The Little Black Dress Of Joy free porn video

The Little Black Dress of Joy. By Tanya H. ONE. I first saw That Dress in the window of a charity shop in the high street of the town where I once lived. An ordinary Saturday, just after midday, I had just finished work, an undemanding morning clinic, and had a middling, pleasant walk separating me from my house and a shower. I was 26, single, dark haired, apparently easy on the eyes and working as a staff nurse in a small, private, outpatients unit on the edge of town. They called me Phil. Hanging on a manikin, That Dress looked deceptively ordinary; black, short sleeved and modestly cut around the neck. Fitted to the waist it flared to a hem that would swirl just above my knee were it not sitting cold in a shop window. I couldn't have told you why it caught my eye, or why I walked past and then turned to go back for another look - it was just an ordinary dress of a style in fashion last year. If I had wanted one like that, but in a more interesting colour, I could have gone to Dorothy Perkins or Next or New Look or Ebay and found exactly the one I wanted in the size I needed. After a second look I walked on again, heading for the newsagents to pick up the latest issue of a motorbike magazine I liked. I didn't have the money or parking for a motorbike of my own, but one day... Ten paces I managed before I ground to a halt and stood, like a rock amongst the other pedestrians with my heart racing, hairs prickling and maybe a flush across my cheeks. Buyitbuyitbuyitbuyitbuyitbuyitbuyitbuyitbuyit... (It probably wouldn't fit and I didn't know what size it was and I would look like a proper twat wearing it and everybody in the shop would be staring and thinking what an unlikely transvestite that lad made.) Another pace. Think of the motorbikes, Phil - the motorbikes! Can't wear a dress on a motorbike can you? No, but away from a bike I could match it with office-smart high-heeled court shoes. It would look great - simple, elegant, feminine: classy. Without much in the way of conscious thought I found myself in the charity shop, waiting uncomfortably while a stout lad huffed out from behind the till and made a big show of struggling to strip the window dummy. Pretending to check through the titles amongst the second hand books I mentally rehearsed a tall tale about a fictional girlfriend, working nights, who had seen, liked and then sent me to buy the dress, but he wasn't interested enough for me to need it. Maybe blokes buying women's clothes from his establishment was routine, though I'd never tried it. The first dress I'd bought had been from Matalan - a long shirt-waisted garment in navy blue with a floral pattern and full skirt. It still hung in my wardrobe, matched with a pair of high-heeled court shoes. To keep it company there was an ankle length, clinging, narrow black dress from Miss Selfridge, that looked gorgeous with towering platform-soled heels, and a pale blue nurse's dress, obtained from work, I wore with natural coloured tights and sensibly flat, lace-up shoes. I had a small, varied collection of skirts too, all of them treasured, but none of them or my dresses had hooked me the way this one did - and I was no stranger to magpie-like compulsions to own some particular type of women's clothing. The last one, several months ago, had resulted in the purchase of a lovely, royal blue bodycon skirt; inspired by the ones Melanie, the unit admin manager, often wore to work. However, when I walked out of that musty shop with That Dress neatly folded into a carrier bag, I felt like an addict who had just scored their next hit and I couldn't wait to get home to try it. Back then, home was a rented terrace house in a short, obscure street on the unfashionable side of town. That made it cheap and the railway line running along the back fence made it affordable for a nurse like me. Patty and Lily, the friendly, hard working prostitutes next door - and the only neighbours I'd ever had a proper conversation with, didn't like the clattering and tooting, from early in the morning to late at night, but they worked much later than I did. I liked the busyness of the trains and watching the people going to better places than this town. Sometimes I would sit at my little kitchen table by the window wearing a blouse, skirt, stockings and heels and watch the people in the trains. I used to wonder if any of them ever noticed me there contentedly crossdressing. Almost every chance I got would see me stripping off my male things to find that particular level of peace I could only ever find in womenswear. The impracticality of a narrow skirt didn't bother me as I enjoyed its movement around my legs, which always felt and looked so much more acceptable dressed in some smooth tights or stockings, while the feminine tapping of stilettos on the tiled kitchen floor made me wish it could be the soundtrack of my movements at work, or out and about. As much as I loved to crossdress, and felt more