Half Man More Women - Part 2

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PART - 1 

Then a month or so that followed my return home and getting back into the routine of work, etc, was also a time of acclimatization to my new circumstances. I had to get used to using the men’s room only by going into one of the stalls so I could sit down to take a leak. 

I had to get out and buy more panties since the few times, I tried wearing my old underwear was less than satisfactory.  

I had my first period and beyond some slight cramping and the mess, it really wasn’t all that bad. Knowing I’ll be having them for many years to come is much harder to get used to than actually going through the five or six days they take to complete. 

Per Carol’s orders when I left her care, I had to use pads for this first month’s cycle, after I’m fully released from post-op care, I plan to try tampons to see if they’re any easier to deal with. The month has passed with nothing but the quickie showers and I’m going to take my first real bath tonight after nothing but showers and sponge baths, which just doesn’t get it.   

In spite of my desire to shave me down there, I have to wait until I’m released to do it.   

My appointment’s tomorrow so I just might do it then after I get home.

The next morning’s a Saturday because I still work and my Gynecologist doesn’t keep hours after 5:00 PM, my appointment’s at 9:30 this morning. 

In one way I’m looking forward to it if only to get it over with and get my release while on another level, I’m scared to death. This will be, after all, my first time in an OB/GYN’s office and my first GYN exam outside of the cursory one I got from Dr. Ansely before I left the hospital. 

I know what’s facing me, too, the damned stirrups. Oh well, I tell myself, let’s get dressed and go get it over with. Then I can do what I’ve been waiting to do, go visit that adult bookstore where I can buy some toys.

That I was the only guy seated in the waiting room of the OB/GYN wasn’t surprising, after all, there aren’t very many guys like me who have a pussy that needs to be examined. 

The wait wasn’t so bad, or very embarrassing as I very well might have been a salesman waiting to see the doctor instead of one of her patients. It ended up that the visit itself was far more embarrassing than was the wait, for I 

had to take off my pants and underwear, put on a robe and wait for the doctor. When she finally got to my exam room, she checked over the file she had on me and then told me to get up on the table and into position, placing my feet in the dreaded stirrups. 

Now I know why women so abhor this particular exam, it’s so damned embarrassing to just lie there with your feet in the air and your legs spread apart so some stranger can see that most private part of you, be you a man or a woman. Thankfully, this doctor turned out to be sympathetic to my situation and thus explained step-by-step everything she did to me, including showing me the speculum she was going to use before she actually used it to spread apart and open my pussy for her examination. 

While the use of that thing was my first experience of having anything stuck inside of me, it turned out to be the most unpleasant and least appealing.

When the exam was over and I’d gotten dressed again, I met with her in her office and she told me a bit more about how to care for this particular part of my anatomy, what to watch out for in the way of infections and so on, asked if I thought I would want birth control pills and when I said no, commented by asking if I knew what people called girls who didn’t use them.   

I responded to this old joke by telling her, “Yes, mothers.”    

She laughed and then suggested I be very careful to never let myself get into a situation where I’d regret my decision.   

“Doctor, please understand that while I fully appreciate your concern, I’m not a girl who dates guys, I’m a guy who, through an accident of fate, had to have a complete, working set of female sex organs transplanted to his otherwise fully male body. The only sex I intend to have, now or in the future, is with myself.”    

That pretty much ended my appointment other than making my next one with her receptionist for six months in the future.

Finally free and with a full release from post-op care in my files, I head straight for the adult bookstore where I plan to make a few purchases, then head home. 

Once I find the place and park my car, I get out and head inside, totally unashamedly, and with a growing sense of curiosity and arousal. 

For well over six months now, I’ve intentionally struggled to keep my arousal and excitement in check, putting any such thoughts or feelings away until the time I could fully enjoy them. Today is the day and now to get at the task at hand, choosing the particular toys with which to do just that, get it on with myself.   

Although I have a few things in particular in mind, I also want to browse for anything that might strike my fancy. I’ve done some reading and know that anything I do get will have to be taken home and washed, then sterilized in a solution of bleach before I use it, infections being one of the biggest worries I could have.   

So let’s get to it, I tell myself, as I pass through the door and walk inside.    Before picking any one item up for purchase, I walk up and down along the wall a couple of times first, to get an idea of what is available.   

