The New Girl A Documentary of the Butterfly Light part 1
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The New Girl - A Documentary Of The Butterfly Light, Part 2 free porn video
The New Girl - A Documentary of the Butterfly Light
Part 2
A seasoned journalist, Mike traveled the world in search of compelling
stories. It was his last one, however, deep in the hilly jungle of
Southeast Asia, which would change his life back in Manhattan forever.
With flagging self-awareness, Mike does his best to document his erotic
transformation from man to woman and his final emergence in the 'butterfly
light.'
I never talked about sex. In fact, I tried to block that out in my mind.
I mean, I blocked out the implications that being female might have. But
there were subtle messages from viewers that conveyed hidden passions.
There were explicit meanings to implicit thoughts. I was masturbating now
too. They were only subtle orgasms still, but to me, with all their new
feelings, they were increasingly exciting. My audience kept asking if I
ever did that.
As I took more of an interest in myself I took more of an interest in my
life. I had an article published from some previous research. I
experimented with fiction. I went out every morning for coffee. I walked
in the park. I showed my audience that I'd had my ears pierced. I told
them about the nail salon and I showed them how long they'd grown. I was
doing things again.
I admitted that I noticed women. I talked about the vast differences
there were in all the multitudes of little girls in the world, the
mothers, the teens, the singles, the sluts, the virgins, the dykes, the
housewives, the old women with their secret regrets and various
experiences. We are all so different in body and mind, I mused. Yet, to
be female means something so very specific biologically.
It made me think of men, of their place biologically. The way they are
with all their differences, and their similarities.
. . . . .
Lonely hours and chains of thought led me a few nights later to raise the
subject of sex toys. That set off a very spirited discussion to say the
least. I had been very straightforward. I admitted I'd never had one,
and that I wanted to try it. There were hundreds of suggestions,
comments, deep, passionate letters. So many women gave real, practical
suggestions of models and methods.
Our traffic had spiked in spite of the premium charged. Jim wrote me,
saying I should only do what I feel comfortable doing. But, if I decided
to ever masturbate in front of my audience that I should give him a
warning because he thinks he could charge more. I told him I'd consider
that but it wouldn't be about money.
Jim had a special insight into my whole situation of course. But he still
wondered how extensive the transformation had been. When he'd brought up
that issue of masturbation, he wasn't completely sure if I'd reveal a
penis or a vagina or something strangely in-between. Everyone was
captured by the strange shroud of mystery over TNG - The New Girl -- even
Jim.
There were all sorts of messages from my audience. Some were kinky,
requesting me to wear certain things like leather, fish nets, pigtails and
lingerie. Some were very, very kinky. Many of them were kind and
thoughtful. All of them collectively were shaping my perspective on my
audience, not to mention my own self-perspective.
My life started to take on more dimension. My vblog, my confessions, my
discovery, my audience, they were such a potent focal point but I was
slowly gaining life, exploring. The audience would only hear about my
tiny adventures in the world, but I was out there, living, and they didn't
seem so tiny to me.
The money kept coming. I began spending it on my appearance. I was this
unusual creature, a strange chameleon, a man, insinuating myself into the
world of women. I was adapting to my physical self.
I'd walk down the streets of Manhattan with its all its crowds and shops
and salons. Nobody knew. They were oblivious when I'd try on the high-
heels, when I bought thongs, negligee, exquisitely delicious, tight, low-
cut dresses. No one knew. I sat there in the most glorious hair salon
with the most beautiful women and had my brownish hair colored to this
incredible honey blonde with its subtle highlights of golds and yellows
and gentle curls...and it was overwhelming. I looked so different in the
mirror. And nobody knew.
Except, there I was again, turning on my camera trying to explain, to
relate, to report somehow what it was that I was experiencing. I wanted
to be ordinary. But I didn't feel ordinary. My audience was both
anonymous and connected. I was emerging as a woman and my audience was
there to guide and share and witness in such an extraordinary way.
By day, I'd make my forays in public. This body, my body, felt
comfortable now. It really did. And that's saying a lot. If you were to
become six inches taller, or shorter, I think you'd find it challenging to
make the physical adjustment - at least at first. You'd discover that
people treat you differently in some way, too. What about those people
who lose 200 pounds? Life must be different for them . Women experience
whole different reactions from people when they change their hair style or
color. What about tatoos, colored eye contacts, nose jobs? Boob jobs?
People make physical changes - and adjustments -- all the time.
. . . . .
On the one hand, I had changed physically, albeit considerably. I had to
adjust to a whole new center of balance. All my proportions had changed
so much. I was shorter. My entire skeletal frame was smaller and there
was that utterly different distribution of flesh and weight. I knew I
wasn't as strong either, although it's not as though I felt physically
weak, it's hard to explain. At first, all that felt as awkward as you
would imagine.
But with each day I adjusted. I got used to that feeling of having
breasts, pretty much, at least. It just doesn't feel as alien when they
bounce or shift the way they do. It's not that I don't notice their
weight or the drastic change in my contour.
