BEA S FIRST GANG BANG PART 1
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Leave It To Bea - Part Eight free porn video
Part Eight
Permanent. Stan and I got back to the apartment after dropping off the
last of my boy clothes at Goodwill. I walked into the closet in our
bedroom. On one side were Stan's clothes, which were much too large to
ever fit me. On my side of the closet were the only clothes that I could
wear: colorful dresses, tops, and skirts. My shoe rack contained
delicate, strappy high heeled sandals, spectator pumps, and open toed
slingbacks, most of them decorated with delicate little bows, and
accented with bright colors. I walked to the dresser. All I had to wear
were pastel nylon panties decorated with lace, delicate camisoles, full
slips, half slips, pantyhose, stockings, and garter belts. And bras. It
had become my daily routine to put on a bra and slip in my breast pads.
I had a vanity now, filled with makeup, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick, nail
polish, and perfume. I didn't really have the option to skip putting on
makeup anymore, because from now on, every time I stepped out the front
door, I had to present to the world the image of a female, with pretty
hair, made up face, and painted nails. My walk, mannerisms, voice, and
interactions with people had to be as a female.
Fortunately, the change to being a full time girl was surprisingly easy.
Months of practice had given my mannerisms, posture, and walk a decidedly
feminine nature. And the world went on turning despite the major change.
My classmates weren't too surprised at my new look. (Apparently, my
mannerisms, even when dressed as a boy, had become more and more "swishy"
over the last year. Funny what being constantly penetrated by a large
man will do to your habits...) I had already been living as a girl
almost full time over the summer, so making "the change" in the fall
wasn't a big effort. My male mentality was still there, but more and
more often, I swept it aside to be able to deal with people as my image
required. The funny thing is that beyond just mannerisms and physical
traits, my mentality seemed to be changing, too. I became more
conversational. I had never realized it, but I think it's a very male
thing to deal with people as potential competitors. Now I looked at them
as potential friends. People related differently to me, too. Girls were
a lot more friendly, and I became adept at "girl talk." Some boys
avoided me at first, but after a few weeks, they opened up and things got
back to something close to normal. I was shocked the first time I saw a
guy staring at my legs, but it started happening more and more often.
What was really surprising was when guys made passes at me, even the ones
who knew I wasn't a "real" girl. I suppose, after awhile, I stopped
being "Bea, the crossdresser," and became just "Bea."
More and more often, as I was dressing and putting on my bra, I would
slip my breastforms in and wonder what it might be like to have real
breasts. How would they look, and would they be more sensitive than my
male chest? I thought about how it would feel to have real, full,
natural breasts jutting out from my chest. How big would they be? Would
I have sensitive nipples? With all the other changes I had been through,
I wanted to find out. Stan and I talked it over, and he loved the idea
of having a couple of "real" breasts to play with, but he wanted me to be
sure of myself before I made such a drastic change. We did some research
on hormones, and after a few more weeks, I told Stan that I wanted to
take the leap. Living in El Paso, a border town, made it easier. We
drove to Juarez, which took all of twenty minutes, and went to a
farmacia. We got two months supply of female hormones and a testosterone
blocker. An hour later, back at our apartment, I looked long and hard at
my first dosage. Everything I had done up to now was superficial. I
could always, if I had to, cut my hair and buy some jeans and men's
shirts. But I couldn't just wash away physical changes. Signing that
rental agreement had seemed profound, but it was nothing compared to the
permanence of changing my body, and growing actual breasts. The male me
made itself known once again, and I got that momentary sense that I was
betraying myself, becoming something "less than." Then I popped the
pills in my mouth and washed them down with a glass of water.