relaxed in a skirt or dress, I never wore makeup, though I had tried lipstick a couple of times, I never wore a wig or went out pretending to be a girl. Maybe I should have done, plenty did, but background and upbringing made me terrified of being found out. I frequently fantasised about being a woman, but I never hated my male body enough to go through the trials to have it changed. The effort, tribulations, contempt and abuse I would surely receive as a transwoman always seemed a barrier too painful to climb. I envied women, wished for it, but the envy and the wishes hardly ever became agonising. In my female fantasies I always called myself Pippa, but Pippa wasn't one woman for I didn't have an idolised woman or body shape, hair colour or style. Depending on my whim and mood Pippa could be short or tall, young or older. Sometimes I would have tiny, pert breasts and others I would have heavy, F cup boobs. I could be a milk-skinned red-head or a girl with shining ebony skin and beaded corn plaits, a plump, sexy nurse or lithe teenager - Pippa could be whoever I wanted to be. Though my sex life had always been solidly heterosexual sometimes when I lay back and masturbated I became Pippa; she was happily bisexual, mostly preferring woman, but she often enjoyed an energetic fantasy love life with a man, or men, who I never imagined in any detail. Perhaps I was a late arrival in the world of gender dysphoria; some people know from a very early age they are in the wrong gender, but I was ten before I first realised what the vague feelings of internal discomfort were. The previous decade, and the few years after had seen enough turmoil and drama to cover any suggestion I was anything other than a boy. When I was ten Mum went to prison - for stabbing Dad; she had always been unpredictable, but no one saw that coming. While she was in prison she found a way to hang herself, so that left us with Dad to care for us. No matter how you tried to stretch the definition, Dad was no carer. All he had ever wanted to be was a soldier and I believe he must have been a solid, unimaginative one based on the way he ran us and our house. After Mum tried to kill him he left the Army, they didn't hand out much in the way of pastoral care for men like him, and his long days in a van delivering parcels left Samantha, my big sister, and me to take on more housekeeping than we would have preferred. Bitterness and resentment meant Dad ran us and his life on austere, military lines that left no time or space for anything artistic or ornamental. Samantha wasn't a girly girl anyway, so there were none of the feminine things around the house that might have helped me realise I was a girl myself. Any half-formed disconnect I might have had about my gender was generally covered by the background discomfort I had around my home life. The creeping awareness that my general unease came from within grew stronger in my last year at primary school when I started to take notice of the growing physical differences between girls and boys. One morning at home on laundry duty, I had been sorting the dry washing and found a pair of Samantha's school tights in my hands. As I said, Samantha was not a feminine girl - she was lean, angular and loved sport, didn't own a dress and only wore a skirt for school because trousers were forbidden for girls. As well as insisting girls must wear skirts the school wouldn't allow bare legs and I remembered Samantha initially protesting by deliberately ripping her tights. After Dad had walloped her a couple of times, didn't she know how much they cost, she settled down, but her tights only went on when she had to go out for the school bus and came off as soon as she got through the back door. That morning, with a pair of her black tights in my hands, thinking about how soft they felt, I wondered what they would feel like on my legs - how my legs would look if I wore them. Almost two months passed before desperate curiosity drove me to her room when I had the house to myself. Feeling like the worst kind of perverted criminal, almost shaking with fear and need, I hurriedly dressed myself in some of her panties, a shirt, school tights and one of her hated school skirts. Then confronted my reflection in the mirror, almost forgetting to be scared at the first first whisper of a skirt against my smooth legs. And there, in the mirror, a girl! Me! Short haired and bony maybe, but there were plenty of short haired bony girls at school. Only four people knew I cross-dressed. Samantha was one, for she had caught me wearing her school uniform one day. My dad was another, because Samantha had told him and he threw me out of the house - literally; he almost broke my arm such was his rage. The third was Mum's older step-sister, Aunt Fiona who took me in because Dad told her about his perverted non-son. Fiona had smiled and suggested it would all blow over. It didn't. As kind as she was, and she became more of a parent to me than anybody up to then, she