Finally, I go back and start taking items from the racks, a couple of vibrators, a nice size dildo, a pair of Ben-Wa balls in stainless steel, a vibrating egg with a battery pack one can keep inside one’s panties, and a clitoral clamp I can slide down beside my clit on either side that has attached little weights for the times I go without panties.   

Taking everything up to the counter, I hand the guy behind it my credit card and without expression, he rings me up and hands me the slip to sign while he bags my purchases, never once, I’m sure, expecting that these things are all for my own, personal use.   

Sliding into the car to go home, I again feel that slight dampness between my legs, and this time I do nothing to put the feeling aside, instead luxuriating in it with the full knowledge it’s symptomatic of my feminine-like anticipation and arousal.   

Once I get home, I take everything upstairs to my bedroom where I empty that sack and open all the packages, then undress while looking at everything.    

Totally nude, I take everything into the bathroom where I wash each item carefully, then rinse them off before dipping them into the sink again where I’ve filled it with water and added the bleach to sterilize them.   

 Now for the fun time, the time I’ve had to wait nearly six months to enjoy and experiment with.

In all this time, other than an occasional glance at myself in the mirror or when I was showering or taking a bath, I’ve never once taken a good, close look at myself down there.   

This is about to change as I drop my toys on the bed and pick up a hand mirror I bought just for this purpose, sit on the edge of the bed and part my legs, then hold the mirror so I can see what modern medical science has given me.   I’ve kept myself shaved completely, as you might have guessed and yes, I think that thing between my legs is beautiful.    

I’ve always thought girl’s pussies were pretty little things and now I can include my own in that assessment, too.   

Only if I look closely can I find the scars where it was sewn to me, one on either side right where the crease of my legs join the puffy folds of my outer labia and the very, very thin line from my navel to just above the start of my slit? 

 Otherwise and to the casual look, it’s as natural looking as any real girl would be.   Now to find out how it feels…

Laying down on the bed, I pick up one of the vibrators and begin to use it gently, passing it up and down along either side of my crack but avoiding, for now, that little bud of my clit.   

Almost before I realize it, my world is rocked by the first female orgasm I’ve ever experienced, all without having penetrated me.    

My pussy is really wet when it’s ended, the soft afterglow I find myself fully awash in now understood fully for the first time.    

Picking up the big dildo, I gently, ever so gently, slide it between my swollen lips and on inside of me, feeling it intensely as it spreads me internally and fills me up as I slide it deeper and deeper into the depths of my waiting, wet pussy.   

Oh, my god… this is an incredible… really, really incredible feeling.

The amount of experimentation I engaged in over the weekend was nearly endless and by Sunday evening, I was reaching exhaustion.    

I had, however, come to grips with the entirely new and amazing set of reactions this part of me was capable of experiencing and had, at least in part, come to accept that I was essentially doomed to a life apart from the rest of the world as far as my sex life is concerned.   

On the other hand, if I’m careful and cautious enough, no one will be the wiser about the changes forced on me by the accident I suffered.   

I’ll simply have to avoid situations where other guys might see what I’m wearing under my pants and avoid those times when a guy would be expected to use the john in a public manner, among other guys. 

As time moved its inexorable way forward and life resumed its unrepentant normalcy, the only pleasure I sought beyond the humdrum of work and play was found in my experimentation with panty styles.   Not for wear during the day or while working but at home, alone.    

I tried every style I could find, ranging from tap panties (the girl’s version of men’s boxer shorts) to thong bikinis.    

The former was nice to just lounge around the house while the latter was enjoyable in its own, unique way.    

In a continuing search for new and possibly fun experiences, I tried about everything possible short of wearing women’s clothes around the house.   I even got the bright idea on the way home from work one night to try douching, just to see what it was like.

About six months after I’d come home from the hospital, I happened to remember something Carol had said when I refused to take testosterone replacement pills or injections, 

“Paul, if you don’t, there’s fair the chance that, in time, you’ll start developing secondary female characteristics.   

By this, I mean enlarged nipples and maybe rudimentary breast development, a change in the fat distribution on your body like more fat on your butt, hips, and maybe your things.   