At first, I couldn't tell any difference, but after a couple of weeks, my
nipples began to get itchy. I didn't think anything of it at first, but
after awhile, it got to be really annoying. The night I told Stan about
it, he gently kissed, then sucked gently on my nipples, and I went almost
through the roof! It felt so good! Having Stan suck on my nipples sent
electric shocks from my breasts down to my bottom and back again, like
they were connected by a main circuit cable. I'd lay under him,
writhing, holding his head to my chest, moaning and shrieking, urging him
to suck harder and harder. When he fucked me, he'd play with them,
rolling my nipples between his fingers, and I would come immediately,
feeling waves of pleasure roll all through my body. No way was I giving
this up. Later, my nipples developed little knots underneath, and they
got larger and darker. The flesh continued to build up until I had two
little points sticking out from my chest, topped with pert little
nipples. Not what you'd really call breasts, but nothing a male would
ever have, either. My hips and butt got more fleshy, too, and my skin
seemed softer and more sensitive. I had never had to shave more than a
couple of times a week, and now, my facial growth became very fine, and
white. Steven set me up with an electrolysis tech and in a few more
weeks, my facial hair was a thing of the past.
Freed from the necessity to give me an androgynous look, Steven went nuts
on my hair. Every two weeks, he gave me a new "look." Up-do's, French
twists, braids, perms in every combination. Ellen was my fashion
consultant, and as the weather changed, she filled up my closet with Fall
fashions. I had to dress nicely to work at the camera shop, so I
acquired a nice little collection of "office appropriate" dresses,
skirts, and shoes. Female fashion is a lot more complicated than that of
mens', with endless options and decisions about color, fabric, and
texture. I loved every choice, and for the first time in my life, I
could use my clothing to express my personality and mood. Much better
than throwing on Dockers and a polo shirt!
My morning routine of putting on panties, stockings, a bra, slip, and a
dress had become just that: routine. Not that that was a bad thing.
With all the practice, I got good at composing a feminine image to match
my mood. Some days, I was the dedicated student, other days, I could be
the young hot shot career girl or the bohemian gypsy. And yes, some days
I dressed just a little bit slutty, just for fun. That "slutty" part was
surprisingly easy. I could put together a very tasteful, stylish,
"appropriate" ensemble to wear to class, and by simply adding a pair of
open-toed ankle strap pumps, I could turn lots of heads. (It's ALL about
the shoes.)
The only thing that wasn't routine was sex with Stanley. I bought a
"naughty schoolgirl" outfit, complete with a white blouse, short pleated
plaid skirt, knee socks, and Mary Janes, and at least once a week, I
reported to "Principal Stanley" for a sound spanking on my pantied bottom
while he bent me over his knees. Stan was my best friend, and I his. We
made each other laugh, and we liked doing the same things. We had spats
(mostly about my dainties hanging on the shower curtain rod, or him never
putting his dishes in the dishwasher), but they were never serious, and
they usually ended with us laughing, hugging, and Stan carrying me into
the bedroom.
The one nagging fear I had about Stan was the depth of his feelings for
me. He was sweet, and attentive, and seemed to be very taken with me.
But in his culture, relationships like ours were just a temporary
"convenience" until a man could find a female bride. Was that how Stan
thought of me? We had never used the word "love" with each other, but in
my heart of hearts, I had to admit to myself that I was in love with
Stanley. I could see myself living with him and being his wife. I was
terrified that it was all just a game to him.
By the time Christmas rolled around, my weight distribution had changed,
gathering in my hips. I threw away my padded seat and hip panties. That
feminine walk that I had spent so long to develop became natural. (In
fact, I needed to tone it down; I was attracting a little too much male
attention.) My shoulders and upper arms thinned, and I looked great in
strappy tops.
I loved the changes in my body, and as they continued, I kept looking at
my scrotum, wondering more and more about getting rid of those
troublesome, shrunken little testicles that were producing all that icky
testosterone.
After everything else I had done, it didn't seem like much of a decision.