made it gently, but firmly clear that it was not natural for boys to wear girls' clothes and I should get over it. Conscious I had no place to go if she threw me out, and presuming this was how adults reacted to cross dressing, I buried it deep. Until I went to college... When I got home my skin was almost burning with an eagerness to get the new dress over it, After locking myself in I hurried to my bedroom, laid That Dress almost reverently on the bed and stripped off my trousers, shirt, pants and socks. My body tingled in anticipation, but I held myself back a moment and wondered again what I should wear with it. After a few moments thought I pulled on some black, satin high-leg panties and then carefully eased my legs into smooth, black, opaque tights. A pair of black, suede court shoes with four inch stiletto heels and a slight platform sole would complement the dress perfectly. I didn't own a bra, not having anything to put in one, so that was my outfit sorted. The dress's label made it a size 10. Lean as I was It was never going to fit - my shoulders were too broad even though my hips were narrow, but I stepped into it anyway and the satin lining moved like a cool sigh across my skin, lifting hairs and a sensual shiver through me. I got my arms through the sleeves, but no matter how I squirmed and stretched and breathed in, the zip would not be persuaded all the way up my back. Even so, I stepped into the heels and stepped to my full length mirror. It was angled, as always, so I was only visible from the chest downwards. My legs looked good, on show from a couple of inches above my knees, and the heels made them look even longer and slimmer. That Dress flared perfectly, even from my boy hips and it didn't matter about the chest because I wasn't pretending to be a woman - I didn't have to fool anyone. Pulling on a short, red cardigan (to conceal the unfastened zip) I went through to the kitchen, smiling to my heels' clicking, to get myself some lunch. Though I spent as much time as I could in skirts or dresses I wasn't a recluse; I loved racquet sports, played tennis or squash as often as I could and did some coaching for the town's squash and tennis clubs. The squash club's courts stood by the cricket club and when I felt like a social drink that was the place I would drift to. Never too noisy or top peoply I could have a couple of pints, a lazy chat about nothing with whoever might be in there, or just kick back and watch whatever sport was showing. Being a fairly self-contained person I'd never been hungry to find a girlfriend and never had the commitment most girls seemed to look for until my first job outside of nursing school. As a keen, relatively new nurse in a big, city based accident and emergency department I was asked to look after two Army medics who had come to do some trauma care with us. At the end of the first day one of them, Lance Corporal Nina Bridges, took me to one side and fixed me in her very direct, brown eyes. "How would you feel if I came onto you?" she asked. She had a soft, almost hypnotic South Western accent, I found out later she called Liskeard home, deep in Cornwall. "I think you might have got the wrong guy," I suggested cautiously, unused to this direct approach. Most women seemed to assume I preferred men when they found me to be a nurse. "I don't think so. I'm a fairly good judge of character." "What do you see in me then?" "Somebody a girl could rely on." Nina's colleague on the exchange disclosed that back in their regiment her nickname was PR which stood for 'Pocket Rocket.' The name seemed to suit her, though I never felt part of her Armyness to call her anything other than Nina. I'd have described her as a short, bundle of energy who came up to my chest, but never seemed the least bit concerned that she needed to look up to almost everyone. She wore her black hair cropped short around the back and sides and curly on top, had the most piercing eyes, expressive lips and the prettiest dusting of freckles over her sharp cheeks and button nose. At work she moved everywhere like a whirlwind, no job too menial, no patient unworthy, no task too bloody; almost every bloke in the department had fallen for her by the end of the first couple of days, but I'd been the one she asked out. That night we went for a drink at a pub around the corner from the hospital. Out of uniform she'd worn tight jeans and high-heeled ankle boots, laughed companionably and enjoyed her beer. Afterwards, when we went up to her room in the nurse's block, she took me to bed with the same vigour and energy she'd applied to every task I'd seen her do at work. Nina prefered girls to boys, but whenever she needed a man, often unannounced, she came to find and bed me. That might sound a bit callous, but Nina time was never dull and I'd never known such a self- aware, confident and enthusiastic lover. For a repressed, country boy like me she seemed sometimes like a wild, exciting dream and it didn't matter that I