time enjoying applying make-up and picking out the right dress that it was getting rather late in the evening. But no worry, I did not need to get up early in the morning and now I really wanted to spoil the female side of me. I knew exactly how I was going to spend the next few hours.
I had earlier in the week looked up a list of what was supposed to be the 'women’s top 25 favourite films.' It seemed like one of those cheesy lists websites pump out nowadays for clicks, but it had a few films in there that I thought I should watch, just to completely immerse myself in womanhood. These were movies that every woman had seen, and how could I consider myself to be one if I hadn't? It would be like for a man to not have seen Braveheart or Reservoir Dogs. Even men who don’t like those films have at some point been forced to watch them, it’s how these things work.
The films I picked from the list were 'Bridget Jones Diary,' 'The Devil Wears Prada' and 'The Notebook.' And sure, maybe it is stereotyping to say that all women only want to watch a certain kind of movie, but I wasn't interested in transgressing gender roles at this moment. I just wanted to indulge. Maybe I could get to be a stereotype for just this one evening.
With me I had three bottles of wine. A sparkling white wine, because I enjoyed those, but also a regular bottle of non-sparkling white wine. And I had also bought a bottle of rosé. Was there a more feminine drink than that? I didn't care that it might make me seem like a lush. I never used to drink this much without Mary, and now I wanted to do whatever I wanted to do, without her. And what I wanted to do was to drink wine and watch Meryl Streep be a great actress. I also had some chocolate, and I’m embarrassed to say I bought the chocolate specifically because the package said it was ‘made for a woman’s taste.’ Well, now I was a woman, so this chocolate was mine.
***
Somehow I awoke the next day not feeling all that hungover. But I did fall asleep in the sofa. Still, it wasn't a bad night's sleep, not at all. I felt quite rested. The only thing I can remember dreaming about was clothes. Partly because I saved The Devil Wears Prada 'till last.
As I stretched and walked towards the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker I gazed out the window. I hadn't been out in the backyard for a long time and it looked sad and abandoned. But I wasn't much inclined to prod around in the garden, and thankfully we had no nosy neighbours around that would fill my mailbox with angry notes for not mowing the lawn often enough. The backyard was also located in a secluded area, with neighbours to the sides but none directly opposite. Instead there was a small little forest. One of the things that appealed to me and Mary when we first got this house (and when she was still acting like she lived her) was that rather than feeling lost in a massive suburban landscape, this neighbourhood was built up around a small bit of forest. We imagined ourselves going for walks around the trees, but that turned out to be less than a realistic goal. I imagine most of our neighbours felt the same. Walking down a forested path isn't as fun as you first might think.
I nevertheless thought that as a woman, I might enjoy a little bit of fresh air. I couldn't get it by walking out the front door, as that would pose too much of a risk. But with the backyard, being so secluded, there wouldn't nearly be as much risk of being spotted. Maybe I should just take my coffee out on the porch today. It is a spring day and it is not so cold. I could just wrap my cardigan around me... Oh, and I must not fall asleep wearing regular clothes again! I have a nightie for that.
As I was about to grab my cup of coffee and take my morning vitamin supplement I noticed that I had none left. It wasn't so bad, it wasn't like actual medication, but it made me surprised because I was typically so aware of when I needed to buy new ones. It must have slipped my mind. But then I saw, next to where I kept my pills, there was Mary's bottle. She also likes to take vitamin supplements, but they are specifically labelled as ‘being for women.’ Though, that can hardly mean anything, can it? It must just be branding, like with the chocolate. And with the way that I am dressed right now it might be a good thing. If I dress like a woman, then I should take a woman's vitamins. Nothing about that logic seemed wrong.
***
As I stepped out on the porch I almost regretted my decision. It wasn't too cold, but it certainly wasn't like summer. The sun was shining, but in my experience, sunshine does not always mean warmth. Still, the air was nice and I enjoyed getting to sit outdoors in this outfit. I don't know why that meant so much to me, but it was a sign that this new persona of mine, which was developing its own views of the world, wasn't confined to the indoors.
As I sipped on the coffee I looked at the leaves gently playing in the wind. I heard the birds singing, and I saw a little squirrel climb a tree. I truly enjoyed myself here. I didn't need to go out exploring the world like Mary. I liked being in a place, getting to be a part of this particular small bit of nature and just enjoy it. I wanted sameness, and that was something Mary could never understand. It was lucky that I did not believe people had to be alike to love each other. I think a relationship is about complimenting somebody else, to have strengths where the other person has faults. And in that sense, I suppose there was a reason for me and Mary to be a couple.
