Gladys
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Swappy Lady free porn video
Swappy Lady
Olga Turlovna
So, I'll start by saying I used to be a guy who secretly wanted to be a
woman. The fact you've found this story means you're probably the same
way and I don't need to explain my feelings to you. But I'm beginning
with that admission to emphasise God didn't create all of us with female
inclinations equal, and I never considered actually transitioning. I
wasn't motivated to go through the ordeal of years of expensive hormones
and surgeries, only to end up as an unfortunate overly-tall imitation of
a woman, with giant hands and feet and a deep voice. No, I'd have loved
to have been a woman, but only if I could be an absolute stunner, one of
those for whom life is a pampered fairytale of men falling over
themselves to please her. Otherwise, what would be the advantage?
I was probably hardwired from birth with those cravings, but it was way
back when I was about seven or eight, and Mary Wiles was part of our
little gang, that I really began to notice. With Mary around I gradually
became aware there was some special difference between us that gave her a
power - a spell she could cast just by smiling. For no reason we'd find
ourselves competing to win Mary's approval, impressing her just for a few
moments of her attention, or goofing around to make her laugh. Even the
other girls seemed to be in thrall to some exceptional charm we could all
see in her future. None of us understood what it was. We just knew Mary
had it, and the rest of us didn't.
Among that same crowd our childhoods slowly passed, occupied by
entertainments that were probably similar to yours. When the dark nights
of autumn and winter came we would find games to scare ourselves,
including paying tribute to our beautiful friend's name with "Bloody
Mary". You may know it, for it is widespread, but I'll repeat, just in
case. Although the dare has its variations, the theme is usually
something like this: There's a legend says that if you hold a candle in
the bathroom mirror, and say "Bloody Mary" three times, then blink - in
the glass you'll see the face of a witch. In some versions that witch
does something to you - clawing your eyes out or scratching your face. In
some versions the mere sight of her is enough to drive you insane.
Whatever she does, it's not a good thing.
Tina, another of the girls, liked to scream when we played this, swearing
she'd seen something, and she'd fling her arms around my neck. Boys were
expected be chivalrous and protect the girls, even at eight. Why couldn't
I have been the girl, I sometimes thought? It would have been nice to
have someone want to protect me for once.
Time rolled on as it inevitably does, and the monsters under the bed were
replaced by new, more adult terrors. I feared I might not find love; I
might lose my job; I might get a terrible illness; I might disgrace
myself in some social situation; environmental catastrophe; economic
collapse. The ghost stories of infancy including Bloody Mary, remained in
my psyche but they lost their sharp edge. They only resurfaced in horror
movie nights, or home alone when I heard a sound downstairs, or in
college student games where with my new friends we played with the
bathroom light extinguished after a shared bottle of vodka.
As predicted the real-life Mary had blossomed into the ethereal creature
we'd all foreseen. We still swapped Christmas cards, and on the rare
occasions I visited my parents' home I'd call in on Mary's family to see
if she was around. But Mary was destined for a different life to me. It
would never be like childhood again. She would move in the blessed
circles of the divine ones.
My craving to experience her world never left me, but I remained too
rational to act upon it. I continued to ask myself: What is the advantage
of trying to transition unless it is to be beautiful? Why work hard
washing female long hair when my male short-cropped thinning crown would
dry in minutes? Why have to spend a small fortune on cosmetics when I
could spend that money on more enjoyable pastimes? Why experience all the
social pressures a woman faces without the adulation? My answer remained
the same. It was only worth it if I could experience the power of being
profoundly desired. Only then. I had to be Sleeping Beauty, not the
Wicked Witch.
It was many years after I'd left university with a respectable, but not
outstanding, degree and then worked in various professional roles that
Swappy Lady was born from the last mortal remains of Bloody Mary. At the
time I was lucky enough to have found a job in the centre of one of
Europe's most beautiful cities - Paris - a place for those like me as
famous for its exquisite women as for its architecture, art and culture.
I'd pass gorgeous female creature after gorgeous creature on the streets
and I'd long to be them, to live their lives. I began to fantasise about
them and think I might have done anything to swap places - even selling
my soul to the devil, perhaps.