might not see her for weeks on end - the wait was always worth it. She was the fourth person who knew I liked to wear girls' clothes. One morning, after a busy night, she'd been looking for a shirt to borrow and had found my collection or womenswear, shrugged at my embarrassment and never mentioned it again. Some months later, we'd both been drunk when she'd painted my toenails purple, but she'd probably have done that whether she thought I was a crossdresser or not. Nina loved to hike and climb things. She'd taught me to enjoy both and sometimes I went to Scotland or Wales with her and her girlfriend, Juliette - a stocky paramedic from Manchester. Before you ask, there was never a threesome as Juliette was adamant that sex with men was pointless; apparently not a single one of us knew what to do with a cock. The three of us might have made an unlikely group, but I became mates with Juliette and over time the sisterly companionship I enjoyed with them touched the deeply buried woman in me. I suppose Nina and I might have been fuck-buddies, but there was a bit more buddy than the term implies. We realised we'd become good friends too when Nina started hunting me out for company and not just sex. So there I was, in my new, second-hand dress, making myself a sandwich for lunch. I fancied cheese and tomato, being particularly fond of Wensleydale slabbed between thick chunks of crusty bread with proper butter, fresh tomatoes and a sprinkling of salt. As a Wensleydale fan, I was helping myself to slices as I cut them, but the cheese was properly crumbly and of course I dropped some down my front. Not wanting to have cheesy streaks down the front of my new, most precious garment, I dropped the knife and brushed at them quickly. 'Ow!' I squeaked. It hurt! Then I looked down and my appetite left me. As a transvestite who chose not to wear a bra or any kind of breast form I'd grown used to that wasted, unflattering space where a flat-chested man wears something designed to accommodate a bust. I was not used to looking down and seeing it filled, the way its designer had always intended it to be. Really filled, like a proper woman was wearing it. After a moment of stunned disbelief I gave myself a little bounce, just rising off my heels slightly and dropping - no more than a few centimetres. I wobbled! The objects shaping my dress bounced, they quivered; did just what breasts should do. And I felt them too! Felt their weight shift, the frictionless rub of my nipples against the dress's satin lining! Breasts, I had breasts! Forgetting my sandwich I lifted my hands and cupped the soft resilience hanging most unexpectedly from my chest. My fingers were warm against them, even through the dress. Squeezing ever so gently I laughed out loud at how gorgeous it felt - not only to squeeze nice boobs, but also to have your boobs squeezed. Then I looked a little further - at how slender my fingers were. How tight my voice had felt as I giggled and the sheer enormity of what had happened settled on me. I'd changed sex. It was more than just breasts, I wasn't some freaky mix of man and woman - I was all girl. I knew that without looking, because there was no cock nestled inside my panties any more. I enjoyed a definite feeling of no cock, so profound that I didn't need to lift the dress to have a look. Though I did anyway. Through my opaque tights I could just see the dark outline of my panties, but the shape of my body was clear through the hosiery and underwear. My thighs had filled out and came together at the top, just beneath the smooth curves of my mound and between the round swell of my hips. When I peeped over my shoulder I saw a much fuller and sexier bum. "How?" I murmured. An obvious, but important question. How did a man become a woman, just like that - over a chopping board and Wensleydale cheese? Of course, as a rationally minded health professional I knew this was impossible. People didn't change sex without much more effort. In fiction there was magic to change men into women, but real life mountained up forms and medicals and operations and people pointing. There was no such thing as spontaneously hopping from one gender to the other - no matter how much you might actually fantasise about such a thing. Magic? Right! A magic dress? Mad! Impossible. Impossible it might be, but when you find a pair of impossible boobs rising wonderfully from your chest and a fantastic absence of cock you just have to roll with it. And find a mirror - that became very important, much more important than cheese and tomato sandwiches. Hurrying from the kitchen, and concentrating on the dizzying bounce in my breasts, I stumbled and walked right out of my shoes; just left them there toppled on the carpet. Righting the right shoe with my toes I slipped the foot back in and realised what the problem was - much too big. I had feet much daintier than the size sevens I usually steered and they slopped around in the court shoes like a little girl's in her mum's