AssParade Arietta Adams The Pornstar Fantasy
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Ennui free porn video
While this is a TG story it's probably not what you want
if you're looking for a sexual fantasy. If you don't
normally read TG stories and were planning on skipping it
you might find it's a bit different from what you
expected.
I would really like some feedback on this. It's still an
early draft and I feel like I could improve it a lot. Once
I've done this it's open for archiving, should anyone wish.
Obligatory warnings: this story contains a few sexual
references, some words you probably wouldn't use in front
of your mother and quite a lot of gratuitous angst.
Second year on the list. Second story. Can I have another year off
now?
------------------ Pass the razor blades ------------------
Ennui
by XoYo
15/11/05
--------
If it weren't for the first timers I would have given
this up long ago. I think about the reasons for this
almost constantly and I still can't explain them - it all
just boils down to a feeling I get. I mean, if anyone
had told me two years ago that I would get bored with
fucking for a living, well?
Maybe if I write some of this down it will make it
clearer for me. It's all so muddled at the moment. I've
never had the discipline to keep a diary before, but I
need to do something with these thoughts. They're just
bouncing around in my head like trapped moths looking for
an exit. Sometimes I feel like my head will explode if I
can't let them out.
The first timers keep me going. I think it's the fact
that it's all new to them. We become desensitised so
quickly. The ones that interest me are the men, testing
the greenness of that fabled grass on the other side. I
never get to find out who they really are, which ones are
men and which are women, but I think I can tell. They
come in two main varieties: the sluts and the frightened
rabbits. A lot are a combination of those roles,
switching from rabbit to slut as confidence and lust kick
in. That moment of transition is what really does it for
me. What did it for me.
16/11/05
--------
Have you ever felt like killing yourself, but the only
thing that stops you is that you just can't be bothered?
I feel like that all the time.
17/11/05
--------
I wrote earlier about how I'd like to give all this up.
The truth is I don't know what else I'd do with my life.
I would work seven days a week if they let me. When I'm
not at work I don't know what to do with myself any more.
I don't have any hobbies. If it weren't for the
anaesthetic qualities of alcohol and television I
wouldn't be able to cope.
I think I'm pretty bright, but I'm not that well
educated. Apart from this job all I've done is no-brain
retail work. I know in a right and proper universe work
wouldn't be my only reason to exist. Maybe one day I'll
find one of those universes.
18/11/05
--------
Had another first timer today. I walked into the boudoir
(that's what the company calls it - sounds pretentious to
me) and there she was, feeling herself up in that way
most male first timers do: it's like they've been
programmed by years of watching women playing with
themselves in porno movies. The first time they find
themselves in that role it's all they know how to do. It
works, though - normally just watching that is enough to
get me hard, but this time I got the feeling that I was
watching the same movie again and again and that I knew
all the lines too well to enjoy them. There was no trace
of the frightened rabbit with this one - she ripped my
shirt getting it off and almost knocked the wind out of
me pushing me onto the bed. I looked into her eyes and
tried to see the man inside, let myself imagine, as I
entered her, that I was fucking the maleness out of her,
but it did nothing for me. If it weren't for the built-
in functionality of the body I was wearing (outlaw biker
number 7 - I do rough trade well, I'm told) and my
natural acting ability it would have been a real let down
for the punter, but I think I pulled it off. She had
that flushed, spent look when I was done. I don't think
she even noticed me leaving.
I think about my motivations some times, my attraction to
the first timers. I'm sure a shrink would tell me that
I'm a repressed homosexual, and I don't think I could
argue with that. While I've never found men sexually
attractive, as soon as I'm presented with a man in a
woman's form, well... Until I found out about BodyWorkz
and talked my way into this job I never had that much
interest in sex. For the first six months I was
unstoppable. After that I learned to pace myself. Now,
I just feel hollow.
But now even that seems to have failed me. It was just
too much of a good thing. I found my dreams, made them
real and then sucked all the life out of them.