We found a urologist in Juarez, and made an appointment to have me
castrated. Two years ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of doing such a thing,
but life as a girl had grown so familiar, it seemed like the only
sensible thing to do. In the doctor's office, I put my feet in the
stirrups and listened to music on headphones while the doctor worked. I
vaguely felt a little tug here and there, but after only a few minutes, I
felt him bandaging my scrotum. I spent the next few days with a package
of frozen peas on my crotch, and when I undid the bandages the first
time, it looked awful. Bruised and purple and ugly. But after a few
more days, the swelling and bruising wore off, and when I looked down, I
saw an unnaturally small little penis, more like a little boy's, no more
than an inch long, projecting above an empty, hairless scrotum. My
panties immediately fit better, and I started wearing short shorts, which
Stanley loved. With my testicles no longer "in the way," when we did it
in the missionary position, Stan was able press up against all of me, and
I could feel his stomach and his chest crushing against me as he thrust
himself into me. My whole sexual mentality was changing, too. Before,
as a male, sexual pleasure was concentrated on my penis, but now, my
breasts became a major erogenous zone, and when Stanley stroked or sucked
on them, I would feel an orgasmic shiver. The whole idea of sex had
changed for me from an act of penetration to one of receiving, to being
penetrated, to being a receptacle.
I had almost forgotten what it was like to be a boy. After the
castration, my body must have figured out what I was up to, because my
breast enlargement seemed to go into high gear. They went from little
lumps on my chest to an A-cup in no time, and by Spring, I was almost a
B-cup. My breasts were beautiful and shapely, and stood out from my
chest a couple of inches. When Stanley put me on all fours and fucked me
doggie style, I could feel them hanging from my chest, swinging back and
forth with every one of Stanley's thrusts.
The hormones made my skin softer and more sensitive. My hips and butt
widened and got more fleshy, and Steven rudely informed me that I needed
to start watching my diet. I took up jogging, and most afternoons found
me pounding the pavement around campus in a crop top (sports bra
underneath), girl's running shorts, and pink-trimmed running shoes, with
my hair pulled back into a ponytail that swung back and forth as I
jogged. Between the running and workouts at the gym, my muscle tone
improved and my body fat distributed to those areas where I wanted it.
Looking in the mirror, I had a passable hourglass shape, with a narrow
waist flaring to wide (well...wider) hips. Turning, my now full B-cup
breasts jutted from my chest and my butt formed a nice little shelf in
back. Steven had done wonders with my hair, and I now had a thick, full
mane of light brown waves framing my features.
In April, Stanley started talking about going on a cruise after
graduation. I loved the idea, especially when he told me that I would
need a gown for formal night. And I would need hats. Lots of lovely
hats. And brightly-colored Sarong skirts. And scuba lessons. Scuba
lessons? Stanley was fascinated with the idea of scuba diving, and I
agreed to take lessons with him. It was a sacrifice to "please my man."
It was easier to bear when I saw myself in a wetsuit for the first time.
I looked HOT. I spent a lot of time by the pool working on my tan.
Another benefit of having an empty scrotum and a hormone-reduced penis
was that I could wear bikini bottoms without showing a bulge. I liked
the way I looked naked; I had developed sharp tan lines around my breasts
and bottom.
One last grind of finals, and it was Graduation Day! Hooray! I was an
official recipient of a Bachelor of Science in Mechanical Engineering,
with "all the rights and privileges thereunto appertaining!" (Those
rights and privileges seemed to be limited to the necessity to send out
resumes like crazy, but I was still proud.) Just for fun, for the
graduation ceremony, I wore something "interesting" under my cap and
gown. A red full corset with full boning and garters, fully-fashioned
black nylons with French heels, and red satin panties. And nothing else.
Stanley saw me sitting on the bed wearing that little number while I
slipped on a pair of black patent leather spike heels. He just stared as
I took my graduation gown off the hanger and put it on.
"You're going to wear THAT under your gown?"
"It's a hot day, Stan; I don't want to overdress."
"Uh, you know, Bea, we have a whole hour before the ceremony... You want
to... uh...?"
"We don't have time, dear. Put on your cap and gown and let's get to the
ceremony."
Poor Stan. His sweetie had become an evil bitch. He was visibly
uncomfortable the whole time, thinking about what I had on under my
graduation gown. It made me a little horny, too. Well... a LOT horny.
