Valentine's Day Tranny
By JF Harker
Copyright 2012 Dominant Other Press
Smashwords Edition
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters depicted are at least 18 years of age.
Today is the day.
Today is the day that society has dictated that the lonesome are ceaselessly reminded of their burden. Today is the day that they are bombarded with images of love, of intimacy, of companionship, of things they lack and are made to feel like less for this lack. Today was created to sell candy and cards and the idea of True Love, and the obligation and expectations that it creates just ends up making everyone miserable.
Today I do what I can to help. Today I put myself out there and make one lucky man feel wanted, needed. Today I am a saint; the rest of the year I can go back to sinning. This is the day that I live the other 364 for. Today is Valentine's Day.
It takes me hours to get ready for today, but the time is not wasted. I need to prepare, not just physically, but mentally. Spiritually. I have to transform myself into the fantasy that lonely men desire. I have to become what they need. I have to be more convincing to myself than anyone else. On this most holy of days it isn't enough to simply pass as a woman. It isn't sufficient to be merely convincing. No, on this day I must become the most beautiful woman my man-to-be has ever seen. I have to become his ideal, and for that reason everything has to be perfect.
From the moment I wake up in the morning until the moment I'm getting ready to leave in the early evening I'm getting ready for you. I'm too nervous to eat, really, but I force myself to have some dry cereal and a piece of toast. It's all I can keep down. I'm up early, but it's not like I could sleep last-night anyway. I lay in bed, tossing and turning, dreaming about tomorrow, dreaming about your touch, your cock, your smile, your little orgasmic groans. I don't know who you are yet but I know how you'll feel, how you'll sound, how you'll need. I start with a full body waxing - I want to be perfect for you. I want to be smooth for you. I want to be your girl for tonight. It's not sensual -- the sticky wax isn't easy to apply, hot when I smooth It on, and painful when I tear it off, but this is just my first sacrifice for you. It's not easy to do it for myself but I can manage; I have a system that works for me.
When I've finished I feel very clean. The February air is cold on my tender skin. I'm sore, but needful. The pain is sweet and reminds me of what's to come.
Bare from the scalp down I turn my attention to my hair. I'm very proud of my hair and lucky to work in a field where it is appropriate for my male guise to cultivate it. When I'm hiding as a man I keep my hair bound, restrained, tied back, but for you I'll let it free. I'll let it loose to cascade around my face and shoulders like a boundless strawberry waterfall. Not yet, though. First I need to bind it again, tight under plastic, letting the henna sink in and permeate. I don't know who you are yet but I know you want me auburn, and so auburn I will be for you. All for you.
While my henna sets I stare at myself in the vanity next to my bed. I like what I see. My skin is pale and flawless, my eyes are deep and soulful, my lips full and firm. I imagine you, holding you, stroking you, taking you between those lips and it gives me a shudder. I shrug my bathrobe off and stare at my bare hairless chest and imagine what it will be like when I can afford breasts. I'm fortunate to be slender -- with the hormones I've been taking I can pass as a small girl, but in my mind when I think of my true self I have larger breasts. A B-cup. Maybe a C, but I don't want to be greedy. I picture my true self, my feminine self, and I imagine your reaction to my body, your hands caressing, your teeth nipping, and I feel myself growing hard. I'm fully aware of the irony while I masturbate and picture myself a woman, picturing my long hard cock as a clit, pressing my hands down below my balls and wishing for a cunt to fill. I almost -- almost go to my dresser and get the little toy out of my bottom drawer but I'm not that selfish. Tonight I save myself for you.
The waiting is the hard part. Thoughts of you fill my head, fill my sense-memory, but I have to wait for the henna to set. It takes hours - hours during which I am at a loose end. I surf the web, check the online dating sites, update my resume, watch some YouTube. Killing time, trying not to turn myself on again, trying to distract myself so I don't have to masturbate again, but it's not easy. When the henna has set I wash the excess out, bathe myself again, soaking in the tub and thinking of you. I can't help it -- I'm a bad girl, now, and I stroke myself in the tub, my smooth girlish hands and long nails caressing the length of my shaft, wishing it was yours. Yours is thicker, I imagine, and picture it in my mouth, in my anus, in the cunt I don't have. When I cum it's powerful, thick jets of cum splattering against my abdomen and chest. I wash carefully and dust myself with baby powder.
I tuck my now flaccid cock back between my thighs and pull on a red lacy bra-and-panties set. Stockings next - silk ones that come up to my thighs. After my bath pulling them on is like exquisite agony, like the kisses of a million lovers all at once, and I have to go slowly lest the sensation overwhelm me. My dress goes on over the underwear, a emerald green slinky thing that sets off the color of my hair. Its form-fitting, tight, and the most expensive thing I own. You're worth it. The depth of the neckline and the height of the hem will catch your eye, reel you in, and then you'll be mine.
Makeup next. Nothing too elaborate. A little light blush to accentuate my high cheekbones, some eyeshadow to blend the darkness of my eyes with the paleness of my flesh. Eyeliner. Lip-liner. Lipstick. It's a lot of work to look like I'm not wearing anything at all, but I need to be my best for you. My most beautiful.
The bar is packed with the lonely and desperate this evening, this Valentine's day's night. Men who couldn't get dates or are alone, needful, depressed, drinking. They've given up, but I'm here to give them hope. What I give to you will be so much more, but you shouldn't begrudge these poor souls the small kindness of seeing a radiant women coming into their misery to pluck one of them up and take him away. It gives them hope that maybe it'll be their turn next. I don't know who you are right away, but you see me. All of the men stare at me, eyes devouring my curves, taking in my eyes, my hair, my delicate skin. They all want me. They want to take me, to use me, to possess me, but tonight I'm yours and yours alone.