I put the cup on the table and stretched a little. I wondered what kind of outfit I would put together today. As I let my mind wander I saw him. Walking through the forest, clad in what looked a mix of wilderness survival gear and a regular fitness outfit, he passed by my backyard. He noticed me, took a break from his jogging, and waved.
"Hi neighbour," he said, while catching his breath. "You're out early."
I was completely caught off guard. In all my years of living here I had never seen a person walk around that bit of forest. I knew there was a path there, and it wasn't exactly like as if you weren't allowed to take it, but no-one ever did. I was sure that this would be a private morning for myself to enjoy. I didn't know what to say, but my mouth seemed to open itself as if to take over from my overactive brain.
"Oh, yes," I said. "I wanted to enjoy my morning cup of coffee with some fresh air."
"That is good!" he said. "Many people around here just seem to be holed up in their homes all day. They don't know how healthy it is just to take a jog through the forest."
He was close enough to me so he really didn't need to raise his voice to speak to me. I guess that is why he stuck around and didn't feel like he was invading my privacy. But I suppose he was just being neighbourly. It was natural for one neighbour to introduce himself if he saw someone he hadn’t seen before.
"No..." I mentioned. "I've actually never seen anyone take a jog through that bit of forest. I think you're the first."
"Well, I am new here so maybe I didn't catch the memo," he said. "My name's Frederick Nielsen."
With him having told me his name I felt obliged to walk up and shake his hand. I had not been prepared for this, and now I regret not immediately running indoors the moment I saw him. I was completely terrified. What if he saw through my disguise? What if he figured out that I was a man? Would he call me a pervert? Even worse, what if he didn't?
"Hi, my name is... Bernice," I said, while cringing at the uncreative choice of name. "But you can call me, uhm, Bea."
"Hello Bea," Frederick said, with a wide smile.
When I saw him up close I noticed how near-sickeningly handsome he was. Not in a clichéd Hollywood way, but in a rather rugged and real-life sense. Like as if he had been hewed straight from a block of granite. The top of his head was covered in sun bleached blond hair that was perfectly wavy, yet looked unstyled. With his dark blue eyes I got the immediate impression of a Norseman. Then I realised that as his name ends with -sen, that he must have some Scandinavian heritage. Typical, all of them Nordic folks always look so handsome.
"You have a nice backyard," he said. "So many people here spend too much time on theirs. They all make it look so artificial. They cut the grass too often, and they spend all their time trimming the bushes. I like it when you let things grow. I like the sight of wild growth."
"Hah, thanks, but... I think this comes down more to neglect than any real intentional thought," I said. "So where do you live?"
I was hoping he would say that he lived several miles from here and that he wasn't actually a neighbour but some visiting wild man that I would never have a chance to run into ever again. But then I knew the odds of that would be low.
"Oh, I don't live exactly next doors to you, but I have one of the houses along this path. Just a couple of minutes away. There's me and my daughter, she's six, and, well, we’re new here," he said.
"Oh, you're a father? What about your daughter's mother?" I asked. I don't know why, it just slipped out.
"Oh, she's not... she's not really in the picture any more," he said and looked a little glum. "It's just me and my daughter. And I do my best to raise her, even if being a single father can be tough. But I do love her.”
For as much as I wanted to get rid off this encroaching man, I was now getting intrigued. I blamed my own complex from growing up with my terrible dad. I couldn't help but like men who were good fathers. It was what I wanted to be. I knew that if you were a good parent you were a good person.
"Ah, I've gotta keep running. I have breakfast waiting for me at home, and my daughter should be waking up soon. It was a pleasure to meet you, Bea," Frederick said, smiled, and waved his hand. "I'd shake your hand, but I'm a little sweaty."
"No problems, and hope to see you again!" I said, as the man started jogging away. I didn’t stop looking at him until he disappeared from view.
I was actually somewhat sad to see him run away. Ideally I should have met him while not dressed as a woman. He could have made a good friend, I think. But as I am not a woman I can't allow myself to see him ever again. Too much to explain if he catches wearing men’s clothing. I was going to have to start avoiding my backyard again. Maybe I could meet him at some point in the future, and explain that the woman he saw was my cousin.
“But, he was an... an interesting man,” I said to myself as I wandered back indoors.
***
The rest of the day I spent feeling less manic than I had last weekend. I took the time to order the breast forms from that website, along with a few other objects that I thought would make my feminine illusion look more convincing, and the site said it would arrive sometime next week. Really, I was going to need quite the big stash to hide away from Mary now. Perhaps I should just buy a whole apartment for my female persona.