19/11/05
--------
I handed my notice in today. I only have to give two
weeks. That gives me two weeks to decide what I'm going
to do with the rest of my life. I'm forty and I still
don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I wonder if
it's too late to become a fireman or a train driver.
20/11/05
--------
Something weird happened today. Apparently the news of
me giving my notice filtered up to the MD, Mr. Felcher,
and he asked to see me. When I heard I assumed he was
going to either wish me well or maybe tell me that he
didn't want to lose and experienced employee and ask if
there was anything he could do to make me stay. Nothing
like that, though.
For someone I assume is a very wealthy man he has a plain
office. The desk was nice - oak and antique, but not
enormous. A couple of nice paintings, unchallenging
abstracts, hung on the walls, but the office looked,
well, comfortable. I guess if I had a job like his I'd
do something similar, but I always figured big shots are
going to want to be reminded they're big shots.
Felcher's secretary showed me in and I sat there, at that
large desk and waited in silence while he looked at me.
There was nothing sinister in that look, nothing of the
I'm a big man and you're a little one? attitude I
expected. He just looked at me, his eyes telling me he
was interested in something about me. After about a
minute (and a minute in a situation like that is a long,
long time) he said: "Tell me about it."
The funny thing is I knew just what he meant. After a
few stumbled words it all started coming out: the
satisfaction I had felt in the early days of the job, how
it had all become empty, about how the first timers were
the only thing that still interested me, how I couldn't
make myself care any more and how that was destroying me.
All the time he just nodded, that calm, interested look
on his face.
After I had finished talking I felt drained, but in a
good way. I felt like my feelings had been a boil that
my words had lanced. I knew they were still there, but
for a short time they didn't seem as important.
"I understand," Felcher told me. "I understand better
than you might imagine. We have a few things in common."
I waited for him to continue. "I've become bored with
much in my life as well, especially my sex life. It
hasn't had quite the same devastating effect on me as on
you, but it still leaves me feeling empty and
unfulfilled. The difference is where you discovered what
excited you some time back I've only just made myself
face up to it. As I said before, we have a few things in
common."
Felcher looked embarrassed. He got up from his desk and
walked over to the window, looking out not so much for
the view, I thought, as to avoid looking at me. "I've
heard from your supervisor a while back that you were in
danger of burning out and I knew you'd be leaving us
soon. Have you got something else lined up?"
I told him no.
"I thought so. Well, I have an offer for you. I can't
think of any way of putting this that won't sound
strange, so I won't even try. I want you to be my
mistress."
There was a long, awkward pause from both of us. At
first I thought I must have misheard him, but quickly
realised there was no way I could have. I waited for him
to elaborate, but he seemed completely stuck.
"Mistress?"
He turned back from the window and looked at me again.
After a pause he nodded. "Mistress." I could see his
cheeks reddening. "I know in all the time you've been
with us you've only ever worn male bodies. I've checked
your records. I assume this means you've never been a
woman, even with all the opportunities you've had."
"No."
The corner of his mouth lifted in what could only be
loosely described as a smile. "You see, I'm looking for
what you would call a first timer. The idea excites me
as well. You would be well paid for the time the affair
lasted and I would keep you in a comfortable manner. We
don't have to be friends, if you don't want. The primary
thing I'd want you for is sex, but if we can talk as well
I'd like that. Does all this make you uneasy?"
"Very," I admitted. "Maybe it's because it's unexpected.
I mean, it's not like the whole idea's new to me. I just
never saw myself on the other side of it."
"Well, there's plenty of time to think about it." His
manner changed abruptly and I could tell our conversation
was over for now.
"I'll let you know," I said.
The bus journey home felt like a dream. My face felt hot
and there was a sick feeling in my stomach. All I could
think about was Felcher's offer, but not in any way that
was useful to me, just loose ideas not meshing.
Even now, writing this down, I still can't make it feel
real. I need more time.