No, you won’t turn into a girl outwardly but there’s also a chance it’ll affect your mental state.   

You might become more emotional, for instance, more feeling.”    

Maybe that’s why my nipples itch so much lately, I think to myself.    

I remember her telling me that all men and all women produce some hormones of the opposite sex naturally and that without my testicles to produce testosterone or taking replacements for it, the Estrogen and Progesterone my body produces naturally, small though the amounts are, added to that which my transplant produces via my ovaries, could have the effect of causing my body to slowly but inexorably feminize itself to match the hormones I’m producing it.   

 It won’t change my basic body structure, my skeletal structure, etc., but it could cause other changes sufficient to give me problems if I’m to continue living as a guy.   

In short, bigger hips and more fat on my ass, and maybe even small breasts.

Well, I think to myself, there’s a wide enough range of body types among men that even if my hips and ass get bigger, my clothes will hide it enough that I can get by. 

Having tits might be the bigger problem if, and only if, they get too big to hide or if I have to start wearing a bra, they’d really be hard to disguise under my clothes.   

Time will tell, I guess, and there’s no sense worrying about it now.    

If it happens that these changes do happen, I’ll deal with them then.

By the time my 31st. Birthday rolled into view on the horizon, and my fears were approaching realization.   

My ass did have an ever-increasing amount of fat building upon it and my hips had gained about an inch around.   But it was my chest that bothered me the most, my nipples were more and more feminine-looking with each passing day, now about an inch and a half in diameter, and the glans themselves thicker and more protuberant and obvious under my shirts.    

So much so that I’ve taken to wearing Band-Aids over them during the day to help hide them.   

But even this isn’t quite enough as the tissue surrounding and beneath them is swollen and starting to fill out so much that I’m considering starting to wrap my chest up with an elastic bandage to help compress the added flesh and make it less obvious.   

One of the women at work has started to notice, I think.   If she talks to the other women or any of the guys, I’ll have to look for a new job.   

I can’t deal with rumors or speculation about me and continue to produce the good works I’m accustomed to putting out. Either that or if the changes become too pronounced, with a new job I might also have to adopt a new lifestyle, too.  

That’s the last thing I want to consider though, having to actually become a woman publicly.    

After all, mentally I am a man, it’s just that physically and through no fault of my own, in everything but my outward appearance I am female.   

 Realizing I might end up facing the inevitable, I resolve to start paying a lot more attention to those aspects of life reserved for girls.   

By this I mean such things as hairstyles, fashion, make,p and so on.   

 I should have plenty of time left before I might have to take such a major step but I might just need all the time I can muster to learn as much as I can.  

 There’s more to it than just those things, too, there’s also the matter of gestures and mannerisms, carry-get, and so on.    

The gulf between how men and women walk and talk is a vast one and if I do have to cross over to their world, I’ll sure as hell want to do so successfully.

Some weeks later, the girl I mentioned earlier when I said I thought she might suspect something about me was out of the ordinary, approached me in the little coffee room at work by sitting down next to me and saying, 

“Paul, I need to talk with you about something.”   

“What, Megan?” I asked.    

“Not here, could we meet after work, say for a drink?”    

“I guess so.   Do you have a place in mind?”    

“Yes, how about Hoolihan’s, over on 98th at Western?”     

“Okay,” I say, “I’ll see you there as soon as we get off work, around 5:30?”    

“5:30 it is, See you then, Paul,” she says, getting up and going on about her business.    

I can’t help but wonder, has she somehow seen through me?    

And if so, what’s she going to say or do?

As luck would have it, even though it looks as though we took different routes to get here, I arrive at Hoolihan’s at the same time as Megan and I’m there to hold the door for her as we enter the place.   

When we were greeted and asked our preference, Megan responded by asking for a booth in the corner in the smoking section.    

Following the hostess to our seats, Megan slides in and pats the seat beside her, asking me to sit by her side rather than opposite her in the booth.   After placing our drink orders, Megan says, 

“Paul, there’s something I really need to discuss with you and it’s actually very embarrassing for me so will you please just bear with me and let me speak my piece?”    

“Sure, Megan,” I answer her, wondering now what this is really all about.   Just as she’s about to say 

something, the server brings our drinks so we both wait till she’s left before resuming.