Of course, my physical structure, below my waist was...is...a big
adjustment. My breasts were this entirely new package of flesh. It was
like my butt, there's clearly more bounce, more weight there. And I had
these hips that spread to support that butt, my fleshier thighs, and this
whole new feeling in my lower anatomy. I was thin but there was that
little pouchy feeling of my tummy.
Having a vagina is a big change too. Kind of an understatement I guess.
But you adjust. It did feel different peeing, but it was very simple to
do that sitting. Forget the sexual aspects to our anatomy for a moment.
I think it might be stranger to suddenly have penis when you hadn't. I
don't know. Maybe not. It's just that when I'd walk somewhere, it wasn't
as though I'd feel the presence of that hole or my flesh surrounding it.
I'm talking physically, not mentally. And, of course, to touch it or even
just to look at it, well that's a different thing entirely.
I adjusted to the physical part, I guess, more or less, very
superficially. I think our brains are pretty flexible. After awhile, as
they get these new signals from the body, they adjust and react to the new
situation. But the whole mental part....that's not easy to adust to - at
all.
The mental part is the new awareness; the different way people see you and
treat you. It's cultural. It's psychological. It's behavioral. It's so
much more than you think. Would my mind adjust to that?
I was probably the prettiest freak you'd ever meet. The thing is, I don't
think people saw me as freak when I out. It was more an insight that my
audience had. But I began to discern the difference in ways people
perceived me in my limited social interactions in the city. And, that
whole 'pretty' thing, it comes from your body, your face, your hair, even
your hands; but it's also tied into the things you wear, like jewelry and
clothes, the make-up you have on, what you do to your hair - the
personality you convey.
I'd been a mid-30s jeans and dress shirt sort of guy. I had a few well
tailored suits that I looked good in but I wasn't caught up in fashion. I
was good with the low-maintenance look. Now, to be honest, I wasn't
really sure of what sort of woman I was becoming.
I had no particular clothing lines I preferred or shoe styles. One day,
as I was looking at earrings, I heard one woman say to the other: "those
aren't you." I wondered which ones are "me." I wondered that about
everything. And what if I dyed my hair red? What if got tattoos? What
if I look smart, conservative? What if I grow my nails longer and paint
them red? I wasn't sure where I was going. But I experimented.
I smoked cigarettes now. I think that conveyed something about who I was.
I know most people hate that habit; I was perfectly happy not being a
smoker before the transformation. I started just because, I guess. I
know it relaxed me. But, there came one morning when I first felt its
gentle craving. Somehow that feeling seemed to intermingle with all the
new sensations I was experiencing. I'm very aware of that need now, that
desire, and how my cigarettes can quell that feeling.
Maybe smoking hides a hidden passion or maybe it just conveys that.
Clothing can be that way too perhaps. What is sexual, what is hidden,
what is shown? I'm far from oblivious to the nature of breasts and how
they're hidden and how they're shown.
I bought a push-up bra, something so overt. It was such an exaggerated
expression for me and, at first, I only wore it alone in my apartment.
Then, one rainy afternoon, I saw this little black dress like I'd seen on
others. I brought it home, folded neatly in its box. I poured a glass of
wine and took a long hot bath. I shaved my legs, I washed my hair. I
masturbated.
I dried myself slowly and rubbed cream over my arms and my legs. I did my
make-up as best I could and pinned my hair back with new barrettes. Can I
tell you that it was almost a solemn feeling when I put my arms through
that bra and fastened it? Maybe it was just overwhelming. I stepped into
that black dress and zipped it. I slipped into black three-inch heels. I
took a deep, calming breath and stepped toward the mirror.
My face, my body were familiar to me now. But when I saw my entire image
-- with my curves, my slender stockinged legs, that deep line of cleavage
and the way my breasts were so prominent, so full - I felt an incredible
rush of electricity. Maybe it was some ethereal collision between my old
psyche and something new. Maybe it had been inevitable. I am me. This is
me, I thought, as I stood there at the mirror.
Maybe I just snapped. It all just bubbled up. All the pressures and
tensions just disappeared into this completely, totally different
perspective of my whole being.
. . . . .
It was a combination of psychological and behaviorial elements. It was
the emergence of a new ego and super ego. It was a collision of sorts --
a crashing of the new and the old. The Mong tribe had very specific
cultural elements that eased the whole transformation. As the body made
its own rapid progress, the Mong society ensured that the mind achieved a
certain harmony.
I didn't realize that my first menstrual period was imminent. I didn't
realize how that dress served to create my own crude version of a similar
event in the latter stages of new Mong women. They had a name for that
phase which literally translated as: butterfly light. The mounting lust I
felt would've been handled more elegantly had I remained with the Mong
during my transition.
. . . . .
I lit a cigarette. I took one last look and left my apartment,
confidently.
I felt people on the street glancing. Sometimes I looked back. I walked
into a bar I'd been to a hundred times before as a man but no one
recognized me. I knew the flirty bartender but she didn't know me. I sat
at the bar. I ordered a drink. It all felt so empowering.
One drink and I left. I went out into the day's waning light and walked a
number of blocks, adeptly in my heels. I stepped near the curb and hailed
a cab. I was intent on visiting that shop. I'd bought my vibrator there.