21/11/05
--------
A day's paid leave. I spent the day thinking about
Felcher's offer, as he wanted me to. I can't say the
idea of being a woman excites me. I feel comfortable
enough in my own masculinity that I've never felt the
temptation of a bit of gender swapping. Maybe that's
just an excuse, but it feels true.
But there's another angle: I'm tired of being me. Maybe
being this woman Felcher wants me to be will be some kind
of release. Say goodbye to Martin for a while and spend
a mental holiday as Martina, coming back to myself
refreshed and whole. That's the idea, anyway.
I don't know if I could cope with the sex. I mean,
Felcher's no oil painting. He's pushing fifty, I'd say,
and has a set of jowls on him that remind me of Richard
Nixon. The idea of that face staring down on me while he
pushes his dick into me does nothing for me. Maybe it'll
feel different when I've got tits.
I just wrote "when". "When I've got tits". It sounds
like I've made my mind up, but I feel no certainty.
Maybe you never can be certain about a decision like
this. At least it would be something I've never done.
If I'm honest about it I've been a whore for the last
couple of years. What difference does it make if I'm a
woman as well?
22/11/05
--------
Howard (no more Mr. Felcher - not if we're going to be
lovers, he said!) took me shopping for bodies today. As
MD he obviously has access to the whole BodyWorkz line,
including the prototypes. The bodies I've worn before
feel real enough, but the only bodily functions they
support properly are movement, senses and sex, missing
out niceties like eating, sleeping and excretion. The
newer ones are as real as the anti-cloning laws allow.
The only way anyone would know one wasn't human would be
by dissecting it.
I told Howard it would make more sense if he just picked
out the one that attracted him most, but he insisted that
it had to be one that made me comfortable as well. I
thought about telling him nothing about the situation
made me comfortable, but decided it was a bad idea.
I thought at first we were just going to look through the
catalogues they show the customers, but Howard decided it
would be better if we looked at the real things. We went
round the warehouse, looking at what seemed to be an
endless row of corpses in glass coffins, row after row of
sleeping beauties waiting for Prince Charming to animate
them.
Even after thought I had put in the idea of being a woman
had been fairly abstract until I started looking at all
the bodies, picturing myself looking out through their
eyes. Most of them were young and pretty, as dictated by
demand, but there were also a few for specialist markets.
I thought about picking an obese granny or a multiple
amputee, just to spite Howard.
I saw him looking at one model in particular. Maybe he
felt awkward expressing a preference, maybe it was some
king of subtle psychological manipulation - either way I
had to look too. I found I was surprised by his choice,
but only because it was so obvious. She looked like she
was in her late teens, pretty in a perky, cliched way:
blonde, blue eyes, button nose and medium sized tits. I
had thought Howard would want a woman with more
character.
I leaned over her, trying to imagine I was looking into a
mirror, but it didn't click. I could see my face,
reflected in the glass of her coffin, superimposed over
hers. It felt like a premonition.
I shrugged and said: "It's your money."
23/11/97
--------
It all happens tomorrow. It almost feels like I've been
told I have a terminal illness and have a short time to
put my affairs in order. The sad thing is I have so few
affairs to order. This has been a sobering experience.
It's made me realise that while I have acquaintances,
colleagues and some-time drinking partners I have no
actual friends. Tomorrow I will disappear for an unknown
length of time and there is no one who will really
notice, beyond a casual question or comment, that I am
gone. Maybe Felcher realised this about me before I did
and knew that would make me easy. Sometimes I feel he
knows me better than I do.
Felcher says he will keep up the rent on my bedsit and
send someone round every few days to do some housework
and make sure my possessions are all right. I suppose I
should be grateful, but there's so little there I feel
attached to it seems like a waste of effort. I haven't
even been able to think what to pack - clothes will be a
waste of time and I can't find anything else I'd want to
take. It all feels like anchors to a life I want to
leave behind. Maybe I'll just box everything up and give
it to Oxfam.
