The urge

My gender dysphoric nature goes back to my earliest recollections. I always liked girls more than boys. I always liked the things they did, they ways they looked, the way they smelled, the ways they played, the ways they acted. But somehow, even as a pre-schooler, I knew it wasn't right. By any definition I knew, I was a guy. So I tried very hard to fill that role as best I could, supressing my feelings, urges and desires--and, to a large degree, my happiness and fulfillment.

I excelled at sports--especially in view of my small-framed, skinny build--competed on every level I could, baseball, basketball and wrestling--and managed to achieve a fair amount of my goals. Yet still, always present, was the urge. When I succombed to it, first at home when my parents were gone, then later, on the road, during business trips, it was always alone. Probably, according to the shrink, this added to my to my inner feelings of isolation, even as I appeared to everyone about me to be outgoing and gregarious.

When I met the grrrl from New Orleans, it was like a breath of fresh air. Finally, I had someone with whom I could share my most intimate inner secrets. In rather short order, we became friends and I found numerous excuses to visit the "big easy" to see her.

In short order, I was spending my time there the way she spent hers; dressed to the nines, usually in outlandish outfits, hustling pool and drinks, at the Roundup bar, and--on one occassion--accepting money from a guy for being his escort.

Even with me in jeans and T-shirt, he was intrigued enough by me to ask pay me to go out with him-- if I agreed to wear an outfit of his choice, which he would buy me. I'd been drinking enough that, somehow, it seemed ok. He asked me two questions: where I was staying so he could have the package delivered, and whether or not I had a black patent leather belt and matching shoes with me. That should have been a clue.

The following noon, the front desk at the hotel where I was staying called to let me know I had a package. Picking it up, I repaired to my room and opened it. Looking back, I want to gag. I dressed as required, then wore a long coat to cover everything. We met at the Old Absynthe House bar on Bourbon Street. I was too ashamed to unbutton my coat in public, wearing the outfit he bought me, so insteada, agreed to return to his room with him.

Walking back to the Roundup on a fairly warm day, wearing a long coat, probably drew more attention in New Orleans than I would have gotten wearing only the red vinyl minidress. My grrrlfriend thought the whole story hilarious.

In a remarkably short time, I felt perfectly natural haunting the streets of the French Quarter, looking like a tart. And my grrrlfriend loved it. She encouraged me to stay in drag throughout my entire trips down there, one time going so far as to hide my male cothes so that I had to.

So, I guess, having accepted the fact that my "femininity" was passably acceptable, it was just kind of natural that I wanted to enhance it. For reasons I don't understand, I asked the grrrl if she could get me some Premarine, as the two of us were sat at the bar. She was back in 15 minutes with 200 pills. I took the first of the 400 pills I would ingest, during the next 1-1/2 years, on the spot, washing it down with a beer that had just been purchased for me by some hayseed hunk from Alabama.

The transition

The grrrl moved in with me. It was kind of symbiotic: she needed me for financial support, I needed her as a confidant and advisor.

The regimen of Premarine I maintained had me ingesting a pill daily for four weeks, then going off the pills for one week to allow my liver to purge itself of the hormone overload.

By the end of the first four-week stint, I really didn't perceive any changes whatsoever. Although, the grrrl pointed out to me that, after four weeks on the pills, I was really in a shitty mood the day after I went off for my "purge" week. I was having trouble with my newly-created business so I didn't really concern myself with my mood, assuming it was merely business pressures.

After the first purge week, the grrrl suggested that--my liver now being cleaned up--I could make up for lost time by getting a dose of injectable Premarine which, she told me, is much less toxic to the liver. Having a fear of needles, I told her I couldn't do it. She offered to inject me and walked to a nearby pharmacy to purchase a fresh syringe, suggesting that I put on something "more appropriate" while she was gone, as she felt I looked better in a skirt and blouse than in jeans and a sweatshirt. Frankly, I felt more comfortable that way too (as long as we were not going out during the daylight), so changed while she was gone.

After much ado about my fear of a needle prick, she got me to pull up my skirt, pulled down my panties, and had me put my knees on the floor and lay across her lap. Unannounced, she slapped me on the butt so I wouldn't feel the needle, and injected me, telling me just to lay on the bed and rest for a while as she went to the living room to watch TV.