The things that happened later mean I remember the fatal first
coincidence like it was yesterday. On a cold and windy Paris October
evening I was walking up the hill towards Notre Dame amongst the crowds
of tourists and lovers when I saw an exquisitely tall, graceful brunette
woman in a Halloween costume, dressed as a witch. Her dark hair was long
and perfectly straight. Perhaps a Morticia Addams wig. The young woman
was made-up to be frightening, with a fake blood streak on her
exquisitely delicate jaw, and yet it was nowhere near enough to detract
from her exceptional beauty. She was laughing vivaciously in response to
some joke told by her male companion - also a handsome fellow - and
stumbling against him as though a little drunk.
"Marie", I caught the man using her name as she passed me, taking with
her a cloud of Angel perfume. And I recalled our childhood game and our
childhood Mary as I wondered how wonderful would it be to be this blood-
painted witch Marie - Bloody Marie, Bloody Marie, Bloody Marie. Imagine
if that ominous chant, instead of showing you the witch let you become
the witch... And I stopped in my tracks on that cold October evening and
laughed at the ludicrousness of my idea but at the same time I understood
with adult sexual awareness that I'd just conceived a far more potent
game, for becoming Marie would be a temptation well worth risking my
eternal salvation.
My fantasy of this new version of Bloody Mary, where my sacrifice would
let me trade everything for a female life, evolved in my head over the
next few months, as ideas do, and as I continued to longingly see beauty
after beauty. How could I have not dreamt, when reminders were
everywhere? I'd see gorgeous women in my daily commute on the Metro,
pressed up against the other travellers in the overcrowded carriage
offering an oasis of beauty and sweet fragrance in the mass of sweating
Parisians, or out shopping during their lunch or eating at a
sophisticated caf?. While my eyes lingered I pondered on the question:
would I actually, finally and irrevocably, risk everything to become such
a girl?
It was a rare day that there wasn't at least one female I'd idly consider
trading places with. A blonde I glimpsed outside a cafe one afternoon was
devastating enough to update my rankings - I decided I no longer wanted
to be the woman I'd seen on Halloween - Bloody Marie the Witch. I wanted
to swap bodies with this new lady. Swappy Lady.
Perhaps once every few weeks there would be an even more serious lure
into eternal damnation - the type I began calling a 'one in a thousand
girl'. And every couple of months there'd be one of those women where you
can only stop and marvel - the one in ten thousand beauties.
I adapted the route of my lunch break outings to take me past the
entrance to the Sorbonne University, where I'd hope to see it disgorge
some of its most delightful students. A sunny June day I saw just such a
one in ten-thousand - a long-legged natural blonde with a spirited
expression that showed strength of character; large appealing eyes that
had unusually deep blue irises; and a sensual mouth meant to be kissed.
She was so immaculate I actually had to stop before her.
Oh, to be like her! "Swappy Lady, Swappy Lady, Swappy Lady," I chanted in
the echoing vaults of my mind, and I closed my eyes, willing that I'd
leave my body and when I opened them I'd be looking out of hers.
But of course I wasn't. I was still looking (no doubt dumbly) at the
blonde, and not out from the blonde. She had registered me coming to a
halt, our gazes had met for the briefest instant, existences
interlocking, and then she was walking passed me, head pointedly turned
the other way as though I was invisible. I didn't blame her. Those like
her must be used to unwanted attention from men who are strangers, and
any acknowledgement of the invader runs the danger he will escalate to
attempting a conversation, and then a proposition.
I knew my game was a pure fiction, an invention, but in spite of that I
still came up with elaborate reasons why it hadn't worked in the case of
the blonde, but one day it might. The explanation I developed was that I
hadn't really, truly, had the total conviction needed in my wish to trade
places with the blonde - all one hundred percent of my heart and soul. I
had held something back, probably because what did I know about her? She
might have a horrific life - nursing a gruesomely dying relative; getting
beaten up by her boyfriend every night; dealing with the never-ending
cries of her sickly baby; wrestling debt or drug addiction.
Another question I pondered more and more: did I truly, genuinely, want
to abandon every last part of my male existence if she was what was on
offer? Some part of me was convinced the rules of Swappy Lady would mean
that once I'd become a female, I'd be unable to re-engage with any of my
former friends, or my wife, or my children. Perhaps it would the
antichrist himself who would take over and be walking around in my old
body, making the most of his human form to climb the ladders of power and
influence.