“Paul, there’s talk about me at work and it’s getting kind of nasty.   The problem is that in one respect what they’re saying is true, but what’s really bad is that there’s nothing I can do about it without betraying myself and who I really am.   

You know how things are, how guys can be single and free to live their lives as they see fit while the women have to conform?   

Well, I’m not a conformist and the word’s getting around.   

You see, Paul, I’m gay and this isn’t condoned in the workaday world and even though I’m damned good at what I do at work, I’m afraid I might be fired.”    

“You’re a…”    

“Yes, Paul, I’m a lesbian.   I don’t want to be and given the choice, I wouldn’t be, but I can’t help what I am.”    

Suddenly feeling safer than I have in the past couple of years with a woman, I find myself blurting out without thinking of what I was saying when the words just came out of me.   

“Megan, that’s okay, neither of us is what we appear to be then.   No, I’m not gay, but like you,  I do have what I would prefer to be kept secret.”   

“Paul, I chose to tell you about me because I felt I could trust you.   You can trust me, too, if there’s anything you want to tell me.”    

Reaching back and into the back pocket of my slacks, I take my wallet out, and from it, remove the letter Dr. Ansely wrote over a year ago that explained what had been done to me and why.    

Saying nothing, I just handed it to Megan to read.

Watching her facial expressions as she reads the letter, I see her move from interest to shock to amazement and finally to near disbelief.   

“Paul, you wrote this, didn’t you?”    

“No Megan, I didn’t.   Look at the letterhead, it’s from the hospital where they did the surgery.”    

“You mean you….uh….you really have a…..”   

Whispering after leaning toward her, I offer the words “A pussy?”    

“Yeah, that,” she says, giggling as her embarrassment shows.   

“Yep, I sure do.”   

Now we’re both whispering and she asks softly, “But it said transplant, does that mean…. Uh…”

“Yeah, I have cycles, too, once a month, just like you and every other girl does.”    

After a few moments of thought, Megan’s face suddenly brightens and she says to me in an excited whisper, 

“Paul, I think I might have an answer to my problem but before I explain it to you, let’s get out of here.”    

Outside, after we’ve finished our drinks and I paid the bill, Megan suggests we go either to her place or mine, saying we really need to talk now and it’s best we do it where no one can overhear us.

Some 45 minutes later, we’re at Megan’s apartment complex, and having parked our cars, I follow her up to her place.   Inside, she kicks off her shoes and tells me to find a seat while she makes a pot of coffee.   

Sitting down across from me on her couch, where I’ve taken a seat, she starts in by saying, 

“Paul, I don’t know how much you know about gay people and I really don’t know a lot either, so I can only speak for myself please let me explain a few things about me and how it’s causing me the problem I mentioned at work, okay?”    

I just nod my head in the affirmative and let her continue talking.   

“You see, I can enjoy the company of men socially like at work, but when it comes to physically, men repulse me.  

Sexually, I’m only attracted to, and can only react to, other women.   

How this affects me at work is this, the social events we’re all expected to attend require an escort or a date, as you know.   

You’re the only guy who never goes to those things and I’ve noticed this, but the girls are expected to attend and I sure as hell can’t bring any of my girlfriends without causing the rumors I don’t want said about me to start up.   

See, in this day and age, anytime a girl asks a guy to take her someplace or to some event, the guy expects a romp in the sack after the event’s over and I just can’t do it.    

So since I can’t take a guy and sure can’t take a girl, I’ve just stayed away and now I’m hearing things that indicate that should I continue to fail to show up, I might get fired.    

Paul, I like my job and I love the work I do.   

You might be the only hope I have to keep my job.”   

“I don’t quite get what you’re telling me, Megan.”    

“Paul, you’re the only guy I could take to one of these affairs who is not really a guy.”   

“Oh, I see.    And you don’t feel threatened by me because I’m unable to do you sexual harm, is that it?”    

“Well, I wouldn’t quite put it like that but yes.   More like your pussy doesn’t threaten mine,” she says giggling.

I have to laugh, too and this releases the tension we’ve both felt since sharing our secrets with each other.    

“Yeah, you’re the only guy I know who can be called a pussy and have it be the truth.” She jokes.   