I laid down upon the bed, buried my face upon the pillow, and closed my eyes, hoping to take a nap. As I lay there, though, I started thinking about all sorts of things I'd never dwealt upon before and started becoming tearey, softly sobbing into the pillow. The grrrl came in and comforted me, explaining that, to a lesser degree, the shots had the same effect on her, whenever she took them. The buildup, dissapation, then rebuilding of the feminine hormones flooding my system, she explained, in many ways mimmicked what a genetic woman endured immediately before, during, and after her menstrual cycle.

She returned to the couch in the living room. For some reason, I missed her terribly. In short order, I went to the living room, laid down on the couch where she was sitting, and placed my head on her lap. She stroked my head as I laid beside her like a faithful puppy. "You're so sweet," she cooed into my ear, as she teased my earlobe with her lips. Then, running her fingers through the hair I hadn't had cut in over three months, she went on: "I can't wait for your hair to get long-enough I can do something with it."

We didn't last. I felt, I suppose, that I was being hustled. I was supporting her totally, cleaning the house, doing the laundry, doing almost all of the cooking, paying for our entertainment, and all she provided was lip service to support me in my change. Even there, though, she seemed to vacilate between one extreme and the other, at some times encouraging me in terms of my feminization, at others ridiculing me for my lack of it. She was in a bad mood a lot and, to make matters worse, she was a mean drunk and dabbled in drugs, becoming abusive whenever she got loaded. Worse, I realized that--for whatever reasons--I was becoming increasingly reluctant to challenge her abusiveness.

None of my neighbors had any inklings about me and they never questioned her, accepting her as a live-in girlfriend. Not wanting to rock the boat, I only went out "en femme" in the cover of darkness.

One night, two months later, we'd gone out to a local gay bar in the early afternoon. Accordingly, I was dressed--uncomforatably--in guy clothes, jeans and a starched oxford cloth shirt; uncomfortable because--by then--my nipples had started becoming quite sensitive, and the friction as they rubbed against the starched material was actually painful. By then, I'd been on the hormones for nearly four months

She had belted down three martinis in the time it took me to finish one beer, ordered a fourth, and had gone to the pool table without saying a word.

Downing it in one gulp, she returned, took the seat next to me, and ordered her fifth drink. I smiled at her: "What's wrong, kiddo," I asked? "Your're hitting it kind of heavy."

"This place is full of fucking queers," she yelled. The whole bar turned silent as everyone turned to look in our direction. "I don't want no fucking queer," she yelled. "I want a girlfriend!"

I cringed, turning bright red with embarassment. "Please," I whispered, "kind of hold it down."

"Get your ass home, girlfriend," she yelled, "get your fucking ass in a dress, and get your fucking ass back here!"

Some in the crowd laughed, some looked annoyed, others simply smirked.

"Please," I pleaded.

"Now," she screamed!

With that, without woarning, she threw a right cross at my head, nearly knocking me off my stool. I glared at her, as even my declining testosterone levels kicked my pituatary into hyper-drive, and adrenalyn pumped into my system.

"DON'T YOU EVER..." I began.

But, before I could even finish, her hand flashed out, and she caught my already sore nipple between her thumb and forefinger, twisting it cruelly. A burning pain such as I had never felt, seared through my breast.

"Sensitive, aren't they, bitch," she taunted.

"Please," I begged, "please let go."

"Hey, boys," she yelled at the crowd now staring in awe, "this little queer is growing titties."

Despite the pain, I wrenched away from her and hurried out the door, laughter echoing behind me. I don't know why I didn't just leave her there. Instead, I slumped down on the seat of my car and waited an hour and a half for her to come out. She staggered out--finally--regurgitated on the side of my car and the parking lot, clambered onto the passenger seat and passed out.

The following morning, I told her she had to leave. Nothing more was ever said between us. When I arrived home after running some errands, she was gone; so was $250 I'd left in my wallet.

She'd left the Premarine for me--both hers and mine.

The awakening

By month number six after having started the hormones, although I didn't perceive having breasts, I noticed several things which I assumed were hormone related.

The most obvious was the sensitivity and soreness of my nipples. My every movement was made excruciatingly obvious to me by the movement of my nipples against my shirt. Also, I was experiencing leg cramps on a fairly regular basis.

But when I really knew something was amiss was one day, driving, when some idiot ran up on my bumper, in heavy traffic on the freeway, tailgating me at 65 despite the fact I was in the right lane, despite the fact that he had plenty of room to get into the passing lane and go around me.