And the profoundest dilemma of all: imagine the potential regret if I'd
given up eternal life to the devil when five minutes later I might have
seen someone even more incredible. For I was sure somehow that a success
in Swappy Lady would guarantee eternal torment, and as I've said - I
didn't want to be a woman at any cost, spending my remaining days
lamenting the one I just missed. Perhaps that blonde Sorbonne student at
her age of twenty or twenty-one was even then too old, when I might be
about to be offered a sixteen-year-old around the next corner, or maybe
even a fourteen-year-old where I'd enjoy more years playing the ing?nue
before my flower began to fade.
No, the spell wasn't going to work until I irrevocably wanted it to work.
My protective lack of conviction had the advantage I could play Swappy
Lady in safety - hoping, but fearing, and laughing at my private fun. I'd
see the most exceptional women and screw up my nerves, chanting "Swappy
Lady, Swappy Lady, Swappy Lady". I'd close my eyes for a moment, and as I
mentally tried to jump, the tiniest part of me would be keeping me
anchored securely down. Inevitably there was failure, because of
wondering whether there might be a woman with slightly longer legs;
bigger breasts; or without that tiny blemish on her face that needed
makeup. So each day I would begin a new round of Swappy Lady with the
first woman where I believed living as her might be desirable, then
upgrading when a better candidate came along, then upgrading again.
"Swappy Lady, Swappy Lady, Swappy Lady."
I invented further refinements of the rules to explain my lack of
success. I had to be mirroring the pose of the girl, otherwise sensations
from my male body would also hold me back. To clarify - if I had been
sitting and she was standing, a tiny part of me wouldn't be thinking
about jumping, but would be anticipating about how if Swappy Lady was
successful - there would have to be a moment when the seat was there and
then not there. My legs would have to suddenly be straight when they'd
been flexed around the chair. It was that stimulus from my world - the
pressure of the seat or the position of my body, which was also anchoring
me to reality and preventing me focussing entirely on the jump.
So the final and definitive rules of Swappy Lady I arrived at were as
follows. I had to be in the exact same position as the girl; say "Swappy
Lady" three times inside my head; want to jump with all my heart and be
focussed on the jump one hundred percent; and close my eyes for longer
than a blink while losing myself entirely in the spell.
In spite of the cornucopia of female delight in Paris, it was in London
where I saw my first one in a million girl. She was emerging from a
grubby convenience shop in King's Cross Station, of all places. Ironic
that magic found me in the place famous for Harry Potter, but that's how
it was. Perfection, leaving one of those tawdry stores that caters to
travellers with overpriced pre-packed sandwiches, chocolate, packets of
crisps, magazines, cigarettes, and plastic pots of fruit for the healthy.
I take what happened to me as proof there isn't any God protecting us,
for fate put me in the same railway terminus as her at the worst time I
could remember since the death of my mother. My marriage had broken down,
ironically owing to my longing to be a woman. I'd failed to clear my
browser history, and co-incidence meant my wife had used my laptop on the
wrong day. Her finding the same transgender fiction site where I post
this today was the final straw.
Furthermore, the company where I had slaved long hours was finding things
tough in a recession economy, and although my job wasn't specifically
under threat, the senior management felt some new blood would change
their fortunes. Things were made difficult for me. I was obstructed, no
doubt in the hope that I would jump without forcing them into the expense
of a redundancy settlement.
So there I was returning from an angry meeting, making a short detour to
buy myself a microwave ready meal for one, and into this existence
sashayed her, my one in a million temptation with a pot of low-fat yogurt
in her elegant hand. Neither of us were paying much attention to where we
were going - I was actually looking the other way to check out a
different girl - so she almost bumped into me in the narrow door of the
shop. We both stopped dead and our eyes met. And... Heaven. It was that
Hollywood moment where the rest of the world fades into an insignificant
blur, for all that mattered was us.
No doubt you have your own concept of the idealised female and feel free
to swap, but to me she looked like this:
The girl was a little taller than I was, but not in the mannish way of
large proportioned women. Rather she had a willowy build with slender
bones, and might have looked underweight if it wasn't for her full,
proud, breasts which strained against the tight-black roll-neck sweater
she was wearing.