I was in front of thousands of proud parents and faculty, and that thin
layer of fabric was the only thing keeping all these people from seeing
my naughty undies. The "male" part of me was particularly outraged that
day. Listening to the commencement speaker drone on, I would cross and
uncross my legs, feeling the nylon of my stockings, the tug of my
garters, and the constriction of my corset, and all of these sensations
reminded me of my feminized and emasculated state. That was bad enough,
but when they called my name, I walked across the stage in front of those
thousands of people, and I kept thinking my gown would fall off, or get
caught on a nail and suddenly tear away, and leave me standing in front
of all those people dressed like a French whore.
After the ceremony, Stan stayed very close to me, and his hands
kept...roaming. We made polite small talk with friends and professors
for awhile, but then Stan couldn't stand it any longer and took me home.
He ripped off my gown, bent me over his knee, and gave me a sound
spanking. (I suppose I deserved it.) Then I pulled off his gown, along
with everything else he was wearing, and dropped to my knees in front of
him. He was hard as a rock, and I licked and nibbled his cock for awhile
before taking him in my mouth and swallowing him to the root. I had been
secretly practicing with dildos, and FINALLY, after over a year, learned
to deep throat. I took a deep breath, relaxed my throat, and that huge
cock of his went all the way into my gullet. My nose nestled against his
pubic bush, and his balls touched my chin. I grasped his tight little
buns and drew him into me for a few strokes, then backed out to get a
breath. Looking into his eyes, I took him all the way to the root again.
We didn't get out of the apartment for the rest of the day. (That poor
pizza delivery guy is probably still talking about me answering the door
in a corset and stockings.)
We flew to Fort Lauderdale for our cruise. The night before our
departure, we went to South Beach and I saw some female impersonators who
could have taught me a thing or two. The next day, we went through the
boarding process and settled into our cabin (Deck 9, Deluxe Balcony) and
looked forward to seeing Jamaica, Cozumel, and Belize. As soon as we
cleared port, Stan took me out to the balcony and bent me over the
railing. There's nothing quite like looking at the city of Miami flowing
by, about a mile away, and smelling the sea breeze as a large Tanzanian
guy bangs you silly from behind.
Jamaica was lovely. We took a tour of the Ochos Rios area, and I
developed a taste for Cuban cigars. I wore flowers in my hair, and Stan
looked scrumptious in walking shorts and a tank top. After Jamaica, we
had a day at sea, and that night was formal night. I spent forever
getting ready. Ellen had helped me pick a gorgeous formal gown, solid
black, off the shoulder, with a long slit up the side to show off my
legs. I wore Stan's necklace, of course, and my green earrings, and I
got my makeup just right. Stan looked edible in his tux. Lord, that man
was HOT! Broad shoulders, tapering down to a narrow waist and those
tight little buns of his. He looked handsome and elegant and totally
fuckable, which was good because that was my plan. Among all the
retirees and newlyweds, we were by far the best looking and most exotic
couple on the ship, and that wasn't even counting the fact that I was a
guy! After supper, we walked through the ship, enjoying the tropical air
and smelling the sea. We stopped in the cigar lounge and Stan got a
picture of me smoking a Cohiba.
In Cozumel, we went diving. Fascinating. Unbelievable colors, and lots
of strange creatures inhabiting the reefs. A funny thing about diving:
after spending the afternoon looking at fish in their natural habitat,
you find yourself craving seafood. We went over to the east side of the
island and had fish tacos and margaritas at a little bar on the beach.
The east side of Cozumel island is completely undeveloped, and there's no
electricity. (The bars operate off propane and ice chests.) Stan and I
took the proverbial "long walk along the beach," enjoying the waves and
sky and sand. It was a perfect moment, and that's when Stan said, "Bea,
we need to talk..."
Oh, shit... This was it. He had taken me on this cruise to end our
relationship! All very elegant, I suppose, but he had decided to move on
with his life and find a real girl, and this was how he was going to say
goodbye. I knew, deep down, that I could face life as an "independent
woman," but the simple truth was, I didn't want to! Being a woman was a
lot more fun with Stanley around! Nevertheless, I screwed up my courage
and waited for the axe to fall, right across my pretty neck.
