Greener Grass
- 2 years ago
- 10
- 0
Greener Grass free porn video
I rolled over to look at the alarm clock. It was buzzing annoyingly,
telling me it was time to get up. I was dying to hit the snooze button,
at least once, to drift back asleep for a few more precious minutes.
Before my transition, that had been one of my favorite things. I could
hit the snooze button three, four, maybe even five times and still get to
work in plenty of time. Now it was different. I needed much more time to
get ready for work and even missing five minutes could put me way behind
schedule. So I turned off the buzzing monster and rolled over to get up.
I could feel my hair curlers against the pillow, reminding me of the
fitful night's sleep. I needed them, as my long hair wouldn't be ready in
the morning without them. I had gotten adjusted to sleeping with them in
my hair, but it wasn't easy even after several years of doing it.
I swung my feet to the ground, stood up, and shuffled toward my bathroom.
Pulling down my panty and lifting up the hem of my nightgown I sat down
on the toilet to pee. Reflexively, I rotated my pelvis downward so I
wouldn't have to hold my little penis and it would still aim the stream
of urine into the bowl. The release as the pee came out of me felt good.
I always drank a lot of water, but had increased my intake lately,
because I was trying not to snack as much so I could lose some weight.
When the flow stopped, I tore off some paper from the roll, and lightly
wiped off the head of penis, as it was so short it didn't do any good to
try to shake it any more.
I was more awake now, so I headed out of the room to make a cup of
coffee. Even though I lived alone and my window shades were drawn, I
still grabbed my fuzzy robe and wrapped it around me as I made my way
down the hall to the kitchen. I intentionally lowered the temperature at
night and kept it low when I was at work to help reduce my heating bill,
so I always wore my robe in the morning over my nightgown. Putting some
water and a one-shot coffee pack in my machine, I started it. While I
waited, I took my hormone pills, a vitamin, and a supplement supposed to
help my skin stay soft and younger looking. Carrying my coffee mug, I
headed down the hall again to my bedroom.
Every evening as I went to bed, I thought of what I would wear the next
day to help speed up my morning ritual. Today, I went to my closet and
looked at the two dresses I had thought about. With a quick glance, I
eliminated the black and white striped sheath, as I remembered a heel on
one of my matching black pumps had broken last week and I hadn't yet
replaced them. So I grabbed the brown and beige dress and the brown high-
heel sandals and put them by my bed. The dress was one of my favorites,
as its color-block design gave the impression of a narrow waist and help
reinforce an hourglass silhouette for me. I had gotten comfortable with
my new body, but still wished I had more curves. Especially I would love
to be smaller in the waist and bigger around the hips. My breast implants
gave me the dimensions I wanted up top, but I couldn't yet afford to get
similar implants on my butt. So I took every opportunity to use design
tricks to get closer to my desired look.
Sipping more coffee, I went to my dresser to pick out my underwear. I
rummaged through my panties and picked out a plain beige thong. Even
though I still had a penis, the years of female hormones had eliminated
my ability to get an erection, so lack of use and my new hormones had
shrunken it and my testicles to where they were little more than small
lumps rising from my crotch. A thong would cover them sufficiently now. I
opened the next drawer to pick out a bra. As a young boy, I had always
wanted to wear bras. Before I made the decision to change sexes, I
dreamed about them almost every night. Now though, I almost dreaded
putting them on. Lost in my fantasy of who I wanted to be as a woman, I
had chosen to get large implants when after two years of hormones I had
only developed small breasts, not quite B-cups. Now living the reality of
having full D-cups, with all their weight and size, I understood the
downsides of large breasts. I instinctively selected a full coverage
satin bra, one that supported me without underwire cups. I slipped it on,
hooking it in front before sliding it around so the cups were in positon.
I leaned over so my breasts could fall into the cups and pulled up the
straps. As I did so, I noticed a bit too much sag. I reached around to
check, but I had hooked the band in the last positon. Dang that meant my
favorite bra was too stretched out to wear to work anymore and I would
need to buy a replacement. That was all I needed, as I was already short
on money for the month and needed to replace my black heels too.