heels. Detail - we could deal with that later. In my stockinged feet I hurried to the bedroom and presented myself before my long mirror, but this time I angled it so the whole of me was in view. The breath caught in my throat. I fluttered a hand to cover my mouth: there I was - take a deep breath - a woman! Hair a rich, chestnut brown flowed like a cape around my shoulders and down my back, it framed a face that was properly mine, but wonderfully smooth and feminine. My neck was slender, the dress showed how my hips had flared and then bared the womanly shape of my legs. When I finally remembered to breathe, I looked myself up and down and just whispered 'oh my god,' over and over again. Then I giggled. The giggle grew into a chuckle, then a laugh. I laughed and laughed and jumped for joy, bouncing on the spot until my breasts protested and I stood still, with a huge, silly smile plastered on my face. 'Hello, Pippa,' I said. I could feel what there wasn't between my legs, and I didn't miss its presence at all, but I had to have another look - I just had to lift my dress and smile some more and the shape of my hips outlined in my tights, the black panties underneath were wonderfully flat now and only slightly curved over a wholly female profile. Trapping the dress around my waist, I pulled out the tights and panties and peered inside. There were quite a few dark curls. Pushing the tights down some more I could part my thighs and... Another chuckle. It was so beautiful, so perfect, so... woman! I was amazingly female and so happy I rearranged my clothes and had another liberated dance. Forget a cheese and tomato sandwich in the lonely confines of my kitchen; this girl was going out for lunch. So excited I could hardly stand still, never mind get my thoughts straightened; my hands trembled so much I laughed again. After another deep breath, then a couple more until I got my problems into order; No shoes - all the shoes I wanted to wear were now too big. Pulling on a pair of black socks over my tights I slipped into a pair of dark red baseball boots and heaved the laces as tight as they would go. Not ideal for long hikes over broken terrain, but good enough to get me to the tram stop and from there into the city. They looked kind of cool as well. No bra - I wasn't that big and would have to bounce bounce bounce until I could buy one.. Let the people stare! No handbag - needing something to put my wallet phone and house keys in, I found a discreet satchel type laptop bag that would be fine. Done. With a deep breath that couldn't diminish my smile one bit I stepped from my front door and onto the street. Taking a moment I gave a long, slow, careful sweep of my surroundings, as though a crowd was going to appear and start jeering and shouting about the dirty trannie. Instead, next door's cat washed itself diligently on their Ford Focus and our postie busied herself bagging up the letters from the post box just down the street. Otherwise I had the place to myself. A light breeze teased my hem, pleasantly cool through my tights, a train rattled along out of sight behind me. I let the door close, locked it and dropped the key into my improvised hand bag. As I started towards the tram stop a question occurred to me that I should probably have given some more consideration to before starting on this adventure - what if I started to turn back? My tummy gurgled about lunch, but the changing back thing was a valid concern, so I took myself back inside, folded up a pair of tracksuit trousers and a T-shirt and pushed them into my laptop bag. There was my contingency - if I started to change back I'd hot foot it into some discreet corner, like Clark Kent into a phone box, and get changed. Probably weeping with frustration as I did it. Practically outside again, a moment's doubt froze me between house and street, one foot on each of them. Really? Are you actually going to do this, Phil? Are you actually convinced that you have been made into a woman? As we had discussed earlier, conventional wisdom would tell you quite clearly how impossible it was for me to become a woman, just like that. Impossibly woman or insane? The postie decided. 'Hey up, love,' she said, breaking me from the crisis and pushing some letters at me. 'Nice to see the sun out, innit?' The envelopes felt real in my hand when I took them. She stared at me a moment, without a flicker of recognition or concern. She'd been delivering my mail since I'd moved here. 'Summer's coming,' I agreed. 'Can't wait,' she said. 'Bloody weather. Got yer holidays booked, darling?' Shaking my head made the hair swish around my neck and face beautifully. 'Me and the hubbie are going to Tunisia. Hotter the better for me and her. Can't wait. Bye for now.' 'Bye. Thanks,' I said, took a deep breath then exhaled slowly, watched as she rammed a slim parcel through next door's letter box. 