And that's when Stanley went down on one knee. I wondered what the hell
he was doing, and then realized... No, he wasn't going to... I wasn't
sure what was happening until I saw the ring. Did I mention that Stanley
had relatives in Tanzania? And they could get him great deals on
precious stones? Two carats. Blazing like fire in the afternoon light.
"Will you marry me, Bea?"
That answer to that question would be "yes." I got down on my knees and
kissed him like never before. He slipped the ring on my finger and I
looked FABULOUS!!! At that moment, any trace of masculinity I might have
had left exited my body, rolled down the beach into the waves and sank to
the bottom of the Caribbean, because that ring on my finger looked So.
Damn. Good.
On the ship that night, I still couldn't figure out how Stan was going to
swing a "marriage." I assumed I would need to get my gender legally
changed, and that would involve some counseling, and some sort of
psychologist's letter, but I wasn't too worried about that. I had been
planning to do it sooner or later, anyway.
What I hadn't planned on was arriving at the dock in Belize and finding
Steven waiting for me.
"Steven! What in the world are YOU doing here?"
"Come with me, Princess, we've got work to do." I looked at Stan, and he
just smiled and shooed me away with Steven, who took me to a nearby
hotel. When we got to his room, there was a lovely white gown hanging
there.
"Ready for your wedding day, princess?"
They had set me up. Even before the cruise, Stan and Steven had arranged
it all, including researching the lovely liberal marriage laws in Belize.
It wouldn't be legal in the States, of course, but we would be married.
I was going to be a bride. Today. For the last time, Steven did my
makeup. He had brought a complete set of bridal lingerie: white
stockings, corset, panties, and little silver heeled sandals. Then he
helped me into the beautiful lace overlay gown, headpiece, and veil.
Steven changed into a tux. (For a flamboyant queen, he looked very
masculine.) He took me downstairs to a horse-drawn coach (Lord, they had
planned this thing!) that took us through the streets of Belize City.
People shouted and cheered the bride as she passed by. To me, it was
like a farewell tour of my old, masculine life. The coach took us to a
secluded beach, where Stanley and the wedding party awaited my arrival.
And that's when I saw Ellen, and Mr. And Mrs. Perez. (They must have
been pretty sure I was going to say "yes.")
It was, in a word, perfect. I even made it across the beach wearing
those little heels. My dear, dear friend Steven gave me away. Tears
streamed down his cheeks as he bid farewell to his "little princess."
Stanley took my hand, and we exchanged vows in front of the clergyman,
our friends, the ocean, the sky, and all of creation. We were pronounced
"man and wife," to have and to hold, forever. My husband raised my veil,
looked into my eyes and smiled, and kissed me.
Ah, marital bliss... Stan got a great job in Seattle. I played housewife
for a few months, which gave me time to concentrate on getting my gender
changed. After that, we got to go through a whole other beachside
wedding, this time at sunset over the Pacific. It was lovely, but Belize
will always, to me, be our "real" wedding. Eventually, I got bored
sitting around the house playing June Cleaver and got a great job at a
local engineering firm. Stan and I are competitors.
Nowadays, I look through our wedding album, and I'm amazed at how much
work Steven and Stan did to make that Belize wedding happen. I'm even
more amazed at my incredible luck in finding all of them. Stanley, the
love of my life, and Steven, my fairy godmother and drill sergeant.
Ellen, who was so accepting and helpful. And Mr. and Mrs. Perez, who
treated me like a son, and then like a daughter. Maybe it doesn't matter
what gender you are; maybe the thing that gives life its real meaning is
the people around you. I know it has been for me.
Thank you, dear readers, for your kind comments on this story. I think
this is the appropriate place to end Bea's journal. She's not going to
have much time to write; I understand that she was just promoted at work
and is going to be VERY busy for awhile.
Love and kisses,
Aunt Joanne
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