I want it to have happened already. I'm not looking
forward to it, really, but at the moment everything feels
like a fever dream and I need the clarity that the
reality itself will bring. I can't make anything make
sense at the moment. I'll try again tomorrow, when I'm
someone else, when I'm her.
24/11/05
--------
Well, I've been given my own room. It's nice. A bit
girly, but pleasant enough.
Howard's hardly spoken to me. I suppose he's giving me
time to adjust before he makes any demands. Before he
tries to get his money's worth.
So, what does it feel like? I still have two arms and
two legs. I'm a human being (or at least a good
facsimile of one) not some strange alien beast. I have
the weight of breasts hanging from my chest, something I
find I'm already noticing less than I thought I would.
I'm smaller and lighter, which makes me feel somehow less
confident. How do women cope with looking up at men all
the time?
When I came here, after the transfer, I sat quietly on
the bed for about ten minutes. Then I went through to
the en-suite bathroom and took all my clothes off and
looked in the mirror. Even though I knew what I would
see the strange face and body looking back still jarred.
I touched everything, every curve and crevice, to find
out what it all felt like. Flesh feels like flesh, but
the permutations were strange and exciting. I wondered
why I hadn't tried this years ago.
I found myself falling into the routine I'd seen so many
first timers follow. I hoped I didn't look as silly
doing it. Masturbation was different. I found the
juices of my new genitals a bit off-putting at first, but
the newness of the sensation made everything that bit
more exciting. I came quickly, a number of times. It
felt more intense, but the best part was not feeling the
slight depression I normally get afterwards. I don't
know if this is something to do with being a woman or a
feature that BodyWorkz builds into the newer models. I
must ask a real woman some day.
As good as all that was, I feel cheated. Maybe I'll find
the words to explain this as I go on. I expected too
much to change, I think. I thought that this would make
me a different person. The problem is I'm still me, just
a me that has nice cheekbones and no dick. Maybe I'm not
giving it time.
25/11/05
--------
Maybe I'll learn to like sex as a woman. My first
experience, last night, was less than ideal. I wasn't
prepared for the discomfort. I've never been buggered,
so I can't really compare, but the feeling of having
something stuck into me was strange and difficult.
Howard tried to be good to me, trying more in the way of
foreplay and understanding that I've ever given any woman
who wasn't paying for it, but I never really got turned
on. He'd even thought about his lack of sexual
attractiveness and borrowed a body for the night: Spanish
Stud number 12, if I'm not mistaken. Not one of my
favourites to wear, but he tends to be popular. Once he
got going he was like an enthusiastic puppy, bouncing all
over the place, nipping and licking. Sometimes it was
all I could do not to laugh at him.
The sensation of having Howard suck my nipples and
clitoris wasn't exactly unpleasant, but at the same time
I couldn't get into it. He ended up having to use
Vaseline. I let him. As I said earlier, it's his money.
Afterwards he held me and told me how it would get
better. Most women I've slept with seem to get clingy
and emotional at this stage. I just felt cold and
distant and I hated myself for it.
Today has gone a bit better. I busied myself in the
morning by exploring the wardrobe Howard has bought for
me. Women have more fun with their clothes than men.
I've never found clothes that interesting, so I've tended
to go for cheap and functional, but I think I could learn
to enjoy women's clothes. The feel of a dress is so much
freer and, well, unprotected. Also the sense of
transgression gave me a thrill I haven't felt since
teenage misdeeds. And the lingerie? Maybe if I
experimented with the lingerie it could give me the
erotic edge I need to get into the idea of sex.
There it is again. Sex. I can't stop thinking about
last night. My big problem was I wanted to be the man.
I wanted to do the thrusting and penetrating, not be the
vessel to be filled. I've put on a woman's body, I'm
wearing women's clothes in a woman's room; Howard has
even started calling me by a woman's name: Martina. But
I'm not a woman. I don't think it's something you can
learn.