I glanced at my image in the mirror over my dresser and saw how my
breasts were not projecting out and forward. I also noticed the slight
bulge of my stomach below my bra. Like a shock, I remembered my
conversation with my boss at work. When I decided to transition from a
man, I was let go from my job as the lead chemist at a polymer
manufacturing plant. Now, I worked for a small, Christian school where I
taught chemistry and physics to impressionable middle school girls. My
boss, the headmistress of the school, was very old-fashioned and insisted
I project a conservative image with styles suitable for a lady. I had to
wear nice dresses, not pants, suits, or even skirts, and I had to
completely accessorize them. The teachers at the school were to serve as
role models for the girls they taught. Mrs. Abercorn had seen me at our
daily briefing before our classes and off-handedly remarked about how I
appeared to be gaining weight. She suggested casually that perhaps I
should invest in some strong foundations, until I could lose a few
pounds. Although it seemed like an off-handed comment, I knew from
experience that her comments might sound trivial but she expected us to
follow them to the tee. So over the weekend, I had bought a new long-line
bra and a long-leg girdle set to wear while I tried to lose weight. The
purchase had burned up my last cash and with my tight budget meant I
wouldn't be eating out this month or be going to my usual movie either.
Cursing her under my breath, I removed my most comfortable bra and went
to the shopping bag by my vanity to take out my new lingerie.
I had bought them in a nude color, with lace trim on the legs of the
girdle and over the center panels of both garments. I slipped the straps
of the bra over my shoulders and reached behind me to start fastening the
row of eight hooks that would pull together the tight spandex fabric
reinforced with short vertical boning. Once I hooked the first one, the
rest went together easier, until I had them all done. Reaching under a
cup, I lifted one breast until I had the underwire below the breast
tissue and then repeated it with the other one. A quick shake of the cup
material allowed my breasts to settle firmly into place. I could already
feel the pressure of the restricting material across my upper torso,
flattening the bulge immediately below my breasts. As the bra lifted up
my breasts, it transferred the impact of their weight to my lower back
and to my shoulders as the bra straps dug into them. No one ever tells
you how much stress twenty pounds of boobs puts on your frame, especially
once you lose your muscle mass from years of a low testosterone - high
estrogen hormone regime.
I decided to wait to put on the girdle until I had my makeup done, as I
knew it would be harder to sit once I had it around my hips. I returned
to the dresser to find some pantyhose. It seemed every pair I looked at
had a pick, was the wrong color, or was too sheer for work. I was sure I
had a nice brown pair to wear with my outfit, but I was forced to go with
a lighter, nude shade. I could make that work, because I had a pair of
nude pumps that would match the hose and my dress. I switched out my
heels and went to my vanity to do my face.
Looking in the mirror, I grimaced at my reflection. I had more wrinkles
and age spots than I had ever dreamed I would see on my face. Although I
was only 48, I felt like I looked like I was 70 years old. As a man I
always got compliments on my youthful looking face. But as a woman, I
knew the standards were much stricter. You were supposed to have the
smooth, soft, blemish-free skin with a radiant glow of a teenage girl
your whole life. Never mind that most teens had acne, or that the years
affected woman's skin too. Men didn't like seeing wrinkled women who
looked their real age. The female hormones I took did help me have
smoother skin, but not quite as nice as I would have liked.
To improve my looks, I had tried all the creams, pills, and secret
ingredients I could afford to fight off the effects of my aging, but what
I needed was a face lift, or at least some tightening around my eyes and
mouth. I had splurged once on some dermal fillers and a little Botox, but
although I really liked the effects, it was too expensive as a regular
part of my beauty routine. So I did my best with makeup. It took me a
good 30 to 45 minutes to apply the layers of concealer, foundation,
powders, eye makeup, brow pencils, lip liner, lipstick, and lip gloss
that I felt I needed to look 'natural' and feminine. Again, Mrs. Abercorn
had standards about makeup. She both insisted we use them, but not appear
gaudy or like a slut. It was a fine line I had learned to maneuver.