'Amazingly weird, but let's concentrate on the amazing,' I said to myself. Locking the door I turned and almost ran towards the bus stop. Then changed to a dignified walk - no bra, you see. Did anything ever feel better than the swish of That Dress about my thighs? Or the hissing caress of nylon between them? The breeze lifted the hair around my face, teased it across my eyes and I pushed it away, behind my ears, with a smile, from that small, almost unconscious, feminine thing. I became the smiliest person in town that day. Everyone got a smile; bus driver, old lady smelling of pee, moody teenager, leery van driver - everybody. And I still had happiness left over for the girl in the coffee shop who complimented me on my dress. Had there ever been a simpler gesture of gender solidarity than that? Men didn't do little compliments to strangers, but it was perfectly okay for women. Dare I say, 'us women?' Probably not. Best not to get ahead of myself. I even had a smile for the sceptical, sturdy Customer Care Champion (Ask Me About A Bra Fitting) called Joan who I found in Marks and Spencers. 'You don't know what size you are, duck?' she said, furrowing her brow at me. 'That's why I've come for a fitting,' I smiled, fighting down a mischievous notion to call her duck too. 'Well, I know that!' she grumbled. 'But most come here with a starting point.' 'About that big,' I suggested, pushing my chest towards her. She shook her head, like I'd come to her with three breasts or something. 'Let's have a look then.' With my hands on its zip I froze from the sudden, vivid terror of removing the dress. Accepting, however impossibly, that this dress was responsible for this glorious adventure, would removing it catapult me back into Phil. That would give Joan something to grumble about.! 'I've lost a lot of weight,' said I, buying time while I slowly unzipped the dress then coyly sneaking one shoulder free - the slightest hint of a change back to Phil and it was going back on. I bared both shoulders and trapped it over my breasts trying to sense a horrible change coming. Joan looked even more sceptical. 'Lucky you! Why are you doing a striptease? I'm not interested, love. Just let me get this tape measure around you.' Finally I bared my breasts, holding the dress around my hips; that seemed to be enough to maintain Pippa and my nipples reacted prettily to the cool air in the changing room. Joan pursed her lips, contemplated my bust a moment and pronounced me a B cup without even using the tape measure. What I should have said was, 'you're the first person ever to see them,' but I just came out with the less controversial, 'You tell that just from looking?' 'Years of experience, duck.' She leant forward to wrap the measure around my ribs. 'What size were you before?' 'Before?' 'Before you lost weight. Is there some kind of leg-pulling going on here?' Joan looked around the changing room carefully, like there was a film crew intent on making her a Youtube sensation. 'Never look back, Joan,' I said firmly. 'I don't know what goes on in you youngster's heads any more,' she tutted. '34B. Very nice too. Look after them, or you'll end up like this.' She heaved at one of her own substantial breasts. Now leave me alone to get on with some proper customers.' I still had smiles for her; she was still shaking her head when I went to buy some bras. Push-up cups are uncomfortable, but I bought one anyway (in black satin) because it assured me it would give me another cup size. More ordinary and comfortable were a couple of lace, underwired examples I bought - one in peach and one in a beautiful wine red. I treated myself to matching panties with the red one then hurried back to the changing room from the cash desk to put one on. Much more comfortable, thank you Joan. Fewer stares from passers by too. Reality bit as I stood outside. 'Are you really doing this, Pippa," I murmured. "Shouldn't you be taking more practical steps?" I had a life to lead that emphatically wasn't female. "Live for the moment," I said to myself. And what could be more practical than buying bras? Whatever happened I'd need a bra or two wouldn't I? And some shoes, practical of course! Now it just so happened that there was a Dorothy Perkins next door. You understand that I just had to have a quick look inside, don't you? Once through the door I paused. This would have been the point where I, the man, would have hesitated - scanning to see if there was anybody inside I knew - before launching a lightning strike on the display where I thought I might find the 'present' for 'my girlfriend'. However, Pippa - newly confident and underwired - only paused to see which part of the shop she might like to examine first. Casualwear, denim perhaps, the more formal side? Except I could hear lots of pretty little siren voices singing, 'Pippa, Pippaaaaa, over here, come and see the beautiful things in our corner.' Who could resist? In my experience, buying women's shoes was a hit and miss affair as I didn't have enough of a brass neck to offer up some gorgeous stiletto'd creation to some smirking