Her face was perfectly symmetrical and was as exquisite as a cover model
from a fashion magazine. She was blessed with a fine structure, high
cheekbones, a delicate nose, full sensual lips surrounding a mouth that
was slightly parted, as though in permanent surprise.
The woman's skin was flawless. I could see not a trace of a spot, mole or
freckle on the exposed areas which included her arms from finger to
shoulder, for her sweater was sleeveless. That satin flesh was
unnaturally pale, almost vampiric white.
Framing the perfection of her face was dark hair. In my head I was a
blondes man, yet playing Swappy Lady I always seemed to end up going for
the brunettes. This one's hair was as straight as if she'd ironed it. I
couldn't tell the length, for we had stopped standing almost nose to nose
and that mahogany cascade, hanging down her back was obscured from my
view.
This was the goddess who studied me from eyes dark brown with irises
which made them look larger and more vulnerable. Heavy eyelashes widened
instinctively when they detected my interest as though appealing to me
for help, and yet she was no wilting damsel - the woman looked quite
boldly at me with intelligence and a strength of purpose in her
expression.
I would have guessed her to be eighteen at the most. Of course a one in a
million girl would have to be youthful. She was so right for me, in every
way, that today I wonder if she looked the way she did because that was
my idealisation, and if it were you she'd bumped into on that busy
station she might have been different.
"Sorry," I apologised to her in a mumble, breaking the intense connection
by dropping my gaze, which only meant I took in more of her flawless form
- wide feminine hips and long slim legs wrapped in denim jeans so tight
they might have been painted onto her. The girl's small feet had maroon
painted toenails, and she was wearing strappy stiletto heels of a shiny
black patent leather.
Around us God abruptly un-paused the universe, so an announcement over
the public address system almost drowned out her voice.
"Okay," was all she replied, but it was enough that I'd heard her speak
for the first time - a breathy soprano that was able to sound suggestive
even pronouncing those two innocuous words. Her tone in answering me was
odd, ambiguous. She hadn't said "It's okay." It was more "Okay", the tone
of someone contemplating a task, and deciding how to begin. Okay - I'm
ready. I can work with this.
I returned to her face, inhaling with the awkwardness of a social
situation between two strangers. She smelled of a light, flowery
fragrance.
Then we had one of those comedy moments where two people each try to move
out of each other's way. To me, the space between us was alive with
sexual electricity, but I doubted she thought any more of it than wanting
to get around the plain, middle-aged bumbling man who was blocking her
way.
Finally the deadlock broke. I stepped to the side when she didn't. Only
our eyes remained interlinked. I paused, releasing her to move on by. She
had illuminated my life for no more than a few brief seconds and yet I
felt dejected beyond belief that this angelic creature was about to leave
me in darkness forever, with nothing more than her memory.
But that's human existence for you - the temporary nature of everything.
I closed my eyes in defeat, overwhelmed by the encounter with Her, for
just enough time to think the familiar phrase, "Swappy Lady, Swappy Lady,
Swappy Lady," and as I wished myself into her I opened them, expecting to
see her already gone.
You can probably guess what's coming, but at the time what I saw seemed
an utterly incomprehensible sight, for I was suddenly looking at myself
in a mirror. Yes, somehow the shop entrance before me had been replaced
by a mirror. There I was looking straight back at my own image,
correction - it was as though I was a fraction taller than myself:
looking down at a very slight angle to a reflection of my very average
form standing with the station concourse behind me.
In that glass which had arrived so deviously were my familiar masculine
features - a face that had always seemed so mundane to me I'd never
understood why any woman could find it desirable.
And yet the imperfections in the symmetry made my reflection utterly
strange. My thoughts were baffled, whereas my male face wore a wide
smile, a joy that was almost malicious. This did not compute.
Those years of playing Swappy Lady should have prepared me, but it took
me another second to start accepting what you no doubt jumped to
instantly, being familiar with this genre of fiction. It had worked. I
was watching myself from the eyes of the girl. The heavy tickling
sensation I could feel down my back was her long hair. The pressure of a
firm mass against the inside of my upper arm was the swollen curve of my
left breast.
It had worked.