When I first transitioned, makeup was a daunting task. I forced myself to
learn all the tricks that women normally master over their teens and
early twenties so I was quite capable at it after just a couple of years.
So I was proud of my abilities to apply it. I also generally felt better
about my appearance once I had my face done, as I was vainer than I
wanted to admit. What struck me when I was finished, however, was that I
was almost out of foundation and my mascara was getting too dry. Darn,
more things I needed, but where would I get the money for them? I picked
up my phone, and flipped through the app to my list-maker. I quickly
entered all the things I needed to buy. I would have to prioritize them,
but if something was on sale, I would just have to get it and adjust my
budget elsewhere.
With my face done, I began to remove my hair curlers. I used large foam
curlers that gave me lots of volume and body. One of the first steps I
made when I decided I was going to be the woman I dreamed about, was to
let my hair grow until it reached the middle of my back. I liked it long
and straight, but that required I spend a lot of time using a flat-iron
to remove my natural waves. It looked nice, but the daily routine was
just too much for a working woman. Plus the look wasn't as appropriate
for a middle-age woman. So, I had my salon cut it to shoulder length,
with bangs, and I took advantage of my waves to get a tousled, yet
polished look.
Dreaming of having long hair had been one of my greatest desires before I
transitioned. But all the work and adapting to it never entered my mind.
Just the presence of it was something I had never considered. Long hair
wasn't just a look, it affected your daily experiences. It hung down,
framing the sides of your face and cutting off your vision. When you
leaned forward, it fell across your face, getting in the way and blocking
your view. Strands would get in your mouth or stick to your lipstick. It
rubbed across your neck, got caught in your seat belts, purse strap, or
inside a coat. Or was turned into a frazzled mess by the lightest breeze
or puffed out by high humidity. Like many things about being a woman, the
reality of long hair was much different than my childhood dreams. It took
extra work and effort as well as adjusting. Again, I worked at acquiring
the hair styling skills all women need.
Now, I rolled it whenever I shampooed my hair; usually once or twice a
week. As long as I didn't need to shampoo it because it got dirty doing
housework or sweaty from exercising in the heat of the day, my hair would
look nice all week. Provided of course, that I used hair spray or styling
gel. As expected, as I aged, I had to have it colored at the salon to
hide my gray. I had chosen to go with a light, honey blonde that
complimented my fair complexion better than the drab brown that was my
natural color. I loved the look, but since I went lighter it meant more
frequent touchups to conceal my true root color. I considered it money
well spent and always budgeted money for it. A quick glance, told me I
would need a touchup in a couple of weeks. Today, I removed my curlers,
brushed out the tight rings of hair just enough, and then positioned it
around my face. I was setting everything in place with my hair spray,
when the can emptied. I had only enough to do it all once; usually
spraying it all twice kept the humidity from frizzing it up. Cursing
under my breath, I added hair spray to my shopping list. A quick glance
and I saw it still looked okay, so it was time to get dressed.
I worked the pantyhose up my legs, being careful not to stretch them too
fast or far so I would avoid creating a run. I preferred sheer to the
waist styles, even though I gave up short skirts as I got older. I still
like seeing the curve of my lower butt through the sheer nylon. With my
hose in place, I reluctantly picked up my new girdle. When I was younger,
I would have never imagined having to wear one. This was something that
older or heavy-set women needed. But I felt I had no choice now, as I had
to keep my job. The girdle slid up my silky legs easily and only
expressed its true nature once I pulled it all the way to my waist. I had
to adjust the crotch upward against my groin, so there was no gap, but
overall it fit well. The tight pressure seemed like being squeezed by
huge hand. But when I glanced in the mirror, the stomach bulge was gone,
replaced by a flat profile. I had chosen to go with a longline bra and
girdle rather than an all-in-one body brief, because it would be easier
to remove to pee. I was glad to see the two items met easily without
leaving a gap. Looking at the way the material hugged my body, I decided
a full slip might be a good idea too, since my dress was so form fitting
it might show the bones and panels. It would help conceal the fact I was
wearing control garments. With my plain slip settled over my body, I
stepped into my dress and reached around to pull up the zipper in the
back. I could already feel that the foundations were giving me a smoother
look, but I knew the pressure would be really irritating long before the
end of my school day.