But I also couldn't help but thinking about that man. He had no idea that I wasn't a woman. Maybe he was just too polite to mention it, but we had talked just like any two neighbours would talk to each other. He could be so progressively minded that he finds the sight of a crossdressing man to be a not at all rare occurrence. But that seemed unlikely. I know how to reason, and I know that you should always rely on the most likely explanation. And that is that he thought I was a woman. I felt my little penis twitch at that. I had passed.
I know that I had backed out the last weekend when I started touching myself, but did I really have to feel so guilty about it? I looked down at my feminized body. I was dressed in pants today. They were quite different from the kind of trousers that I wear when pretending to be a a real man. First of all, the legs end just above the ankle, exposing a fair bit of my smooth skin, and they also lack pockets. The zipper, rather than located in the front (where the person wearing the pants is theoretically supposed to have no penis) is instead located on the side, by the hip. With them I am wearing a pair of black flats, that are quite inconspicuous, and a long-sleeved sweater. But too keep me warm I've also draped myself in a long shawl. In effect I had quite the feminine look, but also nothing particularly grandiose. After all, I was dressing for my own comfort, not to appeal to a man. Though, as I had a full layer of make-up on my face I suppose I couldn’t say that I was entirely dressed for comfort.
As I walked around the house I noticed how I aroused I was getting. I had gotten a little excited earlier, and now I couldn’t stop my little penis from squirting its juices into my sanitary napkin. I felt… ‘moist’ down there. But at the same time, it felt different. It was a whole body thing. Like as if I felt hot, but at the same time I didn’t feel warm. I felt like licking my lips and touching myself. I rubbed my arms together, and I thought about being with somebody.
Me and Mary often took turns on who got to be the big spoon when we cuddled. At first I would always be the one holding her, because I thought that was the role for me as a man, but as we were about the same size, there wasn't any obvious reason why we should arrange it that way. Soon Mary started cuddling me, the way I had cuddled her, and although it was not the most masculine position that I found myself in, I still enjoyed it. And Mary didn't seem to have any problem with any position, so, most of the time when we cuddled she would take the typical male position. Just another example of how even before dressing up, I hadn’t exactly lived the most masculine of lives.
In the end, now that I was feeling that strange new arousal all over my body and I started fantasising about being with someone else, I wasn't fantasising about touching them, I was fantasising about being touched. I started imagining myself lying in bed, and having someone slowly undressing me. They would pull the clothes gently from my body, letting the fabrics slide against my soft skin, and then they would kiss my now exposed body. They would not let me see them, and if I opened my eyes they would make me hurt by pinching me or—even worse—treating my clothes with disrespect! The utter inhumanity!
I had never had that much of an interest in being 'punished' in a sexual setting before, but now I found the idea fascinating. Sure, Mary had always been the dominant one when we had sex, she told me what she wanted and if I was lucky she'd give me something in return, but I never felt like as if she treated me like I was a piece of meat. The thing is... now I found the idea of being treated just like somebody's plaything oddly arousing.
***
That evening I lay in bed, having picked out lingerie that I thought would especially suit me. I didn't bothered stuffing my bra, as I wanted to make sure that I could touch myself freely without having another boob disaster. I also made sure not to put a sanitary napkin in my panties, because I was willing to soil this pair, in the name of a great orgasm. I was gonna get hot and sweaty no matter what and I would be willing to spend a long time washing each garment by hand. No matter how embarrassing it would be. Now I was going to allow myself to touch myself dressed as a woman.
I let my right hand take initiative. I started by placing it between my two breasts. I had put on a rather flimsy bra, without an underwire, to make access easier. I moved my fingers underneath the fabric to feel my nipples. I had noticed them getting more sensitive from wearing the clothes that I was wearing. The action of keeping them safe underneath lingerie must have had that effect. In any case, when my fingers approached, I could sense that they were erect. They poked out like... Well, like my penis no longer did. And the feeling was electrifying when I touched them.
Likewise, when my left hand searched other parts of my body I was feeling the electrifying sensation all over the place. It was almost like as if I was loaded with static electricity. Even as I had shaved my body, I felt some of the little hairs left on my belly and my thighs rise as I caressed my body. When I pinched my nipple I almost audibly gasped, and then I grabbed my thigh. I grabbed my thigh so hard that my nails almost pierced my skin. I had to be careful now that my fingernails were growing longer.