“You got that right, sister,” I respond, laughing all the more heartily.    

“Oh Paul, do you know what you just said?” she asks, her hand suddenly covering her mouth in that most feminine of gestures.   

“No, what?”   

“Calling me sister.”    

“So?”    

“Paul, we are sisters, in that way.   Stop and think.”    

“Hmm, I guess we are at that, Megan.”    

“Paul?”   

“Megan?” I tease.    

“Would you let me see?”    

“See what?”    

“You know, your… uh… your…”     

“You want to see my pussy?   Is that what you’re asking?”    

“Only if you don’t mind.   If it would bother you, forget I asked.”   

“Megan, for some reason, with you, I wouldn’t mind all that much.   But….”   

“But what?”    

“There’s a condition…”    

“And that condition is?”    

“I’ll show you mine…”    

“If you’ll show me yours?” she 

finishes.    

“You got it,” I say, chuckling.    

“Okay, girlfriend.   Let’s get comfortable then, and out of these damned clothes, she says.    Standing up, she reaches for my hand and says, 

“Come with me, I don’t allow clothes to be strewn about in my living room.”

Once in her bedroom, Megan starts undressing unashamedly and I quickly follow suit, finally relieved to be in a situation where modesty was no longer a problem and I had no fear of being discovered.   

Watching one another closely as we disrobe, I watch Megan’s eyes widen as I unwrap the elastic bandage from around my chest and reveal my development to her widened eyes.    

“Oh shit, Paul, you have little titties, too.”    

“Uh-huh, and I hate having to keep them wrapped up like this so no one will notice them.”    

Down now to the plain pale blue cotton hipsters I’d put on this morning, I peel them down over my widened hip and let them drop to my ankles.    

Bending down to pick them up, I toss them onto the other clothes I’d put across her chair and she gets her first look at my hairless pubes and I can almost see her excitement rising.   

When she also removes her panties and reveals that she too, is hairless, we both giggle and laugh, realizing we’re alike there, too.

“Damn, girl, you’re looking good,” she says, laughing aloud.    

“So are you, Megan, so are you,” I tell her in all honesty.   And she is good-looking with a magnificent figure… full, proud breasts and a wonderfully narrow waist that tapers outward and down to a pair of most gorgeous legs.   

“Oh god, Paul, I can’t believe it, you’re just too beautiful for words.”    

“Nah, I’m just an ordinary guy with a slightly malformed but fully workable deformity.”    

“That may be, but oh baby, I think it and you are beautiful.”   

“You really think so?   You don’t see this thing (pointing to my crotch) as being out of place and a deformity on my male body?”    

“Oh hell no, I think it’s perfect.   And I also think it’s the answer to all my dreams, baby.   

A guy to be with when I have to go places and a lover I can enjoy in bed when the time for that comes around.   

Can’t you see?    We’re the answer to each other’s prayers.   You can’t date or be with most girls and I can’t date or be with men, period.   I bet your only sex life is your hand, right?”    

“Wrong, I have a drawer full of toys at home.” I laughingly answer her.   

“Well, well, I have a drawer full of them here,” she says, giggling again.   

“Oh you do, do you?”

I’m sure I needn’t get into details of how the remainder of the evening was spent; suffice it to say we were both fully sated by the time I had to leave.   

This evening, which served as my introduction to lesbian sex, was one I’ll long remember.   

It being a Wednesday night, our plans to spend the weekend together were a natural outgrowth of the fun we shared and of the times we wish to share that still lay ahead.    

So, too, are our intentions to become a “number” at work as truthful as in real life for we both feel strongly that our fates are intertwined now that we’ve shared our secrets with each other.    

When the weekend in question had come and gone, it was pretty well a surety that we were a couple now, one in which neither partner was dominant emotionally, physically, or sexually.   

We each had our weaknesses and strengths, our likes and dislikes and we both shared a rather vivid set of imaginations when it came to sex.

Megan knew by the time that weekend was over that I feared becoming a woman and so she vowed to teach me all I would need to know and promised that she would support me throughout whatever transition fate may have in store for me.   She even said we’d make a game of it if I wanted to and was willing to play along.  

I asked her what she meant and she’d responded by explaining she’d go with me to buy and help me dress in women’s clothing when we were alone, teach me how to wear and apply makeup, help me pick out a nice wig, and so on.   