I sat down to put on my pumps and then checked out my image in the full-
length mirror. I was right, I looked much nicer now and I was sure Mrs.
Abercorn would be satisfied with my appearance. Checking the clock, I
could see I needed to hurry as I had taken a bit too much time dressing.
I quickly put on my gold-tone earrings, chain necklace with a cross, and
my watch. As I put them on, I glanced down at the diamond wedding ring in
my jewelry case. It had been my mothers and I hoped one day to wear it
myself, just not now. I'd had a few dates since I transitioned, even been
in a relationship, but most men weren't looking to marry a trans-woman,
especially one who hadn't done the full surgery. So I would have to wait.
In the kitchen, I threw together a plain salad in a container and added a
bottle of flavored water to make my lunch. I grabbed my purse, lunch,
large satchel with the papers I had graded last night and went to my car.
The drive to school went well, as I hit all the lights, and I got there
right on time for our pre-class meeting.
Most of the teachers were in the teacher's lounge already, milling
around. All but two teachers were women, as Mrs. Abercorn preferred them
for several reasons. However, she had to hire men to teach the AP
Calculus classes and surprisingly, to lead the Theater Department. Mr.
Henderson was a retired engineer, whose balding head and round body was
certainly not a distraction to the young girls in his math classes. Mr.
Easton, on the other hand, was a fit and handsome bachelor in his mid-
thirties who loved to joke around and enthralled his students with tales
from his days on Broadway stages. He was a very good teacher, with a
perfect background of experience and a Master's degree of Fine Arts in
Theater, but I'm sure he made Mrs. Abercorn nervous. She knew how the
girls were attracted to him, and watched him like a hawk to be sure there
was no funny business. But she needed someone with his skills, so she had
to hire him.
The Headmistress had been similarly cornered into hiring me. She of
course, knew I had been born a man, as I had to list my birth gender on
my form. I had convinced her that I was not a threat to the girls, as my
years of female hormones had rendered me both sterile and sexually
impotent. To clinch the deal, I had been willing to let the school nurse
examine me, with Mrs. Abercorn standing behind a screen next to me. The
nurse's declaration that my genitals were reduced to size she hadn't even
seen even in newborn boys had been reassuring to the Headmistress but
humiliating to me. My decision to align my outward appearance to the
gender I had longed to be, had been easy to make. My only regret had been
how my penis and testicles had shrunken from my new hormones. I didn't
have the money for a full SRS surgery, so now I had these useless
artifacts that kept me from being fully either sex. I also had to admit I
missed stroking the shaft of my erect cock, as I was now reduced to
rubbing its soft head like a woman does her clitoris. I was able to
climax, but it seemed so subtle now. Of course what was really missing
was the penetration that would be part of a normal woman's sex life.
Maybe in time, but not now. I had adjusted to my situation. The fact that
I had also gotten breast implants, had my beard removed by electrolysis,
and was willing to dress like the middle-aged woman made my status even
safer for Mrs. Abercorn. Not that she ever let me forget that she knew my
secret.
Mrs. Abercorn moved to the front of the room to begin our meeting. She
made a few announcements about the upcoming school schedule, including
parents' night and mentioned a few absences of teachers due to illness.
