He promised I'd crave more...
He’d made the offer before.
When I’d told him that I had a feminine side but didn’t think exploring
it was worth it. He said he could make my
feminine side shine and that I’d crave more and more. At the time I refused. Everything I had would be put into jeopardy from
my job to my friends to my family and the thought of losing any or all of that
wasn’t justified by simply exploring what ultimately was just a fantasy. But after
the pandemic took my job, after it separated me from everybody I knew and
loved, after it took my life and shook it up, I figured I had nothing to
lose.
He started simply enough.
I have no idea how he learned all of this stuff, but after a day in his
lavish apartment he had me looking so feminine and cute. A wig expertly weaved into my hair, makeup
perfectly applied, fake nails glued on and painted. For the very first time, looking at her. At the feminine me. And he was right. I craved more.
The next weekend went faster and he had me looking feminine
and pretty by noon. The afternoon was
spent dressing me. Like his skills, I had no idea where he got the wardrobe but
he had me put on a full fashion show for him.
The padded bra, mini corset, and gaff remained the same with each outfit
as they gave me the shape I lacked, but on top of those I tried it all on. Long full skirts got shorter and tighter with
each outfit. Flats became heels became
stilettos. Tops started loose and form
hiding but became tight and form hugging.
Hats and gloves. Panties and
garters. Stockings and jewelry. I had every girls dream of being a model fulfilled.
Each weekend progressed with more while building off what he’d
already done. One weekend we worked on movements. Walking, sitting, standing, laying. I’d work on my body positions and how I’d simply
hold my hands. One weekend we worked on voice. Not just tone but vocabulary, loudness, pitch,
rate of speech, and phonation. Another
weekend we worked on body hair. Shaving,
waxing, and that finally laser removal.
My face would forever be baby smooth.
His mysterious ways continued as one Saturday morning we talked about
breasts and implants, and as soon as I agreed I had surgery and was in recovery
by Sunday afternoon.
My hair and nails grew.
My voice became more natural. My
diet dropped my weight and the hormones gave me curves of my own. The more feminine I became, the more amorous
he was. Once I nervously agreed, we
spent an entire weekend kissing and touching each other. The first morning I was all nerves and
shaking. The second evening I was
aroused and arousing.
I don’t know when the realization hit me, but it made sense
on such a fundamental layer. He wasn’t
make me into the perfect feminine version of myself. He was making me into the perfect woman for
him. But he had always been right. I now craved this and couldn’t stop. By the time the quarantines started lifting
and the world started returning to normal, I no longer cared about resuming my
male life. I only cared becoming the
perfect woman. His? Mine? That
detail was unimportant.
I thought I’d be a lesbian, but the kissing weekend educated
me otherwise. When I told him I was bisexual
I thought he’d be excited, but he put that theory to the test. An entire weekend of watching soft romantic
porn of every stripe with me imagining myself as every character was eye
opening. I never felt right imagining
myself as the man. That was the past and
that was wrong. When two lovely women
were together it felt better, but still not right. Only when the woman… when I… was being made
love to by a man did it feel right. I
ended that night with my hand wrapped around his manhood, nervously putting my
new sexuality to the test. And while the
result scared me and felt like a big a change as my gender, he was ultimately
right. I craved more.
The next weekend he said he’d take me well past being nervous. That he’d obliterate any feeling of newness
to this sexuality. And like his
knowledge and his wardrobe and his tools and makeup and feminine porn, I
wondered where he got his virility.
Maybe it was chemical. Maybe he
had drugs that kept him hard for me. But ultimately, I think it was just him,
his maleness reacting to my femininity.
The first time was nerve wracking and I cried with the realization I was
now a cock sucker. The second time was
better and I could smile afterward. Each
time I wrapped my lips around his hardness, he took it further and taught me
all about the art of fellatio. After
several times finishing off into some Kleenex, he eventually came on me. On my pert bouncy breasts. Then my neck, giving me a pearl
necklace. Then my face. Then my tongue where I could politely spit it
out. Then my mouth where I could swallow
it down. And eventually directly down my
throat where he literally fed me his seed.
By the strike of midnight on Sunday I knew his manhood better than I’d
ever known mine.
Through all of this transformation I never said no. Sometimes he had to convince me to go forward
but ultimately I willingly did everything he asked. Until he talked about sex. About entering me and making love to me. I don’t know why exactly, but I wasn’t ready
for that and said no many times that weekend.
He could have easily overpowered my decision-making ability. He could have easily physically forced himself
on me. And I’m sure that afterward I’d
have been appreciative of him helping me past my boundary. But he didn’t. He let me choose when I was ready for that step. Instead, we put everything together and worked
on going out. Being seen as a woman, as
his woman, wasn’t as much of a shock as I thought it would be. We had drinks, we had a romantic dinner, we
watched a show, we took a carriage ride through the park. I thanked him by using my new oral skills
and he was appreciative. It was the
first night we slept together… just a him and me sleeping in a bed, my head on
his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around me.
My second denial to him was for the reassignment
surgery. My penis had been useless for
months at this point and was just an obstacle to go through when dressing. It was the last physical step to take. This time when I said no, however, I had a
strong enough reason that he didn’t argue.
I couldn’t be a physical woman until I was mentally ready, and that last
wall to tear down was making love.
Physical love. And I still wasn’t
ready for that.
Not being ready for that last step didn’t mean we were idle.
It felt almost silly after the intimate
time we’d shared over the last year, but we dated. He’d take me out and always made me feel
special. I could show my love for him
with my lips and tongue. And while he
couldn’t make me climax in a similar manner, he kissed and touched and worshiped
my body and made me feel loved and special and occasionally even made me orgasm
just from that.
I’m not sure what changed my mind, but when I felt ready I
wanted to make it really special. On the
night he invited me to move in with him I pulled out all the stops. I made him a romantic candle lit dinner. I put on music for us to dance to. And when I was as ready as I’d ever be, I
guided him into the bedroom where I’d laid out rose petals all over his… over
our… bed. He took his time and made me
feel so loved and special and when he finally entered me I knew that everything
in the world was right. The pain of
losing my second to last virginity was brief but meaningful. It was the pain of my past finally going
away. And when I screamed out in ecstasy
brought on by my man emptying himself deep inside of me, I knew the future was
going to be bright and full of love. I
knew that because I craved it, just like he’d promised me.
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