She also promised to help me with the mannerisms and such I’d need to relearn if I am going to continue to develop to the point where I have no other choice but to become a woman.   

“You see Paul, it’s not just the clothes and the makeup and stuff that makes the girl, it’s also how she 

thinks and how she carries herself in public.”

As it turned out, my development continued slowly enough that I was able to put this exercise off for 

another three months before it became obvious to both of us that I would have to make the decision soon. You see, my breasts were, by this point, almost a full B-cup with no signs of slowing development.    

Even my gynecologist was telling me I would have to make a decision one way or the other soon, to assume the life of a woman or consider having a double mastectomy. 

At my last appointment, we had gone into her office where she’d asked me about the breast size of the women in my family and I’d had to tell her they were all well-endowed.  She had spoken to Dr. Ansely and with some research on her part, told me the same had been the case for my organ donor and that she had been a large C-cup when she lost her life. 

Thus the decision appeared to have been made for me, by the genes of my family and of my donors.

And so it was that one Saturday morning, Megan and I set off for one of our local malls on my first trip to begin building a wardrobe for me.   

I had no idea what I was getting into with Megan, or what I might end up looking like as a girl, but without her help and encouragement, I would definitely not have to guts to try this alone. 

We’d discussed our plan of attack, so to speak, for today and had agreed to begin with some new lingerie including my first bras, hosiery, and various other needs girls have like slips, etc.   

So we headed into a department store first since I wasn’t at all ready to venture into a store the likes of Victoria’s Secret type yet.   

Megan had taken all my measurements the night before and had me try on a few of her things for fit so she could get an idea of what sizes I’d need in skirts, dresses, slacks, and so on. 

To all outward appearances, therefore, I was simply accompanying her on a shopping trip and wouldn’t have to try anything on myself.

None of this was going to come out of either of our pockets since I’d been in contact with Dr. Ansely and others who had contacted the insurance carrier that had covered all my medical expenses from the accident and had convinced them that they should also cover my new wardrobe.   

Thus, I had in my billfold a specially issued credit card with a no-limit credit line which could only be used for clothing.   

So money wasn’t an object, thank heavens, so whatever I thought I would like was the only criterion I had to follow.

Megan had convinced me, last night, that a girl’s lingerie was what made her feel the most feminine so I should get the most feminine styles we could find, with lace and such and preferably made of nylon, satin, or even silk.   

We looked at everything in the store’s lingerie department too, in detail as she helped and guided me to make the choices I did. In no real hurry to buy everything on this trip, I 

left this store with six bras, a dozen new pairs of panties, a garter belt, two camisoles, and matching half slips, and one full-length slip along as well as four pairs of stockings and a half dozen pairs of good pantyhose.

Next, we went to a ladies' store to look at skirts and dresses along with tops, as Megan called them, anything above the waist she’d explained. Here I found three skirts and five blouses as well as a couple of dresses.   

We also picked up several pairs of shoes in what she said were my size but all with open heels or of a design that would help them fit even if they weren’t quite right for my feet.   Next, we found a wig shop where I bought two different wigs, one with short hair and one with what 

I considered a more normal length for a girl, just beyond shoulder length.

Makeup was going to be one of the biggest problems, since my skin tone was far different than Megan’s and I couldn’t wear hers, even to start with. We would just buy a few basics by guessing until I could come back for analysis and makeover after I’d changed personas.   

In buying the basics, as she called them, we did get some help from a clerk by telling her the person we were buying the stuff for had something close to my skin’s coloring. 

We ended up getting some foundation, blush, eye color and liner, mascara, and several shades of lipstick we could experiment with.    

Then, since Megan’s ears are pierced and mine isn’t yet, we bought a few pairs of clip-on earrings and some other jewelry, all of which were inexpensive but not cheap.  After all of this, we headed back to her place for the grand experiment.   

It was almost time to find out how I might look dressed and made up as a girl.

We did decide to stop for something to eat before we went to Megan’s so we wouldn’t have to take time out once we got started with my makeover. During the time we were at Denny’s, the only decent place in the neighborhood, we spoke only in very couched terms so no one would know what we were discussing.

