Dressing was one issue. If I tried to wear men's clothing, my hands wouldn't obey me, instead choosing the sexiest, girliest attire they could find (and apparently now I had plenty of it). After a few days of trying, I realised I hated the loss of control more than the clothing, so I stuck to lingerie and skirts just to be on the safe side. The feeling of the clothes was strange: the panties pressed up against my flat crotch were a constant reminder of my new anatomy. My new inferiority. I hated it, but at the same time they did fit my body perfectly, and the way they gently cupped my mound was weirdly comforting. I felt conflicted, and very confused.
Make-up was a different problem. The filter had decided I wasn't fully dressed without a full face of make-up, and so every day after getting dressed my body would sit down at the dressing table and spend an hour painting my face with all manner of cosmetics I barely recognised. I had never learned much about this stupid feminine pastime and so I had no idea what was going on. And it was so fucking boring. As much as it pained me, I quickly realised it was much more interesting to attempt to do it myself than to sit there and watch. It seemed I had the muscle memory to do it flawlessly too, and so before long I had added dolling myself up into my daily routine. And so somehow, despite my best efforts to resist, I had quickly been conditioned into ensuring I looked sexy and feminine at all times. It's not like I didn't realise what the filter was doing, I just didn't have the power to stop it.
My speech was affected as well. My name is Chris, I tried to say. But all that came out was "My name is Crystal," in that sweet, melodic voice I hated. I tried again,
I'm really a man. "I'm such a girly girl."
I fucking hate this body and this goddamn filter.
"I love my sexy body. Being a girl is so much fun."
I sighed. Maybe I could just never speak to anyone ever again I thought to myself. Or maybe I could just avoid it and talk about other topics..."I like chocolate." The voice was girly but at least the words were my own.
"I have an iPhone." Again it worked.
"I live in New York."
Great! All I needed to do was only talk about day to day things and I would be okay. I was thrilled, and continued to happily talk to myself, enjoying the freedom of being able to speak again. But the longer I talked, the more I started to realise something was wrong. Somewhere along the line that sweet, girly lilt had started to sound natural to me, to the point where it now just felt completely normal. I could barely even remember what it was like to have a masculine voice! Fuck this was messing with me. I hated it! I hated being a weak, useless girl. I hated being basically nothing more than a sex object. But there was nothing I could do about it. And that night I cried myself to sleep over how unfair my life was. *****
The next day I woke up feeling different. Kind of...good. I was still upset about the previous day but physically I felt amazing. My body was sensitive and responsive in a way I hadn't experienced before. I absent-mindedly stroked the gentle curve of my abdomen without realising what I was doing. I rolled over, enjoy the sensation of the sheets against my soft skin. Ever since my transformation I had tried my hardest to ignore the reality of my body but suddenly I was hyper aware of everything. Without thinking I let my hand slide up to one of my breasts. But as my fingers brushed my nipple, sending a jolt of electricity through my body, I realised what the sensations meant. I was horny.
And as I realised what I was feeling I started to make sense of everything my body was telling me. I was screaming out to be touched. My nipples stood erect, aching to be played with, while my needy clit throbbed with desire. I tried my best to fight it, to remind myself I was a man, and not to give in to the urges.
I'm a man for god's sake. Not some slut. I need to resist.
"I'm such a horny girl. And it feels soooo good when I touch myself."
And hearing those words in my own voice was enough to break down my resistance.
I slid my hand down to my pussy and started to stroke my clit. I had never done this before but my fingers seemed to know exactly what to do.
"Fuck I'm so wet," I moaned, the sexual sound of my voice adding to my desire. While one hand worked my clit, the other gave my nipples the attention they craved. "This feels so fucking good." I could barely think as I continued to fuck myself, eventually cumming in a mess of fluids and pleasure.
Part of me wanted to be ashamed of how easily I had given in, but another part of me was just happy I had enjoyed a positive experience in my new body. And it was hard to deny that cumming as a girl was way better than as a man.
There was a strange side effect to my little session of self love as well. It seemed to have affected the mapping between my brain and my body, to the point where, much like my voice, everything felt really natural. With a mix of horror and fascination I was starting to enjoy the feeling of emptiness between my legs, the weight of my breasts on my chest, and one thousand other subtle differences. I was struggling to remember what it was like to have a cock, and the more time passed, the harder it was to remember why I wanted one at all. The erosion of my masculinity seemed to be complete, and what's more I didn't even seem to care...