She ended the meeting, by complimenting Mr. Easton on a role he had been
selected for in the community theater. Everyone clapped and gave him
congratulations, as he was well liked and I dare say, some of the female
teachers had their own crushes on him. He took the applause with great
aplomb and an honest self-depreciating thank you. I found it hard not to
look at him with envy.
He represented many of the things I missed most about being a man. He
could be seen running effortless in just his running shorts during the
lunch break, as part of his daily workout. If not working out, he often
helped some of the women teachers move items in their classrooms, or
helped them carry supplies. He had a naturally toned and muscled frame
that gave him strength and flexibility. I no longer had those
capabilities as my testosterone blockers and high estrogen levels had
reduced my muscles to slivers of what they used to be. My workouts now
were limited to walks around my neighborhood, unless I was willing to
wash my hair and sleep on curlers that night.
It was not only his body that I envied. He wore simple clothes, usually
dress pants and a plain long-sleeve shirt without even a tie. His short
hair looked like it would take but seconds to brush and his skin although
beginning to be crisscrossed with a few wrinkles seemed to convey
experience and toughness rather than old and tired. I remembered how when
I was a man, that preparing for work was quick, simple, and mindless, so
unlike the hour and half of choices, details, and preparation I now
needed each morning. The clothes I wore now always seem designed to limit
movement as well. Heels and dresses weren't conducive to unfettered
action, not to mention the types of undergarments I was strapped in by
today. The extensive time I spent doing my hair, makeup, and nails also
argued against exertions of that type. I knew my body with its large
breasts that were hard for any normal sports bra to contain, was now
designed for show more than anything.
When I was a man, it was easy to romanticize about the joys of being a
woman. Of being attractive, desirable, sexy; of having wide choices in
clothes and shoes; of being able to change your face with fanciful colors
or shades; of styling your hair to create new looks; of having a body
with multiple points of attraction, such as: smooth, silky legs; full,
bouncy breasts; wide, shapely hips; puffy, kissable lips; and of course a
wet, juicy, pussy. Now as a woman, I knew how much effort, time, and
especially money was involved in achieving those joys. Plus these were no
longer just options, but usually requirements. Like wearing a bra. I had
dreamed of that for so long, I ignored what they really did for women.
How they were engineered to hold and shape the breasts. That such
engineering to achieve the perfect cleavage, or the rounded profile, or
the uplifted bosom, came with pressure, tightness, pinching, or rubbing.
I was now privy to the downsides of being a woman I had never seen
before. But it was a choice I had made, and going back to being a man was
not really possible anymore.
These thoughts raced through my head, as the teachers dispersed to their
rooms. Mr. Easton saw me, gave me a nice smile, and told me he would come
by my room at break to help move the gel chromatograph. I smiled back and
told him thanks. I couldn't help but check out his butt as he walked
away. This time my thoughts were more appreciation than envy, as it was
true he was quite handsome. I couldn't help thinking about his cock,
whether it was as fit as the rest of him. As I pondered my interest in
this man and reflect about the choice I made about my gender, Mrs.
Abercorn came up next to me. We were the only two left in the room.
"You look nice today, Miss Weathers. I see you took my advice on some
proper foundations, as your bulging stomach is gone now. I think you'll
find that as you get older it will become easier and easier to adjust to
wearing these type of undergarments more often. You'll find any temporary
discomfort you experience will be well worth your improved appearance.
Even given your extra parts that most women don't possess, I'm sure you
can adapt. At least they are so tiny that they shouldn't be too
uncomfortable."
Her smirk at her cutting remark, broadened into a full smile as she
finished and placed her hand on my back to signal I should leave too was
something I had noted before. Although she was very conservative and it
had taken a lot of convincing to hire someone like me, she wasn't beyond
using my unique physique as a point of control. To her, it was about
maintaining discipline and appearances. If I did as she wanted, looked
like she wanted, then the fact that I still had a penis was okay. Plus, I
think she liked knowing she had that added leverage. I just smiled and
thanked her for her suggestion for my problem and headed toward my class
room. That was another difference in me from when I was a man. I would
have fired back some comment to her, or told her to mind her own
business. But now, as a woman, I had adapted to become more cooperative,
a team player, and perhaps just more submissive to anyone who was more
forceful than me.