Instead of actions I would have taken the year before--flipping him off, giving him a "brake check," or something similarly agressive--I found myself, instead, glancing tentatively into the mirror to see if he was still there, and slowing down, hoping he would pass. He must have perceived my slowing down as aggressiveness on my part. As I slowed, he shortened the distance between us and slowed with me. I pulled over onto the shoulder, hoping he would pass. Instead, he pulled over with me. I glanced into the rearview and we made eye contact. He was glaring at me.

It was then, running down the road's shoulder that I realized there was a tractor trailer broken down on the roadside ahead of me and the traffic, now going much faster than my speed, would not permit me to merge back into traffic. I was forced, to stop, well behind the semi.

But instead of bursting from the car to confront him physically, as I would have surely done only a year before, I merely locked the car door, hoping not to be hurt. My adversary came up and started yelling at me through the closed car window. As I looked at his snarling face just inches away, I reacted in a way I would have never thought possible: I began to cry.

He looked at me curiously for a second, then threw down his hands in mock disgust. "You fucking wimp," he yelled, then turned, walked back to his car, spun his tires and took off fiercely, coming as close as he could to my rear bumper as he angled past me into traffic.

I continued to cry for five minutes, then regained control. It took another five minutes to find an opening which would permit me to merge safely into the traffic. How I wished there was someone else with me to do the driving.

I was so upset.

I was a sissy.

Addiction?

Discomfort, cramps, attitudinal changes, sore nipples: I knew I had to go off the hormones.

Besides, after nearly eight months, other than pointy (and sensitive and sometimes painful) nipples, I hadn't really noticed any breast growth, the whole reason for my starting the treatment anyway.

It was early one morning and still dark. I walked to the bathroom and flipped on the light switch. Immediately, the bulb blew. Oh, darn, I thought, turning in the dark, towards the hall closet, to retrieve a replacement bulb. As I did so, I experienced a searing pain in my left nipple. You stupid idiot, I thought. As I had turned, my left tit had hit the door casing.

My left what, I thought to myself as I retrieved and installed the new bulb?

Pain notwithstanding, I flipped on the light and studied myself in the mirror, turning slowly back and forth. I had breasts! Small, but nevertheless, real and quite feminine looking breasts. Turning sideways, it was slear how far they thrust out. I ran to the hall closet and retrieved my ex-wife's sewing measure.

The grrrl had taken my measurements before I had ever started on the premarine, telling me that at some time I would want to compare. I guessed this was the time.

Sure enough, measured below my breasts, I had actually lost nearly an inch, probably reflecting the fact that I had lost some weight and had quit working out, resulting in a little atrophy of my "lats." As I gazed at the mirror, turning sideways, I realized my breasts now protruded out perhaps two inches from my ribcage. Measuring around my chest at nipple height, I found I had put on nearly four inches. Another strange thing: the grrrl had measured the distance from one nipple to the other, why I didn't know. I measured, carefully because even that light pressure on my nipples caused the irritation. My nipples were three inches farther apart than they had been. As my small breasts had slowly swelled, it had caused the nipples to move farther apart, pointing out more towards the sides rather than straight ahead as before.

I was awestruck. Carefully, I kneaded the skin near (being careful not to touch) my nipples. It was soft, plushy, without a hint of the firm presence of pectoral muscles behind them. I gently cupped them in my hands, relishing their exqusite weight and softness, as I gently lifted them, letting them fall back into place.

They had grown so slowly, I hadn't even noticed them--like watching a clock's hour hand moving.

They really were breasts...they really were mine!

Carefully, I put on a T-shirt, stood in front of the mirror, and stood erect, my shoulders back. They were clearly apparent as lumps under my shirt and, as I watched and my nipples began to harden, they protruded visibly, the dark areas readily apparent behind the thin cotton cloth.

I hadn't even noticed. My god, I thought, had anyone else?

They had.

There was also, however, a very good, practical reason for not wearing a bra: with a bra on, my breasts were nearly impossible to conceal under male outer clothes. Supported and protruding, the only way to completely hide them, even under a T-shirt, dress shirt and sweater, was to kind of hunch my shoulders forward.

I knew I had to quit taking the "girl juice." I still had a business, I still had friends, I still had family, none of whom knew.

The only persons who knew were the person who knew only Stefi, my female persona.

Resolving to throw away my pills and return to an exclusively male life, I decided to visit the neighborhood bar which I visited infrequently.