 Then it was off for the start of my great adventure which is how I’ve decided to look like this.

When we finally got back to Megan’s apartment, she said the first step was for me to go take a hot bubble bath and shave my legs and under my arms.   

Luckily for me in all of this is the fact that I have never had any hair to speak of on my chest.   

Then, she said, she’d show me what lotions and stuff I was to use after I got out of the tub, things she said were for my skin.    

Since, by this time, we’ve been intimate for the past few months, modesty didn’t enter into my undressing in her presence and I did just that while she prepared my tub and got a razor with extra blades out for me to use.   

 Although to this point I’ve continued to shave my private parts, doing the same to my legs and underarms was going to be a big step for me, an admission of sorts that my feminization is growing ever closer and all the more a necessity.   

Then again, a chance glance at my reflection in the mirror on the back of Megan’s bathroom door drove home the fact that it was already well along in fact.    

I have a figure that is far more feminine than masculine, with curves both above and below the waist.  Stopping before I get into the tub to take a really critical look at my reflection, I can see now that I’ve only been putting this off, refusing to admit to myself what is already obvious now, I really am becoming a woman in every sense of the word.

The enjoyment of taking a nice, hot bubble bath by women was never something, as a guy, I was able to fully understand and only after the experience of today, coupled with the final realization that I have become a woman in every sense of the word, the task of shaving my legs and underarms and the wonderful feeling I got afterward when I rubbed all the sweet-smelling lotion onto them and the rest of myself, did it finally become clear to me… it’s a sort of celebration, a celebration of all that being a woman really means.    

Of being soft and sweetly female, of feeling pampered, of pampering 

one’s self, of self-indulgence, and all that these imply.

I must admit that after I got out of the tub and finished applying the lotion Megan put out for me to use, I felt more feminine than I had at any time since my accident.   I was actually looking forward to getting dressed and to learning all I could about how to become the woman I now almost feel myself to be.    

Leaving the bathroom, I walk back into the bedroom where I find Megan laying the things out I’d bought for me to try on.  

Of course, panties are something I’m used to so I put them on first, then comes the most feminine item and what will likely be the hardest to get used to wearing a bra.  

With some struggle and Megan’s help, I got it on and fastened. I agree with Megan that I do have to get used to wearing one all the time.    

Since I’m going to wear a dress, Megan hands me one of the half-slip and camisole sets I bought to put on after I decide if I want to wear a garter belt and stockings or pantyhose.  

I decide to go with pantyhose this time and so I have to sit down on the edge of the bed to put them on with. Megan explained how to do it the most easily.    

“Roll one leg up all the way to the foot first, bunching it up in your hands.   Then put your foot in and pull them up firmly but gently to just below your knee.  Then repeat the process with the other foot.  Next, you’ll want to stand up and pull them up the rest of the way, gently until they’re snug against your crotch and all the way on and around your waist.”  

Hearing how it’s to be done and actually doing it are two totally different things, but with effort, I finally succeeded and I have to tell you, these things really feel strange but nice at the same time.   

Next I put on the half-slip and then the camisole, before putting the dress on by dropping it on over my head.   

Last is the low-heeled but still high-heeled shoes.  Low as compared to the average which Megan says is three inches or so but high for me at one and a half inches. I have to start someplace and I guess these are a good height, to begin with.

 Next, she has me sit down at her makeup table, but facing away from the mirror so she can put some 

makeup on for me.  

Here I have to just be patient and do what she tells me to do, like close my eyes, purse my lips, and so on.  I sit through what she’s doing anxiously, wondering what I’m going to look like when she’s finished, a passable female or a guy wearing makeup?  

The taste of lipstick is sure different when you’re the one wearing it as opposed to kissing a girl who has it on her lips.  I hadn’t known she intended to pluck and shape my eyebrows but she did, at least just enough to make them less masculine looking but not making them totally feminine, either.   

Then, after she’d finished with my makeup, Megan took the longer-haired wig from its box and put it on me, fastening it in place with a couple of bobby pins. When he said I could finally turn around and look at the result of her efforts, I was stunned!    

There is no way I would have ever imagined I could look so feminine, let alone actually be this pretty.   

“My Gawd, Megan, how did you do it?”