But I was back for something new, something that seemed so important, so
exciting.
. . . . .
At 9:30 pm I was back in my apartment. I flicked on the lights, put my
bag on my desk and slipped off one, then the other, of my heels. I had an
intense purpose to what I was to do tonight. I poured a drink and sat
down at my computer still in my low cut black dress. It felt so primal.
Somehow, I had the presence of mind to realize that it should documented.
"There is something I want to do," I said to the camera. I talked about
the past few hours I'd spent walking the city. I talked about my new
dress, how I felt, what I thought.
My audience watched enraptured, struck by my frankness and smoldering
intensity. I opened my bag with my new, secret purchase. Holding my
third cigarette between my fingers, I lustily presented to them this
prosthetic, this cock, this seven-inch dildo.
"This..." I said softly, lost in palpable thought. "This is for me."
For a few minutes, "The New Girl" described it, quiet and dreamily, as
though her audience weren't actually seeing it. Yet, as she examined it
under the bright of the desk lamp, they could clearly discern its lifelike
proportions, its ridges and bumps. Their screens were filled with the
sight of that dildo, TNG's expansive breast and the glowing passion in her
eyes.
She looked to the camera for moment and took a deep drag from her
cigarette. She said nothing, obviously lost in thought.
Moments passed and she said softly, "I've never done this before. But I
feel excited that I want to..." Her voice trailed off. "... I feel
excited when I anticipate how it will be." Her audience could sense her
building lust by the depth of each puff she took from her cigarette.
Then she was lost again, silent as she focused on the dildo, holding it
gently in her hand, running it slowly across the top of her breasts and in
her valley of cleavage. This wasn't a show. She seemed to have forgotten
the camera.
"I need to document this," she said, suddenly looking into the camera, in
nearly a whisper. And then she was gone.
Four, maybe five minutes later, the camera swiveled and focused onto her
bed. A moment later TNG came into view in her black panties and bra.
None of them had ever seen her in her underwear. They'd never seen her so
intensely erotic.
It turns out that there were new viewers logging in that night for the
very first time. What they saw was a very sensual, very attractive 30-
something year old blonde driven to an incredibly high sexual intensity by
a goddamn hunk of phallic of rubber.
But, the intensity they sensed was only a fraction of what was experienced
by the audience members who had been watching her evolution from the
beginning. Nearly 30,000 horny husbands, gay accountants, closet lesbian
housewives, fetishists, fat bull dykes, Christian co-eds....all orgasmed
that night with The New Girl.
So close to the camera, the audience didn't their upper view went only to
the curve where her neck met her shoulders. They saw her unfasten that
bra from the back. At the bottom, they could see down to her thighs. She
didn't hesitate in stepping out her panties revealing for the first time,
her trimmed, triangular muff. Her hand went down and ran over the curve
of her crotch. The audience could see her slender ring finger as it
slipped lengthwise just inside the folds of her fleshy lips. None of this
was a deliberate tease. She shook herself from her bra and then bent over
for a moment, exposing her face and her hanging breasts as she reached for
her dildo on the desk.
She forgot entirely about the camera and her audience. They knew that
when they saw her lying on the bed, her knees up and her hard thick
nipples silhouetted in the light. They felt her pure intensity as she
rubbed it up and down herself, teasing her labia and her clit, spreading
her wetness into her soft brown muff.
Eventually, with its head on the edge of her hole, she pushed it
exquisitely slowly deeper and deeper. They saw her lie motionless, frozen
in a gentle arch with her closed eyes when that cock was fully inside her.
It's delicious pressure, its presence, in her vagina, was too intense for
her to dare move. It was more than a minute, until she spasmed in her
first deep orgasm.
Orgasms came at her in huge, cascading waves with crests that made her
furiously fuck herself. They'd release into slow, velvety feelings in
which she would taste herself on the cock, and caress it and run it over
tummy and breasts.
She fell asleep there, hours later. She slept soundly for seven hours,
curled up. Her audience could see the press of her soft, worn crimson lips
peeking from between her legs.
. . . . .
It was more than a symbolic event. If she had been in that Laotian
village at this stage of her transition, she would've worn the yellow robe
of the Mong tribeswomen. It would be her last visit to the hut of the
'butterfly light' and the selected man would've released his semen inside
her.
. . . . .
Because she inadvertently left the camera on as she'd slept, it was an
eleven hour webisode. The audience reaction was extraordinary. It was
the pinging of messages that awoke her. They saw her struggle to wake up.
Then she reached up to push a button and the screens all turned dark.
Jim sent dozens of messages to TNG's private account. It had been six
days. She had never gone this long. He was worried and panicked.
. . . . .
That night, that endless orgasm had seared her mind to her body. Few
women ever have orgasms like that. It had been like a powerful shock,
zapping her female psyche to life, making it strong and dominant over the
maleness of her unique duality.
Two days after, she had her first menstrual period.
The New Girl was a woman now. Maybe still unsure of whom she was, but so
very sure of what she was.
She slept for two days.
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