I walked to my class room, where the young ladies would soon arrive. I
had to shake my head at Mrs. Abercorn's ideas sometimes. She extoled to
me frequently how we teachers had to set standards for these young
Christian ladies. We had to be examples of how to act, talk, dress, and
think. I felt we did a good job of giving them knowledge and guidance, as
the teachers were all good people. But it was humorous to me that she
would think an older lady could provide inspiration for the young girls
in terms of attire. The school required a set uniform for them to wear, a
simple white blouse, knee length blue skirt, socks of some sort, and
loafers. They weren't allowed to wear any makeup, other than a lip-gloss
until they were seniors. Even then they were limited to mascara, eye
shadow, some colors of lipstick and blush.
The idea that they would see a woman, an older woman especially, who was
required to wear heels, hose, a dress, extensive makeup, and styled hair
as a role model was funny. I had seen some of these girls outside of
school, at the mall or in stores. Most dressed in jeans and tees, which
may have been tight to somewhat show off their bodies, but still casual.
Some like to be flirtier, in short-shorts or mini-skirts, but none wore
hose or even heels. At church, these girls with their families, might
wear a dress, low heel shoes, or even opaque tights in the winter, but
the idea that they would mimic my attire even when they were mature was
unrealistic.
Times had changed, but Mrs. Abercorn still had us dress as if it were the
1990s, heck more like the 1960s. That was obvious in the way she
suggested I wear a girdle for my naturally larger waist. But I could live
with it. I had made my choice to become a woman, and I would stay with
it. At the time, it seemed much better to be a woman. To have freedom to
dress in a way that expressed my personality, to indulge in lingerie,
sexy clothes, and stylish shoes. To grow my hair long and put it in an
array of styles. To adorn my face with makeup, using it to both hide my
natural flaws and exaggerate my better features.
However, the greener grass on that side of the gender fence had shown it
too had weeds, bare spots or ruts. I had been so familiar with all the
negative aspects of being a man that I had ignored the facts that women
had lots to deal with as well. I knew better now. Sitting down at my
desk, I opened my phone to the list app. I stared at all the items,
personal items, clothing, shoes, makeup, that I needed to buy. Just so I
wouldn't forget, I added an appointment to get my hair color touchup. I
would have to find some way in my budget to offset these costs. I really
had no other choice. Since I was to remain a woman and meet the standards
required for my job, I would need to squeeze the necessary cash out of
somewhere so I could keep my appearance appropriate for the role I had
chosen.
It didn't seem fair that it cost so much more to be a woman than a man.
But I must keep the grass green on my new side of the fence, as I no
longer had the option to return to where I had started. I guess I could
be one of those women who wore shapeless clothes, cotton bras and
panties, with no makeup and short hair, but that would be worse than
remaining a man had seemed to me. So as I looked at the list, I even
started to smile, as I reluctantly added a padded brief to my list. I
knew it would take me a while to remove the little bulge around my waist
and if I was going to have to wear girdles, I could at least get one that
would give me wider hips and a rounder butt. The very things that had
drawn me to decide that my feminine traits were my true gender and not
the male one that I was born with, continued to influence me. Although I
knew now that being a woman wasn't really the better choice, only a
different one, I was content being a female. I would just have to
continue to mold my life to fit my new circumstances. I closed the app as
I heard the giggling and chatting of my young students enter my class
room. I stood up, smoothed my dress feeling the taut fabric of my girdle
underneath, and smiled at them. I was ready to embrace another day on
this side of the fence and to make the grass greener if possible.
Myra
- 17.05.2021
- 10
- 0
Greener on the other side
- 3 years ago
- 12
- 0
Greener Grass Right Next Door
- 2 years ago
- 8
- 0