sales assistant and ask, "Can I try this in a seven please?" Shopping via the internet would have been easier with some sort of consensus between shoe manufacturers about what size a seven actually was. There was nothing quite like the despair when the beautifully elegant heels you find, on ebay or somewhere similar, turn out to be too small or too big or too pointed or too ugly. Then and there, dressed in my dress, my breasts, hips, vulva - my overwhelming womanhood - I felt natural and confident. I drifted through the racks of shoes like a superficially bored cat - never missing a thing. But which ones first? Sandals, boots, courts - some lovely Mary Janes? I picked up one or two, examined different styles, ran my fingers along the curves of the heels, imagined how it would feel to slip my toes into one, but mostly enjoying my new found confidence to physically browse high-heels. Until my eyes were seized by the most beautiful shoes I had seen for a long time. By style they were just plain court shoes; low cut, almond toed, elegant lines dictated by a good four inches of slender, though not stiletto, heels. What really caught my imagination was the pattern. Over a cream base was the loveliest floral pattern in pastel blues, pinks and yellows with the occasional, understated flash of gold. As if reading my mind, having just decided that I must try them, a willowy black girl appeared at my shoulder with a smile. "Gorgeous aren't they?" she said, like I needed any encouragement. "I'm going to have to try a pair," I agreed. "What size?" We both looked at my too-big baseball boots - I clearly wouldn't need a size seven. Then our eyes met. "Long story?" "You're the customer," she laughed. After slipping off the baseball boots, and extra socks, she decided a four or five would probably do and hurried off to poke around in the store room. After admiring the wriggle of my toes through the tights I passed the time by finding a lovely pair of black suede ankle boots in a four and was about to slip one on when my helper bustled back with a couple of shoe boxes. "Don't waste your time with them, I want to see you in these," she urged. A magical moment, sitting in a womens' clothes shop without a care in the world, my legs crossed about to try on beautiful shoes. Wholly in the moment with the first shoe, I eased in my toes then pulled it over my heel to leave my foot looking so elegant and pointed in that shoe. A moment later I was wearing them both, I'd become a size four by the way, and stood carefully into my first ever time wearing heels in public. "What do you think?" my helper asked, "I think they look gorgeous on you, you have great legs." Nobody had ever complimented me on my legs before, it made me want to kiss her, but I held that back. "I love them, maybe not with these tights though." "Oh no; bold bright colours with black tights are very on - the contrast, you see? Makes the shoes stand out properly." Having such an unconsciously feminine conversation like this was enough to make me feel a little dizzy, so I took a few steps towards the mirror so I could see properly. Even back then I was no stranger to heels, having spent many hours in them in private, so I wasn't troubled by those first steps, or even when I took a quick turn around that end of the shop. "How do they feel?" Words failed. Magical? Wonderful? Delirious? To be a woman, in Dorothy Perkins, trying on shoes was simply the best thing I had done for ages, the happiest few minutes since I had first found those breasts on my chest. My body might have been changed, but it remembered how to walk in heels and I glided through the racks of clothing and around the display cases like a dancer. "What do you think, Bex?" my assistant called to the woman behind the checkout. "Party?" Bex asked. "Not tonight, thanks, just a quiet night in." She pursed her lips. "I'll do the funnies around here, love." Her flat, Lancashire accent robbed the sentence of any emotion, but there was a suggestion of a smile on her full lips. "No reason, other than to buy beautiful shoes," I said. "Well they are that. Look good, nice ankles. I'd buy them if I had ankles like yours." I needed no more encouragement than that, but as I stuck my debit card into their card reader and saw the name of Mr PH Allan embossed on it my euphoria was dashed away by another bucket of cold reality. What was I doing buying heels? I wasn't Pippa Allan, not in any legal, meaningful way. Thankfully neither of the girls looked twice at the name on the card, or wondered why I had produced a man's wallet from my laptop bag to pay for the shoes, because if they had they might easily have decided I was using a stolen card to pay for the shoes. What was I going to do? Practicalities would have to wait. First I was going to stand in the entrance to that shop, in my dress and new heels and decide which experience I was going to enjoy next. By the time I got home my feet were a little sore. No amount at playing at woman around