With the first timers and the ones who kept coming back
under different faces, they were there to fill some need.
They either felt themselves to be women or were
expressing some in-built need to experiment and blur the
boundaries a bit. But that's not me. I'm a man. I
can't help that.
Actually that's not fair. I've been a woman, in body at
least, for just over a day. That's not enough time to
decide anything.
26/11/05
--------
Howard took me out in public today for my first outing as
Martina. We had dinner at a nice little Italian
restaurant where they all seemed to know him.
I'm glad this body can eat. Food doesn't taste quite as
real as when I was me, but it's still a pleasant
sensation. The best part of it, though, was also the
worst: every man in the restaurant kept either staring at
me or sneaking glimpses, looking away when I met their
eyes. I guess it didn't help that Howard had bought me a
low-cut black evening dress to wear. He had even brought
in a beautician to help me with my makeup. When I had
looked in at myself in the full-length mirror before
leaving I had turned myself on, so I could sympathise
with these men. I even quite enjoyed the attention, but
at the same time I wanted to tell them all the mistake
they were making, that they were just looking at an
animated shell, occupied by a man they probably wouldn't
even like.
Howard was charming. Men are so different around women,
or at least women they want to impress. For my part I
found myself laughing at jokes that weren't even funny.
In the taxi on the way home, however, we both fell
silent. I found myself feeling almost a sense of loss
that I could not relax into my role properly. Martin
kept coming up to the surface, with all his doubts and
self loathing. I was getting tired of him.
27/11/05
--------
Maybe it was the wine, but the sex was better last night.
It didn't feel quite so uncomfortable. I still can't say
I liked it, though.
Howard was working all day, so I sat around watching
daytime television. The children's programs were
mindless enough to numb me and I stopped even noticing
when the commercials interrupted them. By the time the
afternoon came around it was all cookery programs and
chat shows. One show was hosted by one of Oprah's
spiritual heirs; I didn't catch her name, but they all
blur in my mind anyway. She had with her a couple of
members of a splinter group from the Hemlock Society,
calling themselves Right to Death. Their argument was
that anyone had the right to choose the manner and time
of their death, not just those who were terminally ill or
whose medical treatment had been considered economically
unjustifiable. One woman argued that simple depression
was cause enough for euthanasia. The world, she said,
had enough of us greedy westerners sucking the life out
of it. The will to die that was spreading so quickly in
Britain and countries like it was down to Gaia doing some
housekeeping, ridding herself of a few parasites. The
audience booed, and the evangelist and psychologist the
host brought later on demolished the argument to
everyone's satisfaction, but I was left with an
uncomfortable feeling the woman had been right. I've
written in these pages about not wanting to go on living,
but until that point suicide had never seemed like a real
option.
I took down the phone number at the end of the show and
called them. I got through on the fifteenth attempt, but
when I heard the woman's voice answering I had no idea of
what I was going to say. I put the receiver down without
saying a word.
Anyway, it's silly thinking about killing myself while
I'm in this body. It's not my property, and if I
"killed" it anyway my mind would just trip back to its
frozen home.
Silly.
28/11/05
--------
I never signed a contract with Howard, so I guess there's
no penalty clause if I back out now. This can't be any
fun for him. If we are as alike as he thinks then I
found that I got my thrills from the first timers when
they responded, when they became the exaggerated women of
their dreams. If I had a punter who was responding the
way I am now the whole thing would have been an empty
duty. It's only fair to both of us that I give it up.
And go back to what?
29/11/05
--------
I've tried telling Howard how I feel. He didn't seem too
surprised. He'd have to be stupid not to have seen it
wasn't working, and whatever he is he's not that.
"What now?" he asked. I said nothing. I had nothing to
say.
He paused for a long time and his cheeks reddened in the
way they do when he's embarrassed. "I've got a
confession to make," he said, and stopped again.