I was her, and just as I'd predicted developing the rules of the game,
everything useful I knew of my former self had gone. I was to be left
just enough to comprehend the enormity of what I had so freely given
away, but no more than that.
So I could remember exactly how I invented Swappy Lady one October in
Paris. I remembered in my childhood there was a girl called Mary Wiles,
but I don't know where she lived. I remembered I was once married, and I
worked in some sort of professional role, and that I'd just had a
difficult meeting. But I don't know where I lived, or where I worked, and
tragically, not the name of my wife. I can't even recall the name of the
man who was standing in front of me in that London station, so I can
include it in my story. All I knew was that once he was me.
"No!" I said, my new high voice anguished, and I reached out to me in
sudden panic. My yogurt pot fell and detonated on the marble floor,
spattering my bare feet with goo.
But my male form was already turning quickly away to make for the
concealing crowd. No doubt the female figure I inhabited had a terrified
expression on her face, and an exceptionally beautiful young woman
looking as though she was frightened by a very average looking man would
soon attract attention from valiant passers-by.
"I've got a train to catch," he said over his shoulder, "enjoy!" and
those were the last words I ever said to me. Knowing somehow that any
effort to take back what was lost would be futile, I didn't follow, but I
simply stood there, feeling faint with the flood of sensations from the
body of the girl. The temple of mortal flesh given to me by God was
already gone from my sight and I didn't even remember where he/me had
been going.
Deep in my belly was a sensation like cramps, so intense I wanted to
double over. My new form was menstruating.
And there we go. You know almost all of it now, for those events in the
London station took place only weeks ago, at the end of September.
To you, the reader, the thing that happened to me maybe still sounds like
a dream come true, and you're probably wondering - why is Swappy Lady
posted as a horror story?
Well, here's the rub. That discomfort I'd attributed to period pains were
symptoms of the final stage terminal cancer which was every moment eating
away the girl's abdomen and had reduced the body to the size I'd thought
so pleasingly slim. Already the medics had ripped out her womb and her
ovaries, so in a sense my one-in-a-million woman was less of a woman than
all those others I'd desired. Her hair that I'd considered perfect was a
wig to conceal the effects of radiotherapy. Under her denims her thigh
was covered in needle tracks from the meds she has to inject. The breasts
I'd so admired - well, the one that brushed my upper arm was also fake,
replaced after the disease ruined the perfect flesh that was originally
there.
Not so sexy a story now, huh! Still want to be me? I had traded my male
future for this - the few remaining months in the life of a woman who
will leave the world with no legacy, and few to mourn except the hospital
accountants who know they will never recover her insurmountable mountain
of medical debt.
I have few answers to conclude my story. I don't know if it was the devil
who claimed me that day or a case of terminal bad luck. I hope and pray
for the latter, for that might mean I am not damned, and if it worked
once it might work again.
I must leave you and go out now, for I have little time and more urgently
than ever I need a new form. Currently I'm searching in a place far from
where I found her, so don't think you're safe from my fate just because
you're not in London. Perhaps I look nothing like the brunette I just
described, and my vision of her was a lie to put you off guard. Perhaps
I'm in a town or city where I might cross paths with you, you who might
trade your eternal life for the final brief period of my exquisite
flowering. It's all possible, but it's a dwindling hope. I have only
weeks before I will look too withered, broken and gaunt to be desirable.
Now perhaps you understand. I must get as many of you as possible playing
Swappy Lady before it is too late for me and my doom is inevitable. I
post this story not to deter you, but to encourage you. Why not try the
game? I dare you!
This is fiction, right? You'll experience nothing worse than a little
thrill of fear, and suppose it does work - well your chance is miniscule
that the woman who captivates you will be as ruined as me.
My hopes will climb as the number of my readers climb, and then each time
a man's eyes linger on me in that different way - longing more than lust
- I'll pray it's someone like you.
I beg God with my heart and soul that before it's too late my hero will
come, you, and your eyes will settle on me, and at last you'll think the
words I need: "Swappy Lady, Swappy Lady, Swappy Lady". We'll close our
eyes and when we open them, we'll begin to dream each other's dreams.
Happy Halloween my favourite TG weirdos. Olga. X
Louise
- 01.09.2022
- 6
- 0