your own little house in heels can prepare you for being the girl about town in her stilettos. Not that it mattered, having aching feet made me feel like a real woman almost as much as the physical claim to that gender I'd been gifted. As much as I wanted to keep them on at home, I slipped off those lovely shoes and swapped them for a delicate set of black, lace flats I'd found in New Look. Along with a lovely denim skirt and floral top. And some tights. A necklace too. I'd spent more money than a nurse could really afford in one day to be honest, but it had been such good fun, I'd been so happy it was worth having to be less extravagant on food for the next week until I got paid. I'd also spent a pleasant thirty minutes making friends with Dawn in The Body Shop who showed me how to do an understated, but sensual look for my eyes with some of their make-up range - which I clearly bought. It wasn't until I was sitting on the tram back home, contently surrounded by my shopping bags that the sight of two bored coppers dealing with a protesting motorist brought reality down once more. As far as the government and institutions of the United Kingdom were concerned I, the woman sitting on the bus, did not exist. Indeed, were I to be stopped and questioned or searched by the police the obvious disconnect between me and all the forms of identification in my wallet would cause me trouble. At 0700 on Monday morning the hospital was expecting Phillip Allan to turn up, book on and start getting sorted out for the morning's in-patients. What was I supposed to do about that? The tram jolted over some points just then and the pleasant bounce in my bra reminded me just how amazing it was to be a woman. Live for the moment, Pippa. A sketchy plan formed to call in sick on Monday and then announce to the world I was transitioning, a transwoman; the company had policies to support such an event in its staff; nobody need know that a magical dress had pushed me far beyond the realities of the transgendered. Maybe it wasn't much of a plan, but it was better than nothing and so, slightly reassured, I cooked myself some dinner, cleared up and then presented myself before the bedroom mirror again. Carefully unzipping and hanging That Dress I stood there in my underwear and tights looking carefully for any sign of turning back. None manifested. Reaching around my back I fumbled the bra's clasp and let my breasts spill free; turning to the side I admired their profile - small, firm and high with petite, rosy nipples. Lifting my arms over my head raised my breasts a little, maybe I?d have preferred them to be a little bigger, but little boobs were way better than no boobs at all. And they suited my slender figure, though my hips looked quite wide under a defined waist and my bum definitely looked much fuller. I?d become proportionately pear-shaped. Skimming off my tights and panties I admired the dark curls over my mons, then sat on the bed?s edge and spread my legs wide to see the beautiful folds and soft lips making the prettiest vulva I?d ever seen. Close by, my inner thighs felt so silky smooth I smiled, making gentle circles over my skin with my fingertips. I?d always enjoyed the feel of a woman?s body under my hands, but this went way better, this was my body smooth, curved and glorious. My hands became bolder, weaving their circles higher, over my hips and soft tummy, along my flanks to skirt my breasts as my skin flushed and my nipples made me laugh with delight growing stiff and pointed without my fingers having gone anywhere close to them. Throwing myself back on the bed, I closed my eyes and let my fingers have their fill. I explored everywhere, teased my pretty little toes, the delicate skin behind my knees, my neck and smooth cheeks. My breathing quickened, an urgent pulse grew in my labia and I felt that wonderful heat making me wet and ready inside. You should have heard my surprised gasp when I first touched the stiff, hooded shape of my clitoris, or dared to run a fingertip between my slippery lips. I cupped my breasts, loved their round resilience and moaned with the joy I lifted with teasing little squeezes to my nipples. Hesitantly, not wanting to rush the moment, I parted my ready lips with a fingertip. The welcoming, slick warmth made me smile. A little more movement, until I?d enveloped that fingertip, left me panting and needing more. With the sigh of a woman easing herself into a welcoming, hot bath, I pushed my finger deeper and deeper until it could go no further. To finger a lover had always been a lovely intimacy, but now, this! I laughed aloud, a light tinkling sound to learn the joy of penetration, to use new muscles to grip my finger and hold it. And the taste of it! My pussy! Sweet, musky - woman! After my first orgasm had lifted and washed through me, when I lay exhausted on the bed, sprawled carelessly staring wide-eyed at the ceiling while my breathing slowed I wept happy tears. Could it ever be better than this?