As I closed my eyes I tried to let go of any visual stimulation. I also wanted to let go of my hearing, my taste and every other sense that the feeling I got from my skin and from my fingertips. I found that sensory deprivation was something that I could find very, very, pleasurable indeed. It was important for me that the room was entirely dark before I started touching myself. The only noise that I could hear was my own breathing, and I heard it getting more and more intense.
When my right hand finished fondling my disappointingly flat chest and moved down to touch the fabric of my panties I nearly spasmed with delight. I had occasionally when I was a horny teenager experienced sexual pleasure without touching myself. When I had gone a week or more without being able to touch myself I would get so horny that the mere idea of touching myself would be exciting. I felt that now. Even without my hand on top of my panties I felt the surge of pleasure run through me. I could orgasm from just thinking about it.
But I tried to restrain myself, and I allowed my right hand's fingers to explore the lace of my underwear. I enjoyed the sensation of touching the material, the sleekness and the softness. This is not what male underwear feels like, only a woman would wear this. And this was a woman that was in heat. A woman ready to be taken by her lover who would bring her to climax. I wasn't a man, I couldn't be a man. Not when this was the greatest sexual pleasure I had ever felt.
I placed two of my fingers right on the tip of my small penis hidden underneath the layer of fabric. In my mental imagine I pictured it like a woman's clitoris. The skin that had remained from tucking my testicles was like her labia. As my penis did not get erect within its lingerie prison, it only poked out about as much as a clit would, which helped to fuel the fantasy.
With the few fingers I had placed on top of it I began to make circling motions. I was careful not to touch myself in such a way that would be too similar to the way a man would. This is why I limited the number of fingers I was allowed to use. Only two fingers. But the faster I rubbed the faster I began panting. I almost became worried that a neighbour might hear, but I couldn't possibly moan that loudly. If I did, then that would be some kind of world record for loudest orgasm. And gosh, would it be humiliating having to accept it.
I moved my left hand towards my mouth, placing the fingers inside of mouth, and I found myself instinctively sucking on them. It felt good licking them, and I suppose I had an expert tongue for pleasing as I had used it so many times when having sex with Mary. But most of attention still went to my right hand. It was the right hand that was touching my newfound clit. I no longer saw it as being as useless as I had, in the past.
It really should have alerted me that I really could not get my penis erect. Sure, I had the panties on, but they were only made of cloth. It was hardly like as if I had a chastity belt on. But my penis just remained small and limp as always, barely making a dent on the flat front of the lingerie. I decided to move my hand underneath the panties, where I would feel my demure clit surrounded by my pubic hair. With two fingers touched the skin that I now mentally viewed as my pussy lips, and with the third finger I focused on keeping my clit stimulated. My legs spread wide and so did my mouth. There was a hole inside me and it was about to get filled.
"Take me," I whispered to no-one.
At that moment I felt myself squirt and I moaned out loud. My legs shivered and shook as I felt the orgasm hit my entire body in waves. I pressed my clit further against my body, giving it absolutely no opportunity to rise to attention, and didn't. It stayed limp, even as my climax reached its peak. It wasn't a penis, it was a clit. I knew that now. I should always have masturbated like a woman.
As the orgasm passed I continued to breathe heavily. I could sense the tiredness reach me now, and I let my left hand rest limply by my side. My legs to fell down, as I noticed I had placed them high and wide during the orgasm. I realised that in that moment I had more than anything wanted to be entered. To be penetrated. To have something inside of me. That did frighten me. Was I going down a path I would regret? But if I was going to be a woman, then maybe that shouldn't let that shock me. It was perfectly normal for a horny woman to want that. And I was just a normal woman, at that moment.
I placed my right hand, without even thinking, in my mouth and started licking it clean. It tasted like Mary had tasted. It tasted like a pussy.
***
The next morning as I drank my cup of coffee and took my women's vitamin pill I saw him again, jogging by my backyard. As I avoided sitting on the porch he did not see me, but I saw him through the window. He was wearing a similar outfit to what he wore yesterday, and although it would have looked corny on any other man, he frankly pulled it off. And besides, he looked like a confident man. Someone who wouldn't care whether or not something he wore looked good or not. He wasn't like me, always conscious of what I wore.
I felt peace that morning. Just as I felt previous mornings but now it was even more intense. The coffee tasted good, the air felt good and the morning stillness was all I wanted. This had been a good weekend. I was looking forward to the next.
End of chapter two
That was really good and well worth the wait. Hope our protagonist gets to experience that feminity with someone else soon
ReplyDeleteProgressing nicely as a person "crossing the fence" to the greener grass. The psycology you explain better than any other I have read . Continue the fantasy.
ReplyDelete