During the following three months or so, I dressed every weekend and after the first couple of weeks let Megan talk me into going out into public with her, shopping usually but also for lunch and dinner.  

This served two purposes, of course, one to acquaint me with appearing publicly and to give me the opportunity to fill out my wardrobe and find my own personal style of clothing.  

I had my ears pierced and now take a great measure of delight in buying new earrings as well as in wearing them. I’ve been letting my hair grow for some six months or so and have finally had it done professionally which allows me to wear my own hair in public now, my wigs put away in their boxes and stored on a shelf in the closet.

It’s getting more difficult for me to live as a man during the week, more uncomfortable as I come to realize being male is more and more foreign and alien than being the woman I’ve become mentally and physically.  

This and one other factor are forcing me to reach a decision as to when I go over full-time and what this will entail. There’s a long weekend coming up and Megan and I are planning to take a short trip to another city, this will be when we decide several things about my future.   

 Okay, now I know what, where, when, and how.   What is obvious, I’m going to start living full-time as the woman I am.  

Where is not in either of our current apartments, we’re going to get a new one, together.   

When is after I quit my job in a week or two and after we get back from the vacation to Florida we’re taking.    

How is simple, I’ll just do it.  I’ll quit my job and my life as a man, ending the life I’ve lived as a man for almost 31 years, and begin my new one as Laura, a 30+-year-old lesbian woman. It seems to us that I really have no other choice than to make this transition now as opposed to later.   

When I try to dress and live like Paul, I’m miserable and cranky.   I don’t feel like Paul anymore and I don’t like trying to be Paul.  I’ve become, with Megan’s help and loving concern, Laura, and I much prefer being her.   

She’s emotional, caring, open, and loving… soft, pretty, and loves being feminine with all that means.  Plus, she’s developed a really pretty pair of what have 

become, in every sense of the term, hooters.

As you may have guessed or tried to estimate, yes, I’m a D-cup now and damned proud of it, and of them. A year or two ago, when their development first began, I hated the prospect that I would eventually reach this point.    

I liked being a guy, even though I had accepted what was between my legs and the loss of my dick and testicles.   I had no intention whatsoever of becoming female in any way other than that which had been forced on me because of the accident.    

Then Megan came into my life and it was she who convinced me that being a girl could be fun and that given an open mind, I might come to understand that there were benefits I’d not thought of or imagined. 

One of them I’ve come to especially enjoy is the constant jiggle and bounce of my lovely twins.  

I’m not now and never will be an especially attractive woman, looks-wise but I do turn the occasional head during those times and when I’m properly made up and dressed.   

I have a nice, no, make that an attractive figure and I wear the sort of clothes that emphasize it most of the time. I’m firm enough to go without a bra when I wish to, but wear one for support most of the time.  

I’ve come to love wearing women’s clothing, especially lingerie and since getting used to high-heeled shoes, I wear 3-inch heels most of the time.    

Pretty dresses and sexy lingerie are something I’ve discovered to be a joy to wear and I’d really hate to have to give them up even if I could go 

back to being a guy.

I have had what, I guess, might be considered a normal curiosity about what it would be like to be with a man but have chosen the lesbian lifestyle instead. I’ve always been enamored with women and see no reason to change now, in particular since Megan means so much to me.   

Not just for the love we share but also for all she’s done for me too, helping me as much as she has to learn what it takes for me to enjoy my femininity to its fullest.    

For the times we’ve shared and will continue to enjoy together, both in and out of bed. We’re out as lesbians but we don’t make a big deal about it, not flaunting it when we’re in public by open displays of affection but neither do we deny nor make any bones about our relationship if asked.

Life is good for me these days and I rarely regret all that’s happened to bring me to this point.   Would history have treated me differently, I might still be working where I had worked since getting out of school and maybe even be making a lot more money than I do now. 

I might have found a girlfriend and even gotten married and had kids with her, but that’s not how my life turned out. 

Through no fault of my own, as this tale recounts, I became a woman and even though I am one in every respect, there are still those times when, usually late at night while I’m struggling to relax and go to sleep, that I review all the changes, twists and turns my life has taken. 

It’s during these times that I wonder if I would have been as happy as a man as I now am as the woman I’ve become.  I don’t think so.

The End.