When one of my close friends ran into me there, he discretely asked to speak with me out in the parking lot.

"What's wrong with you," he asked?

"What do you mean," I feigned?

"You're not your old self anymore," he stated. "It's like you're off in a world of your own when I see you, especially in here. You sit by yourself, rarely joke around...even your posture has changed."

I froze for a second. Had he noticed? "What do you mean," I asked?

"Hell," he said, "if you you study someone you can learn a lot by their posture. You used to good posture, with your shoulders back. Now, you just kind of hunch over. It's almost like you're trying to hide something."

He was, of course, right. I prayed he didn't know what it was I was trying to hide. By then, I was more than filling my A-cup bras, and had begun to wear B's, which though a tad loose, were more comfortable.

"Oh," I stammered, "it's that old back injury," I lied. "It kind of hurts when I stand up straight."

"Whatever," he said as he turned around, returning to his seat at the bar.

I seated myself at the stool adjacent to his. He finished his beer and left, with only a cursory goodbye.

Shortly thereafter, another acquaintence (not to be confused with friend), arrived. He walked behind, me as he had done many times before, as I awaited his unwelcomed slap on my back. Instead, his hand went under my arm and around my chest as he pinched it. The surprise, the shock and the pain all came home at once and I nearly jumped from my seat. His hand still on my chest, he placed his mouth close to my ear. "What's wrong, sweetie," he mocked? "A bit sensitive aren't we?"

Saying nothing, I placed a five dollar bill on the table and turned to leave, never to go back. As I exited, I turned to look back. My antagonist looked directly at me, a derisive smile on his face.

The realization sunk in as I walked home to my apartment. My changes were going to ostracize me from my previous life. I had to quit the hormones. I would go home, shower, dress as a guy, and go to a singles bar. Maybe, hopefully, to meet a woman. Tomorrow, I'd flush the rest of my medication down the toilet.

Back at my apartment, I laid out fresh jeans, (male) underwear, a (guy's) dress shirt and a sportcoat (to cover any telltale signs).

I showered, but as I did so, I found my mind drifting. I was savoring the sensations as the warm, gentle spray caressed my breasts and nipples, leaving beads of glistening water atop them. I found myself kneading my chest, relishing the suppleness of my breasts as I gently lifted each in turn, soaping then rinsing beneath them. Almost, compulsively, it seemed, my plans for the evening changed. I left the shower, gently patted myself dry, powdered, then returned my jeans, sport coat and underwear to their places.

I went to my other closet. From the bureau inside, I took my makeup kit, "Wonder Bra," matching black lace panties, garter belt and dark hose. From the hanger, I removed my red, and black, vinyl tank-top, micro mini-dress. From the floor I removed my 5" black patent "fuck-me" pumps. From the shelf, I took my black patent clutch bag with the gold chain strap.

Fuck them all, I thought to myself, as--with the sun still far above the horizon--I walked down the steps from my third story apartment, through the parking lot, shoulders back, head erect, breasts supported and thrust before me, visible to all by virtue of the scooped neck dress. This time, I didn't bother with a coat.

Heels clicking loudly on the pavement, I walked to my car, entered as coquettishly as possible, and drove to the bar where my grrrlfriend had embarassed me so much, months before. I had not been back since she had moved out.

No one there recognized me but that didn't stop them from paying me a great deal of attention. That night, I met Montie. He was very blunt but smiling. "Nice set," he said.

"You're all the same," I replied, affecting disinterest.

"I'm a photographer," he continued.

"You're ALL photographers," I replied looking the other way.

"May I take a shot of your tits," he asked.

"NO," I replied. I turned and walked away towards the pool table, and put my money in line for the next game. God, he was cute. He followed me.

"Please," he begged.

We would date many times thereafter. I spent the night at his house, wondering the whole time what was going to become of me.

Part 1 of 2

Index of stories by Stefi

The Vampyra Series--a "special" kind of vampire, struggling with the eternal conflict of desire versus human nature:

Transition--how she came to be

Poetic justice--her sub-human urges, force her to take him; ensnared into her web, a good cop goes far beyond bad.

Pyramid--a white crossdresser becomes the feminized slave of a black master in a con game of domination.

Forced to transition

Bad Medicine--an on-line meeting turns an occassional TG into a full-time, feminized subservient.

Forced to transition

Latex Asylum--using his fetishes to mold him, a businessman is transformed by a mysterious, domininant woman into a creature of feminized latex.

Transformed