I sat back in my chair and crossed my legs. I remember
thinking that's one thing I'll miss about this body:
crossing my legs. The shape of the hips and legs, the
lack of balls made it easy and the feel of nylons and a
skirt made it a pleasure.
"I've been watching you," he said eventually. "Video
cameras in all the rooms, everything being taped. You
know. And the telephones. I've been monitoring the
telephones."
I suppose none of this was a real surprise. I was his
plaything, after all. In his position I'd want to keep
those memories on tape and protect my investment at the
same time. It was easy to rationalise.
"I've got to know. Do you really want to die?"
There was something about the way he asked it - a lack of
concern, but a strong interest. This was not a man who
was going to try to talk me out of anything. If he had
asked: "What can I do to make things better?" I could
probably have come up with a sarcastic put-down or some
glib lies to get him out of my hair. The way he was
asking, however, I could only answer honestly. "I think
so. I'm not that sure, but I can't think what I'll do
otherwise."
Howard nodded. "What if there were another option?"
I'll finish talking about this tomorrow. I don't know if
I can make it make sense enough to fit it into words.
30/11/05
--------
Howard says there will still be something left of me
afterwards. When he saw that this upset me he reassured
me that I probably wouldn't be aware of it.
All these times I wished I could be someone other than me
and now it's finally going to happen. It feels like
impending death, which I suppose it is. My memories will
be gone, as will most of what makes me me. I'll just be
the raw material for someone new. The real Martina.
He tried to explain how it would work, something to do
with a new personality template, but I neither understood
nor cared. The words just washed over me. The mechanism
doesn't matter.
It's funny. It really is. In my life I've found a few
things that I've felt like I needed, that weren't just
whims. I've had possibilities opened to me to fulfil
these needs that until a few years ago never even
existed, and each time the reality has turned into so
much less than I'd hoped. This time if that happens it
won't be me who has to worry about it. It feels
irresistible.
5/12/05
-------
Howard has made me think things over for a week. It
would have taken him this long to organise anyway, so I
won't feel too honoured. Apparently his R & D people are
creaming themselves at getting the opportunity to try out
their ideas on a real live human. BodyWorkz's legal
people aren't so excited and I've spent a lot of the week
signing legal documents in an arse-covering of a scale
that could probably have saved Tricky Dicky from
impeachment.
I didn't need a week to decide. If I'm honest with
myself I've known all the time what I want. This way I
get to live and die at the same time. Put like that it
sounds like I can't lose.
Tomorrow it happens. No more Marty Nicks.
I declined Howard's kind offer of a going-away party (my
phrase, not his). I won't know if I've got anything to
celebrate until it's too late.
Anyway, Howard's offered to pass these pages onto
Martina. I think it's important that she knows where she
came from. The start of her new life is going to be
confusing enough.
I wish her every happiness.
11/12/05
--------
Howie and I went to Martin's funeral yesterday. It felt
like it should have been raining, but it was just
overcast. After reading Martin's diary I think he would
have liked it to have rained.
Maybe someday I'll understand him. I know he's in me
somewhere, but after reading what he wrote I can't
connect with any of it. I feel guilty for thinking it,
but I don't think I would have liked him very much.
The funeral was nice. The only people there were Howie,
a few people who worked with Martin and myself. It was
an open casket, so I went up to pay my respects to him.
I looked for some trace of me in his face but I couldn't
see anything I recognised.
There was a party after the funeral, a sort of wake. I
don't think it was meant to be a real party, but I
couldn't help enjoying it. I got talking to some of
Martin's friends. They were all so nice to me. Howie
had told me not to let any of them know who I used to be,
but I found I got on really well with them anyway,
despite feeling like I was lying to them. George,
Martin's old supervisor, gave me a peck on the cheek as
we were leaving.
I can't believe it's only two weeks until Christmas! I
haven't felt so excited since I was a little girl! Joke!
I know I was never a little girl, but there's a feeling
of Christmas tucked away in the back of my mind
somewhere. Maybe it will come clear some day. I hope
so.
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